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#paul atreides fic
nonpoppin · 26 days
Note
alright i’ve seen a lot of arranged marriages with paul and reader is always the one who’s salty about it but what if PAUL was the salty bitch? never seen that before.
reader just wants to make him happy. she’s been in love with him since they were introduced as kids. Paul, however, ain’t about it and he’s all pissy and what not.
The Death of a Star
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Summary: Paul thought he could never love you but when a star starts to die, it sucks everything in and in your death, your rebirth, he learns he can.
Warning(s): Cheating! Not the sexual kind but the emotional kind! Toxic marriage, sorta dark Paul, almost sexual cheating, talks of bastards, child birth, violence, arranged marriage, pussy eating, fingering, PinV sex, creaming, use of the voice. Talks of baby making and brief pregnancy mention.
Note(s): I took your ask and shook it all about. And hi, hello, i got this ask basically THREE YEARS AGO! And its been sitting in my docs, brewing, growing longer and longer. This is 12k words. If you want more long fics like this from me and not two/three parters— PLEASE let me know. ALSO, shout-out to @cocoamoonmalfoy bc i bothered her with just random segments of this fic for two years I'm pretty sure 😭 this is so fucking long please don't tell me if there's mistakes im gonna scream.
A little after. (Same universe drabble!)
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There is something about motherhood that has changed you.
Of course, there have been obvious changes. You were a girl when you first arrived on Caladan, a girl when they dragged you under the twinkling stars and made you swear to the void you would never stray from your husband. A mere child who wanted nothing more to be happy, to make her family proud, a child who smiled at her husband no older than her and repeated words she truly didn't know the meaning of.
You had become a lady when your husband first laid with you, a woman when the single time was enough to bring forth an heir. It was what your ladies told you at least, bringing a person into this universe was a woman's work and you had done just that. Your son, Oliver Atreides, was born screaming, kicking and crying. The ladies said you were a woman now, covered in sweat, tears, and your own blood but you couldn't bring yourself to agree. You think some parts of the girl you once were resurfaced when they hand you, your babe. You had held him close and wept to him. ‘Oh, Ollie. My little Ollie.’
Motherhood has changed you, yes. It made you harder in spots where you were once soft. But nothing has changed you more than marrying the Atreides heir, Paul.
Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?
You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.
Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.
Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.
“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”
He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”
He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”
You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”
“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”
You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?
You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.
“Lady Wife!”
Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.
You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”
“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”
Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”
“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.
Oh, you like him.
You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”
“Emmett, My lady.”
You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”
Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”
Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.
It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.
You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…
You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.
You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”
Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”
Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”
Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?
Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.
'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'
The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.
Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”
Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”
“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”
Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.
Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.
Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”
He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”
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“How is she?”
Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.
Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”
It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”
Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”
He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.
When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”
The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”
The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.��
Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”
“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”
“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”
“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”
Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.
There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”
And he's at a loss for words. “What?”
“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”
She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”
“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”
Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.
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It is hard to play dumb but…
“Higher, my lady…”
Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”
Whoooosh! Thunk.
The arrow misses.
Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”
“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”
He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”
You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”
This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”
Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.
“Do you?”
Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.
But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.
“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”
The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”
“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”
“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”
The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.
Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”
“Leave.”
Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”
He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”
That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”
The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”
“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–
“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”
Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”
“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”
He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”
“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”
He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”
You don't look at Paul as you go.
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Duncan stands beside you.
It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.
It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.
You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.
“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.
You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”
“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”
He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”
“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”
“Fine.”
He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”
Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”
“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”
You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”
“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”
“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”
“I would like it if you cried.”
You flinch back, “What?”
“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”
“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”
“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”
“That doesn't matter.”
Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”
Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”
Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”
“You are not that much older than me.”
He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”
You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.
And yet…
You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”
“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”
“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”
“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”
When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”
“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”
“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”
You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”
“And then?” You murmur.
Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”
“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”
And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”
You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”
“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”
“What?”
“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”
“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”
“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”
And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–
Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.
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The next few days are… odd.
Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.
Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.
Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.
You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”
Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.
Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”
Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”
“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”
Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.
Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”
“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.
For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”
Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.
“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”
Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.
The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.
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When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.
To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.
The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.
“For how long?”
Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”
Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”
Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”
Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”
“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”
Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”
Duncan's heart drops. “What?”
“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”
Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.
Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.
He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”
Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”
Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.
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You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.
It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.
Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.
You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”
You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”
Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—
“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”
The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.
“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”
Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”
“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.
“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”
You blink. “What?”
“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”
Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”
Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”
You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”
“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”
Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”
“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”
You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”
“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”
You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”
“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”
You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”
“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”
“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”
“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.
“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.
Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”
You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.
You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”
You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.
“Oh, f-fuck!”
The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.
His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.
And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”
You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.
Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.
Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”
Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.
“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”
Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”
Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”
The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.
“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”
Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”
Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”
That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.
“Paul, I'm–”
He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”
“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”
Paul is grinning, teary eyed and peachy faced. “I am surprised.” Then he's kissing you again.
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finelinevogue · 13 days
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love isn’t weakness
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summary - paul helps you see that love isn’t a weakness
pairing - paul atreides x caladan!reader
word count - +1k
🌙⚔️🌅✨🌙⚔️🌅✨🌙⚔️🌅✨🌙⚔️🌅✨
You wake to the Paul sleeping soundly beside you.
For once.
So often now does Paul wake up in a cold sweat from his dreams. You can’t imagine how terrifying seeing the possible future must be, but as long as he has you beside him to hold his hand he assures you he’ll be okay.
You wipe the sleep away from your eyes and sit up to let the blanket fall from your body.
Some days you wish you had been allowed to stay on Caladan. Days like today, where you mourn the loss of your parents who died in a war long ago.
Now, you were lost to the deserts of Arakkis.
Paul was slowly becoming a God here and soon you were afraid you’d lose him to the desert too.
You watched him for a few moments, his chest rising slowly and falling again. There was something so overwhelming about watching him just exist.
Watching him grow up as your best friend had never been like this. You’d only grown in feelings for Paul when he was sent to Arakkis before you. The loss of not having him near all the time was horrible, and when reunited Paul made that clear to you by kissing you as more than a best friend.
You smiled softly, leaning down to kiss his forehead softly so not to disturb him, before getting ready to go outside to greet the waking sun.
No one else on camp was awake.
You were away from Worm territory and clear of any Harkonnen’s for now.
Trudging up the steep sand bank, you crested to the top and was greeted by the expanse lands of the dunes.
Nothing for miles. Far as your eyes could see, there was nothing but peaks and troughs of mountainous dunes.
You sat down carefully, watching some sand slide down the dune beside you.
Opening the small piece if dirtied white - now grey - cloth in your hand you found your small locket. The circular shaped pendant necklace opened to the treasure inside - a small picture of your parents on their wedding day.
You gulped back the phantom stone in the back of your throat and squeezed the pendant in your hand tightly.
“I miss you.” You whispered to the desert.
Silence returned.
“You would never guess where I am now!” You laughed to yourself, wiping your tears away quickly with the back of your hand.
It was advised to never cry in the desert, lest you want to lose all your bodies water reserves.
You blew out a big breath, trying to remind calm. “Could do with a nightmare of a family dinner right now.”
‘Nightmare’ because there would always be an argument of some sort about what you were going to have. It was never actually a nightmare, you just liked to refer to them as that.
Soft footsteps could be heard behind you, climbing the dune not so subtly. Although, you suspected they wanted you to hear them so you knew someone was coming.
Only when he sat next to you, did you realise it was Paul.
He sat tight beside you, not leaving much room.
He looked out towards the vast landscape and said nothing. He was good at knowing when or it you wanted him to speak, or when you just wanted the company.
For now, company was all you needed.
He softly slunk his calloused hand into yours, interlinking your fingers and squeezing to show you he was there for you.
He knew what this day was to you.
“I don’t want to be weak when I think about them anymore.” You whispered, hoping Paul would understand.
“It’s not weak to miss them, Y/N.”
“I feel it.” You dipped your head, opening your other hand to reveal the pendant.
“Love isn’t a weakness. That’s what you feel; love. You’re loving them even after they’ve gone.” He explained in a way a true leader could only.
“That was a very wise thing to have come from you.” You turned to look at him and he was already smiling at you, both of your glowing in the morning sun now.
“Love has made me wise.”
He looked at your lips. You looked from his eyes to his own.
“Then you would know, love isn’t wise at all.” You responded with something Lady Jessica had told him when he had declared that you were together.
Literally, declared in front of a whole camp of Fremens. It was simultaneously both the most embarrassing and happiest moment you’d felt on this planet.
Paul decided to shut you up by kissing you, not too harshly otherwise you’d both go falling off the top of the dunes - which, yes, had happened before.
He cupped your cheek softly and kissed just as much. His lips were warm with the wake of the sun and your insides started to glow just as brightly.
Love.
“You make me feel less weak.” You pulled back to tell him, whispering the words only a breaths touch away from his lips.
“That’s because you love me.” He teased, kissing you with a smile.
You pushed his shoulder ever-so-lightly, to get him back for the teasing.
“Do you not?” He questioned, pretending to be offended. He touched your cheek furthest from him and tugged it so you would face him again. “Hmm?”
“You’re so dependent on what my feelings are for you?”
“Yes.”
The light conversations between you never failed to outshine any dark moments you way be having.
“That makes you a weak man. Maybe you aren’t Lisan Al-Gaib after all.” You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.
“Maybe. Love still doesn’t make me a weak man though and it doesn’t make you weak either.” He kissed the tip of your nose softly.
“Thank you.” You smiled at him.
“They’re still there, watching over you.” He nodded to the sky where the last of the stars were twinkling still. Soon they’d be gone and the sky would be lit in cerulean blue.
“I know.”
“And they’re here too.” He touched over your heart and then over his. Your parents had been as close to him as his own father, so he knows what the loss feels like even after all this time.
He now knows the kind of whole a loved one can leave on your heart. It’s learning to know not how to re-fill it, but live with it that’s the difficult part.
He was learning how to do that from you, just as you learnt from him.
You kissed him again, just because you needed to let him know that you appreciated him - more than words could ever explain.
Paul gave you a small smile when be broke away from your lips quietly.
“I love you. To forever.”
“To forever.”
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buzzkillers · 10 months
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The Deer Was Tired 1/3
synopsis: As a guard for the Atreides family, it's your job to make sure their precious offspring was satisfied. Even if doing so got in the way of your true mission.
Pairing: Paul Atreides x Reader
Trigger Warnings | Content: Manipulative Behavior, Dubious Consent, Abuse of Power, Stalking, Sexual Coercion, Corruption Kink, Assassination Au.
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By his fourth night of no sleep, the Archduke was restless, prickly and completely fucking annoying.
If you could kill him you would, but you couldn't. You could just barely grab for your knife and after an hour, even moving had become an impossible task. Call that the 'completely fucking annoying' part.
What a pity. 
Now at this hour, the Palace was a sleeping beast with soldiers that stood bleary eyed in the hallways. The inner workings of the court, nothing more than a shallow husk.
 It reminded you of the cities on Tano, a planet so lively during the day but nothing but a husk at night. But this was not that, this planet was a graveyard. 
An open cemetery filled with the walking dead and the beast that fed on them. Bad actors filled every corner of this world, death licked at your feet and famine yipped at your lungs. You've never been so thirsty. But you were sure that even they were rested now. The disease, the pestilence and the worms. Everything rested at this hour. Everyone but him. 
It was an odd thought. You felt as if you were even breaking some rule, that even the dunes moon hated the fact that the two of you were awake as it shined it's light through the Lords window, successfully lighting up the dark room and giving you a front row seat to the Lord that stared at you like a bug, like something to step on. 
Maybe you were. 
If not a bug than a snake. Something slimy and slick that cleaned up the pest in your walls silently, efficiently. Something meant to be invisible. It was partly true. Just as much as you were partly impressed. 
You never knew such a delicate man could look so demeaning. It reminded you of those old war paintings, the kind filled with vengeful women with burning eyes and gnashing teeth. He wanted to kill you. 
It didn’t help that at this hour, the young man was dressed like his mother. His body decorated in a deep oceanic blue fabric that crashed into waves at the ankles of his calloused feet. Each cross stitch covered in jewels and beads that glimmered in the moonlight while he laid stiff on his cot. 
 He was beautiful like this. And if you were being nice you’d say that he looked like one of those deadly beauties you heard of on the radio-if you were being nice. The look of death on his face kind of ruined it. 
With a face engraved with dark circles and sallow cheeks. The lord looked more sickly than anything. A walking famine. Before he turned towards his window, a frown etched into his regal features. 
Then with a beleaguered sigh, the Lord pinched the bridge of his nose. "Be blunt, soldier," 
"Are you saying it all came up negative?"
You rolled your armored shoulders. It sounded like a machinery of parts. "Yes, m'lord," 
"And what about this room, the walls I touch, the air I breathe?,"
"Checked and cleared, m'lord"
His frown only deepened. "Check it again,"
"But-"
He slammed his fist on the window sill. 
"Must I repeat myself?" You straighten your posture.
"Must I?"  
You shook your head till your helmet let out a creak and the brat unballed his fist. "Good," 
"This sickness has already gotten in the way of the more important things, it can't make me ignore my father's request too," 
You blinked and lied: "The Duke may be lenient," 
He laughed till his cheeks went sickly red but no humor was on his face. "You know him then?" He asked, even though that wasn't at all what you said. 
Still, still he did not wait for your response. He simply groaned, low and hard like an injured animal too stubborn to die. You wished he'd just die. 
"In a weeks time my father will need me at peak condition, and yet I haven't slept in days,"
"I haven't dreamt in days," 
"I have not known rest in days, I can barely hold my dagger any more but you say nothings wrong,"
"It is the truth," you lied again. "I pray for your health everyday m'lord" 
And for a moment there was silence before he cut his eyes towards you. "Don't lie, you are irritated with me and would readily slit my wrist for disrespect if I wasn't a highborn," You've never been more grateful that your armor came with a face shield. 
The stupid prince just had a flare for the dramatics, that was all. 
"My lord," you continued, your voice unnaturally timid because that's what books told you to sound like when speaking to royalty. "May I make a suggestion,"
"You may," But he barely looked at you when he responded, his eyes now locked firmly on the expanse of sand outside his window. His own little view of this hell scape planet. For a moment you wondered what he saw.
"Well as you know, the Duke brought many of the servants on your home planet to the Dunes," you waited for him to interrupt but he did not, you sighed with relief. "Everyone with loyalty to the throne is on this planet" 
The young man scoffed. "Are you suggesting that I make friends with servants" 
"In a way," you lied and before the scowl on the mans face could deepen (fuck it) you continued: "I'm suggesting that you get a whore," You said bluntly and not at all regal or uptight, shit. 
You're barely finished your sentence before the Atreides lord went as stiff as a board. His eyes no longer focused nor his breathing noticeable. For a moment, you mistook him for an apparition until a rush of red bloomed from under his cheeks and his eyes went beady like a bug.
Nonetheless, silence draped over the room like sand, the only thing you could hear being the sound of mice that scurried through the walls and the dancing of desert sand. 
 It would be distracting if you weren't anticipating his answer. The poor man, you must've shocked him. Politicians were rarely known for directness and you've begun to contemplate if you ran into this too abruptly then you thought before you felt it.
The soft tremor of your muscles and the swelling in the back of your head that felt like a banging drum, like a whistled beat. As something red-hot and scorching (fear,fear, dread) seeped from your veins and onto cold white bone. 
The urge to run bursted in every cell of your brain but you could not move. The sense of doom forced you still. For a horrifying second, instinct fought against instinct. You needed to run, you needed to stay. You needed to scream, you needed to choke it all down. You didn't realize it was over until you collapsed to your knees and sticky drool sloshed from your lips while your nails dug painfully into the floor. 
 Atreides hadn't moved an inch. He simply looked at you from the reflection of the glass window. His eyes replaced with black opaques that made you wonder where his irises ended and pupils began. 
Shakily, you stood back to your feet. 
"My-"
"How dare you," he hissed. 
"Please-"
"Get out," And as if space and time were at his beck and call. You blinked, the universe ceased to exist and just like that you were at his door with your armored hand on the handle. 
"And soldier," he whispered, voice now hoarse. The room now thick, muddy and impossible to think through with this heavy cloud that swelled heavy in your head. 
"Check it again,"
__
The next day, the Dune sun sunk into every pore of your skin. 
You could barely hear yourself think as you leaned against the cemented pillars of the palace. Each moment passed by with a drip of sweat made the tree gardener eventually stop and glare before grimly handing you a cup. 'A waste of water' he grumbled before he got back to work, his own skin drier than the dirt itself. 
Oh the thrills of guarding the Palm Trees.
For a moment, you wondered if this was a punishment. Something suggested by the Lord himself before quickly you burned the thought away, the Archduke was not that cruel. No, he was efficient. If he truly wanted you to hurt, a quick walk in the desert would be more his style. You doubt that you would’ve made it to morning if you had truly hurt the Lord. But that was the problem wasn’t it? He wasn’t supposed to want to hurt you. He wasn’t even supposed to know you. And now you were here, so now what? 
Now what?
Your head had begun to hurt as you thought of the possibilities. You could run, you could change your appearance, you could simply die. Did it matter? The end result stayed the same; they would not be happy. They might just bring her back just to kill her again. Oh the horror. They were going to find out and you were going to die and, 
Something like terror had begun to lick at your bones. Fear lapping at your soles. Suddenly it felt like eyes were on you everywhere. That the sky was watching and the walls were listening, they were everywhere and what were you to say? How would you plead your case? Everything watched as you stood there, your entire body damp with sweat and in your delusion even the gardener kept his gaze on you. His deep set skin dragging with his eyes at your form. Did he know what you were too? Did he know what you did? 
What were you to say if they asked? If your stupidity breached the walls of the Lords chamber?
 It was one thing to be the brats guard, it was another for him to remember that you were his guard. Just like that, you gripped the cup painfully. 
If the Brat remembered you...no you couldn't have that. It would ruin everything.It maybe already had. But the man was teased of sleep, of rest. Day and night he screamed and shouted at the guards, at his parents. At this moment, he was no different than a drunken fool. Yes, that was it. Your stupidity could be put down to that. The ramblings of a sleep deprived idiot. Even if he wasn't around, you suspected that the brat would tell your commander about the perverted soldier who attempted to tempt him into depravity, but who would believe him?
Everyone. 
Everyone would believe him. Because he was a prince before he was a fool. And you were going to die. Either by his hand or something far, far worse. It was as simple as that. A fact set in stone. The revelation caused your heart to ram into your ribs. For it was a simple answer for a simple question. All that you had left to do was warn the others, to prepare them.
Or maybe you didn’t as your shift ended with a buzz on the wrist and an overarching shadow that stretched into a soldier with armor like yours appeared in your line of vision. Under the sunlight he stood like death's hand. His metallic armor catching a gleam in your eyes. 
“The commander needs to speak to you,” the man said gruffly. 
“He says it’s urgent,” and that was that. 
You could only jerk your head in acknowledgement and with a nod towards the Gardener, you swiftly made your final exit; but not before looking at the cup of liquid in your hand and throwing it to the ground.
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redskull199987 · 1 year
Text
I will always return to You
Paul Atreides x gn!reader Request
Word count:0.7k
Warnings:Paul's daddy issues?? Apart From that it's fluffy
Summary:Paul has to leave for a dangerous mission with his father but he wants to see you one last time...
Requested by Aliza80c on Wattpad
Masterlist
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To say that I was nervous, was an understatement. I was pacing around in my room , while I waited for Paul to return from his training session. He would leave with his father tomorrow. He didn't tell me where they would be going or what they were planning to do, the only thing that I knew was, that the mission would be dangerous. 
I was about to leave in order to go see Paul, but in that exact moment, my door swung open and said prince stumbled into my room.
"Paul?!", I asked perplexed. He was slightly sweaty and dark circles were visible under his eyes.
I walked over to him and grabbed his shoulder to steady his stance:"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, I'm fine", He mumbled, as I sat him down on my bed,"Just wanted to see you one more time."
I smiled at his words. Despite his exhaustion, he still came to see me.
"You need sleep", I explained and tried to push him down onto the bed, but Paul protested.
"I don't need sleep, I want to spend time with you."
I feared that a tear would escape me, as I registered his sweet words.
"At least, lay down with me", I suggested and let myself fall onto the bed next to him.
Paul looked at me for a second. Full on knowing that I tricked him, he let himself sink down next to me with a sigh. I chuckled at my small victory and wrapped my arms around his middle, while Paul burried his head in the crook of my neck.
"How was training?"; I asked after we sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. 
"Horrible, as always", Paul whispered and snuggled closer to me, his calloused hands wrapping around my waist. 
"I wish I could spend more time with you", Paul mumbled and closed his eyes. I carefully raised my hand and pushed a few stray hairs out of his face before leaning closer and kissing his cheek:"I know, my love. But I know that you have duties, I can wait."
"But you shouldn't!", he protested," I just wish, I could dump all those duties and live a peaceful life with you. I don't want to go on that stupid mission with my father"
"Paul", I said, trying to calm him down,"I know that you struggle with your duties. Your father expects a lot from you, but trust me when I say that he is doing it to protect you. He wants to prepare you for a life, where he isn't always there to protect you."
Paul was silent for a second, before he slowly sat up with a sigh:"I know that he only wants  what's best for me, but sometimes I feel like he only sees me as his little Soldier and not as a son."
I sat up too and leaned my head agsinst Paul's back, while wrapping my arms around his middle.
"Have you tried talking to him?", i asked, as Paul interwined his fingers with mine. 
"As if that ever worked.", He scoffed.
"How about I try to talk with him?", I wondered.
"You would do that?",Paul asked perplexed and turned around to look at me.
I only shrugged:"It's worth a shot. And if it doesn't work, I still think that we can find a solution to this."
"You're the best", Paul smiled. It was a geuine smile. A smile that I hadn't seen in what felt like ages.
I yelped, as Paul suddenly lunged forward and pushed me down onto the bed. His hands, grabbing my wrists and keeping me caged under him.
"What are you doing?", I chuckled, as he leaned down and softly pecked my nose.
"I love you", He mumbled, adoration in his eyes. I felt how my heartbeat increased, upon hearing "And I love you, Paul Atreides", I responded. Paul only smiled and leaned down to kiss me. His lips worked against mine with passion, while he interwined his hands with mine. 
"Let's make the night worth it, before I have to leave tomorrow", Paul proposed and left a quick kiss on my jawline.
"I already know, that I will miss you", I mumbled.
"And I will miss you", Paul smiled sadly,"But I will always return to you, I promise"
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nevsluvr · 2 years
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— 𝗣𝗔𝗨𝗟 𝗔𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗦
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— 𝗶 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗱, 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗿 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺.
❣︎=𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛 ✿=𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 ✦=𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩
↳ 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀 [✿]
95 notes · View notes
sansacule · 23 days
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Are there any fics that explore this?
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motherofdogs1010 · 24 days
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Of Messiahs and Seeds I (Dark!Paul Atreides x Reader)
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Summary: Emperor Paul of House Atreides has set forth with expansion of his empire on the planets that have resisted and has now come across the last stronghold that resists him: Terra Millennium...
Warnings: eventual 18+, dark!fic, eventual forced marriage, eventual NONCON, eventual pregnancy, dark!Paul Atreides, more to come as story progresses
A/N: Reader is inspired by Daenarys Targaryen with dragons and Sailor Moon's Silver Crystal lol, so I hope you all enjoy!! Terra is similar to Earth, I imagined Lord York to be Tyrion Lannister so please picture that
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😈 Dividers by @firefly-graphics 😈 Banner by @vase-of-lilies
Part II
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"Terra Millennium stands as a enomely in the universe for their rejection against the Empire", the hologram records said. "A two-century long battle was waged for the planet through the Great Houses yet the people won through the help of someone they have since called 'The Conqueror'."
Paul had heard of the Terra Millennium, their planet one of lush greenery, vast oceans and an abundance of resources that the previous Emperor had tried countless times to harvest just as House Harkonnen had done with the Spice on Arrakis, but alas, no one had ever been successful in mining Terra Millennium. He had heard that they experience something called 'seasons', he wondered what that was.
Just as he had done with Arrakis, Paul sat in his private room, watching hologram clips of Terra Millennium as his fleet flew to the planet to finally land conquest through the help of the Fremen.
"Anthropologists have never been able to stay long on the planet or among the people, but what has been gathered is the people have rejected the teachings of the Bene Gesserit, labeling it as hertic literature."
Terra Millennium was an odd planet with an odd people who had unusually long live spans, being able to live into their thousands without a single wrinkle or grey, they repented against the Bene Gesserit, the use of the Spice; he had heard of the people of that land believing solely in the ruling Queens because of a crystal, one of immense power that was sought after.
"Characterized by their white hair, the ruling House of L/N have upheld the traditional values of the planet, which has a population of over 1 billion. Only female heirs have been able to inherit the throne and it is rumored that a single crystal that is worn by every ruling Queen is said to hold immense power that has granted its people longevity, peace and prosperity."
A knock interrupted his research, Paul seeing Stilgar walk in followed by Gurney.
"Muad'Dib, we have touched land on Terra Millennium", Stilgar said, "they have responded to our communication message."
"What did they say?" he asked, Gurney chuckled.
"They said if we proceed with our mission, they will see it as an act of war", Gurney said, "they're real hard asses here."
"You've been, Gurney?" Paul asked, curious.
"Once", Gurney replied, "I came with your father on a diplomatic assignment, but that was with their previous Queen Helene. This one is new, just coronated a few months ago."
He thought back to the new dreams he had been having of a woman whose hair was the color of white that hung down near the ground in large curls, whose eyes were hard and the color of lilac with the roar of a great beast that rung in his ears when he would awaken from his dreams.
Unlike his dreams with Chani, these felt different now that he had drunken the Water of Life. His visions of the woman consisted of a gentle breeze sweeping through her hair, it curling around her as she was dressed in a long, white silk dress that clung to her body and trailed in a long train behind her with woven golden in the upper bodice. She stood on a tall pillar of crystal, a tall scepter in her hands that she was raising above her head as the breeze picked up.
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Soon, the dreams melted in a great war as crystals encapsulating him, a bright light that blinded him yet filled him with warmth and security.
"Show them the full might of the Empire", Paul said, "after all, they are in the presence of the Muad'Dib."
And it was those eyes that greeted him when he finally set foot on the pavement of Terra Millennium with its tall structures that were made of variously colored crystals.
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Neo-Queen Amaris was the regal name Y/N had chosen to go by when she took the throne a mere few months ago. Of course, she went by her name, Y/N in private with those closets to her and only by her regal name with others.
Y/N had heard the rumors of the new Emperor wanting to claim her home, her people; he wanted to bring her planet into the vastly growing empire that he ruled under as a supposed Messiah to the Fremen and Bene Gesserit: Muad'Dib. Everyone had heard of how he supposedly liberated Arrakis and the Fremen people, marrying Princess Irulan as a political move to secure his position as the new Emperor.
Only a few days ago did a message come into their Communication's Hub from the Emperor about finally claiming Terra Millennium for not only himself but for the Fremen as it would be their 'Green Paradise'.
War will come to Terra Millennium if you refuse to submit, the message read.
"My Queen", her advisor, Lord York, said as she sat on her throne. "Reports have come in that the Atreides fleet has made contact on the landing pad near the Capital. Scouts have seen the Atreides Army beginning to get ready."
Lord York was a man of small stature with a head full of bronze curls and dark brown eyes that always looked calculated as if he was already ten steps ahead.
Y/N looked over at Lord York before bringing a hand to the crystal that hung around her neck on a chain that could never be removed from her neck before slowly standing up from her throne that was encrusted in gemstones.
"I believe it is time we greet them", she said, looking over her court. "After all, hospitality is what our people are known for."
And it is not like they have any chance of having their weapons working; outside weaponry not from Terra M had no chance of working and she wondered what their reactions would be once they realized this.
"But before we go", Lord York said, "may I make a suggestion?"
Y/N made a motion to the man, who gave a nod and said, "I believe it is our Queen's best interest to wear your ancestor, The Conqueror's crown and scepter to greet our guests. It would show the great strength you possess, a message to not only the Great Houses but the Emperor as well."
"That sounds like a great idea."
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"You are the presence of our Neo-Queen", a man said with a thick facial beard, "first of her name, descendant of our goddess Selene and The Conqueror, wielder of the great Silver Crystal, Mother of all, Neo-Queen Amaris."
Paul watched as the man motioned to the woman he had been dreaming about, he could see that as the breeze came that she wore no shoes; all the Terrians didn't despite their silken clothes as they stood amongst the tall crystal structures. They had landed as close to the Capital, finding that there was a landing pad despite the relatively isolated nature of the planet.
"I welcome you, Paul of House Atreides", she said with a stoic expression. "But now you must leave."
The woman, their Queen Amaris, looked upon them with a hint of annoyance as she held a large scepter in one hand that was as tall as Duncan Idaho had been with gold and gem embellishments, but what was curious was that at the top of the scepter where it looked as if a missing piece was needed. The crown she wore on her head was large, glittering in diamonds and curved up into a point as she stood there, her hair having a few small braids that pulled the framing hair away with kiss curls on her forehead.
"Leave?" Paul said with some amusement.
Irulan stood next to him dressed in a silver mesh outfit, a metal hair net that connected over into her dress that held down her short blonde hair. Paul was glad that he Voiced the woman to stop talking, she would not stop and frankly, he had no desire to try and pursue a romantic relationship with the woman after Chani chose to leave further into Arrakis.
His mother stood amongst them, holding the bundled form of his sister, Alia.
"I did not realize a Emperor could have poor hearing", Amaris said, "you are not welcome on Terra Millennium nor do we plan on allowing for you to colonize us. Terra M remains alone."
Paul took in the way she spoke, her accent one he had never heard before and the formal way of speaking. He noticed the large gem that hung around her neck, it sparkled in the sunlight as she stood there and looked to be the size of a her palm.
"Also, we did not apperciate your Bene Gesserit coming", she continued, "spreading their heretic language, you will find them in the Prisoner's Bay."
"You don't believe in the Muad'Dib, the Kwisatz Haderach?" Paul asked.
"We believe in our Queen, may her reign be as prosperous as Selene", the bearded man said.
The Queen just looked at him with contempt, he saw her lip curl a little in annoyance.
And it was that look that made something stir deep in Paul and made him feel something that he never felt before. She looked at him as if he was a bug ready to be squashed underneath her foot
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He wanted to possess the woman in front of him, at all costs and he didn't care who he had to kill... he was going to.
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xxstargirlx-x · 11 days
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Feyd Rautha X f!Atreides/Bene Gesserit Reader "Little Warrior"
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Summary: In which f!atreides reader gets sent off to marry the na-Baron Feyd Rautha Harkonnen to settle a history of family house tension. Everyone, including the reader fear the terrors that await her on Giedi Prime, but when she witnesses the freedom in the barbaric ways of the harkonnen and finds her future husband's cruel ways to be useful in the case of an attack...surprisingly, our girl grows more and more intrigued. Maybe he showed her a new side of herself and she fits right into his world?
Warnings: Dark Romance but no smut! Also, blood, minor character deaths and implied attempted sexual assault (not by feyd), graphic violence (not towards the reader). This content can be triggering, read at your own risk.
Requests are open!
Robes upon robes, headresses and jewels of unspeakable worth were being stacked onto my shaking figure, my beloved servants dressing me in my finest attire, as if it were armour made to protect me. And gods, protection did I need. With shaking hands of their own, Khairiah and Lisanthe dressed their princess for the terrors that awaited her on the planet she would soon call home, hoping that my beauty would soften the known, icy demeanor of my soon to be husband. I was terrified to admit, that my doubts were evident.
Oh, how I would miss the two. Pleading to take them with me, I soon found out what servants on Giedi Prime were often treated like. And it sent a raging wave of nausea through me. No way in hell would I put the women who'd been caring for me since I was but a young girl through that torment. I doubt even my protection, the protection of the Na-Baroness would do much to help them. So it was settled. I would be going alone, accompanied by no-one but my mother for the mere act of handing me over. A tactical move, considering it was her who trained me for this as well. I was sure to receive final instructions instead of a heartfelt goodbye at her departure, our relationship was almost exclusively based on training me to be her little Bene Gesserit warrior in pursuit of bearing the Kwisatz Haderach.
It's not her I would miss. Not my father who I'd missed enough after his passing. Not the ever so watchful eyes of my many teachers. It would be my trainer Duncan, who taught me to combine the power of the voice and the blade. My two personal maidens, whom I treated like my sisters. My lush, joyful planet and it's bustling streets of lively people, something that I would never find on Giedi Prime, the planet I would soon call home. I heard the tales of my betrothed and his people. Chilling tales. And as I caught my reflection in the mirror in front of me, I steadied my breath. If they were truly so barbaric, so ruthless and bloodthirsty, then so would I be. If that's what kept me alive and sane. If you can't beat them, join them, I decided.
The image of my reflection was an unsettling one. My maidens and I had thought of every possible way to ensure my safety. Become one of them, Khairiah had said. And so I sat, heavy, black fabrics draped over my form, the sharp teeth of a great grandfather sandworm forming an unholy crown on the top of my head, a threatening image of power. My eyes were lined in dark kohl, shielding them from those unworthy of gazing into them. I was going to leave my lush, colourful garments and bright jewels behind, a gift to my maidens. I wasn't going to need them in the cold, infrared of Giedi Prime. They were unfit for the image I was going to adopt. The image of a godless, abomination of a baroness.
My mother had taken my change of attire into account, but hadn't commented. As long as I fulfilled my duty and brought the family feud to rest, I was to do as I pleased. In the ship, she ignored the nervous bounce of my leg, the furrow of my brow. She was here physically yes, but in reality I was all on my own. Left to fend for myself. She came to hand me over, like valuable live stock. And it filled me with rage, with fear but with a rattle, we came to a halt. We were here. I took a deep breath and painted an image of pure arrogance, an icy look of warning onto my features.
They should know who they're dealing with from the very moment that I step out of the Atreides ship. And so when I did, I rolled my shoulders back, my feet falling into the rhythmic, venomous steps of a fighter, stepping into an arena, ready to raise hell if need be. Enemy grounds. And there they stood indeed, the Harkonnen armada. My lip curled up in disgust, barely managing to hold back a snarl. But my betrothed noticed it in amusement. A tall, looming figure of power stood a few feet from me, the malicious smirk evident on his sharp features.
My murderous expression shot to a group of Harkonnen politicians who mumbled in shock at the sight of me. They'd sent spies to my planet weeks prior to figure out my nature and fitness to become na-Baroness, despite the Bene Gesserit having deemed me as the one and only capable already. Reports had come back of a lively, warm-hearted young woman with a taste for bright fabrics, colours, music and an even brighter demeanor. The wicked figure that stood in front of them now, moving in an almost serpentine fashion with a look of silent warning on her face was everything but what they had anticipated.
Your soon to be husband felt a sharp thrill rush through him at the sight of your unlawful behaviour. When he'd heard the Bene Gesserit's final verdict that he was to marry the Atreides girl, his disappointment was undeniable. She would be fun to break sure, but the counterpart to his rotten ways she wouldn't be. There was only so much passion and excitement a girl from your house could bring forth. Or so he thought. But the look you sent him, like you we're going to rip out his spine at a misstep, ignited a flame of pure desire in him. A challenge. And one he happily took.
He stepped forward, first greeting my mother before taking hold of my hand and smiling at the claw like rings adorning each of my fingers. Kissing the back of my hand, his dark eyes never left mine. And I hated the chill that traveled up my arm at his touch, the excitement. He was handsome. Not in the conventional way, no. In a villainous, unsettling way, one so unfamiliar to me that I was unable to look away. "A wickedly beautiful creature indeed. Welcome to Giedi Prime, my bride." His words, no matter how hospitable in nature were spoken with such perversion that I swore my heart skipped a beat. His malicious smirk grew wider.
"It is my pleasure to be welcomed on your grounds, my lord." I bowed my head simply, and my mother seemed satisfied. She also seemed to be in a rush to get back home, her home, not mine any longer. With a chaste kiss to my forehead and as expected, final instructions signed to me by hand, she disappeared behind the heavy door of the Atreides ship. The last I would see of it for a presumably long while. Left like an animal. And there I was, stranded on a foreign planet, with foreign customs. I would be lying if I said I hadn't been afraid. But the tinge of excitement I got from wanting to test my own capability of immorality and ability to survive in such hostile circumstances was undeniable.
I had grown up like a puppet, following direct orders and rules like my life depended on it. The perfect princess, that's what I had to be. And regardless of the fine woman I'd become, I was eager to test my freedom on this barbaric planet. To see if it truly lacked all sense of morality, catered to my wildest desires and forgave all my irreligious thoughts. A scary thing to admit, indeed. But what else was there to do? And when on Giedi Prime, right? Sticking to my gentle and caring nature would be my death sentence, so I was going to embrace their monstrous customs if I had to. Survival of the fittest.
Your betrothed sensed the sheer power dripping off of you as you seemed deep in thought, like a gift sent to him by whatever entity was responsible. He hadn't been sure until now, but seeing his future wife's merciless, booming demeanor convinced him. You two were going to bring forth the most powerful heir ever conceived, as the Bene Gesserit had croaked. Many were afraid to meet your lethal eyes in this situation, many, but not him. And if it wasn't just an act, he was certain you two would achieve unspeakable, unholy things together.
"Uncle." He started. "I shall parade my bride. Show her her new home and that of our future heirs. Get accustomed." It wasn't a question, not to me, not to the baron. It was a demand, and with a grab of my arm, he pulled me along. But I merely planted my feet into the ground, my strong legs holding me steady as I refused to move. "Princess...", he warned lethally, voice dripping in hoarse challenge. I yanked my arm from his grip and hooked it through his instead, my hand finding a resting place on his toned bicep. "I will not be lead like a pet na-Baron. I am your equal and I expect to be treated as such." I spoke coldly, managing to hide the trembling of my hands.
To my absolute surprise, he smirked at the comment before nodding in what seemed to be amusement. If he wasn't used to offering his arm to a lady, I'd damn well get him used to it. The hallways he lead me through seemed endless, a maze of turning and twisting darkness. Their architecture was different than the one I knew from back home, but I had to admit, it was an imposing, deliciously intimidating, powerful impression. Your na-Baron noticed the faint smile on your delicate features and a sense of pride filled him. You weren't afraid, you were intrigued for heavens sake, unbelievable to him.
A few hours had passed and I'd been escorted to my guest quarters after the tour. My betrothed had returned to the chambers that we are to share after our wedding and I was preparing myself for dinner. I smiled to myself strangely enough, at the thought of the man I deemed to be below me before coming here. Only to find out, he was....enticing. Disgustingly alluring. We had shared a laugh or two this afternoon, had found some things we had in common as he showed me around, unbelievably enough. Climbing out of the luxurious bath my new servants had poured me, my smile dropped instantly as a scream of no human nature ripped through me at what stood before me.
In front of my bare, naked form stood two Harkonnen soldiers, their terrifying voids of eyes raking over my naked body as they bared their black teeth to me in a bone chilling grin. My servants lied dead on the ground. My guttoral scream had alerted a group of guards, yet the soldiers had done well in barricading the door and I was locked in. Only the rattling of the door, the guards trying to get in, the two soldiers trying to "welcome their baroness the harkonnen way" as they claimed and me. What the hell was I going to do?
I quickly grabbed for the robe that was placed on the edge of the tub for me, covering myself from the perverse gazes of the men before me. Not men, animals. They lunged at me, an unarmed female, after having killed two helpless girls like total cowards. The guards were still rattling at the heavy metal door of my room as I realized I would have to fight my way out of this. Screw this planet and it's godforsaken people.
Suddenly I missed home like never before. The rage that ripped though me, threatening to send me into a frenzy, at the thought of having been ripped away from the safety of my home and brought to this hellhole...it was enough to split a planet. I let out another scream, but this one wasn't from shock, no. It was a pure, unfiltered warcry. All my lessons with Duncan came crashing back into my head, all the scenarios he prepared me for that I deemed as unlikely, all the happy memories we'd never share again...bring down the moons and give 'em hell, princess he'd always told me.
"Give me your blade, you bastard", I spoke using the voice. At least one thing came of my mother's unforgiving training. He handed it over without a missed beat. Granted, I could've ordered them to kill each other. But I wanted to revel in their misery, be the one to deliver them to their maker for what they intended to do to me. It would be my first message of warning to whoever might dare test me on this bloody mess of a planet. And that would be we what came of Duncan's training. As I stalked towards the miserable excuse of a man, an earth shattering voice boomed down the hallway before my quarters. "Where the hell is my woman?"
Feyd. He sounded like the devils incarnate, his rage devastating enough to send a chill through me. But I didn't halt. As the rattling continued, I lunged my blade into the man before me in a swift, precise movement. A fine execution, not deep enough to grant the mercy of a kill just yet, but devastatingly painful, Duncan would've said. A blood spattered grin spread on my face at the thought and I moved like an angel of death, massacring the man in front of me, carving my promise of revenge into him. It was like a dance, a dance of death and I was so focused on delivering a fine piece of work, that I didn't notice how the door flew open, revealing my bewildered betrothed. He looked demonic, like bloodthirst personified, his breathing ragged and his crazed eyes on me immediately.
Only when the man in front of me dropped down dead, disfigured as if the most skilled surgeon had been at work did I meet Feyd's eyes. My breathing was ragged, my silky, freshly bathed skin stained crimson in angry blotches. He swore he fell in love with you then and there. An angel of death indeed, he'd never seen such divine femininity corrupted by such unholyness. A chilling grin, matching the one you forgot still painted your face crept up on his as well, as he stalked towards the other soldier, who stood and watched in terror. "Turn around, princess." Feyd had simply said, wanting to shield your gorgeous eyes from what he was about to do to the man who dared to disrespect what was his. But you stayed exactly as you were, eagerly awaiting to see what all the stories of the ruthless, undefeated Feyd-Rautha were about.
You watched in pleasure as your soon to be husband did the same to the other soldier as you had done to the first. And the thought of you watching him commit this act in your honour drove him wild with desire, with the need for you. How your gaze lingered on every skilled, perfect move of his blade, it was a religious experience for you both. As the other man dropped down, to join his slaughtered comrade, Feyd stood proudly in front of you, matching blood spatters on his pale skin. A sight making you ready to drop to your knees, so powerful, masculine, so rogue so...
Without another beat, he stalked up to you, a hand creeping around your jaw. "Are you hurt?" I simply shook my head, lost in his worried, bewildered gaze. And without thinking, my bloodstained hands traveled up his toned chest, a comfort I didn't realize I needed until now. It might've been the adrenaline or the way you devilishly smiled up at him, but he lost all sense of control in that moment. He ignored the heaps of guards rushing into your room as he crashed his blood splattered lips onto yours, grabbing at you like you were too good to be true and might be taken from him any second. And you let him.
He pushed you up against the wall behind you, ignoring the two dead men he stepped over and kissed you so feverishly, like a man overcome with pure mania that you worried it could suffocate you. Oh, but how worth it it was. Scandalous. Dirty. Animalistic. When he finally pulled back to take me in, I knew I found the freedom I'd been looking for in the man right in front of me. The freedom to lust. To unleash. To avenge. To act on my own accord for the first time in my life and prove to the world what I, the future Baroness Harkonnen, was capable of.
He grinned at me, as if having read my thoughts. "I had no knowledge of your talents, little warrior. I had no knowledge that I was marrying my female counterpart." His grin grew even wider as I mirrored it. "There is much you have yet to find out about me, my lord." I teased, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Well, I'm more than eager to, little warrior. Regardless of your natural inclination to slaughter your enemies..." An amused chuckle. "...From now on you'll be staying by my side. Always. And you are to join me in my quarters, starting tonight. I'm not letting my Baroness out of my sight again. Forgive me for letting danger pass your way."
I deemed the fact that I'd be sharing a room with the man that drove me crazy in all the best ways possible, a worthy apology. And it was no surprise to anyone when you two announced to the Baron that you desired to bring on your wedding sooner than planned the next morning. Not having consummated it the very night of your first meeting was hard enough already. And word of the new, brave, ruthless warrior baroness soon spread as you joined your now husband on the throne. The universe had something wicked coming it's way.
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effloradox · 3 months
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picture me in the trees
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Behold a quick Paul Atreides fic written whilst I rewatched Dune. This is potentially bridging the gap of me not writing for Timothée and me writing for his Wonka 😔✊️
Pairing: Paul Atreides x Betrothed!Reader
Word Count: 1k
There's a soft knock at your door. It had been silent in your room aside from your soft breathing and the occasional page turning from the book in your lap so the intrusion to your peace had caught your attention immediately. You waited for the door handle to turn, for one of the many servants to announce their presence before entering, and you're puzzled as to why whoever knocked has not announced their presence. It's peaked your curiosity though, and you rise off your bed, careful to place your bookmark back in its place.
"Hello?" It's almost eerily silent as you make your way towards the door. It's only when you're a few steps away from the door that you hear a voice from the corridor.
"It's Paul." Relief instantly floods your body. You hadn't expected to see him today, his father had encouraged him to attend some of the meetings he had arranged and the Lady Jessica had told you not to expect to see much of Paul for the first few weeks of your transition to Arrakis.
"You could have come in, you didn't have to wait." You know Paul will never heed your words. He's far too polite to walk into your room without asking your permission first, but you feel the need to tell him everything you find him at your chamber doors.
"I have a surprise for you."
"A surprise?" A quick scan of Paul doesn't show any sign of it being a physical surprise. His hands are clasped together in front of him and they seem to be empty. You look to his face to try and spot any sort of clue but his only response is to smile softly at you.
"Do you trust me?"
"You know I trust you." Paul's hands move from his front as one falls to his side. The other rises in front of you as he opens his hand to you.
"Allow me to put this on?" In his outstretched hand is a piece of silk. You know he means to use it as a blindfold on you and, whilst it sends a flicker of fear down your spine, you trust him so implicitly that it's all you can do to nod gently. He makes quick work of putting it on, being particularly careful when he ties it.
"It's not too tight is it?" You can't help but smile fondly at the concern in his tone. Even after years of friendship and a year of being publicly betrothed, Paul still treats you as though you are made of something fragile. It's sweet of him.
"Paul it's fine." You listen as he steps around you, one hand rising to rest on your waist. He's careful when he encourages you to move forwards, stopping you after a few steps to close the door behind you before continuing to guide you through the palace. If he had done so in your old home you would've known where he was taking you but as it was you were completely clueless as to where he might be guiding you to.
It's only after what feels like the hundredth left turn that you decide to speak. "How much further?"
"Not long now." You can hear the amusement in his voice when he replies to you. True to his word though, after another few turns he stops moving to open a door in front of you. Another few steps and you're inside a room with him closing the door behind you.
"Can I take the blindfold off?"
"You can." You're almost nervous to do so but your fingers find the knot on the back of your head and your quick to untie it. You're not sure what you expected to find when you took the blindfold off but a room full of plants was definitely not in the realm of possibility.
You'd accepted that your position in life as the betrothed of the son of a Duke meant that you would be relocated alongside Paul and the rest of House Atreides as the Emperor saw fit but you had taken the news of leaving Caladan hard.
Caladan was your home. It had been difficult moving from a planet with such a rich ecosystem to a desert planet like Arrakis. You had done so without complaint as was expected of you but it had lowered your spirits in recent weeks. You thought you'd managed to hide your discomfort well, but you should've known how observant Paul was when it came to your wellbeing.
You find tears welling up in your eyes as you take in the room in front of you. The room is full of lush greenery, with a variety of plants you both recognise and have never seen before. None of them could be native to the planet, it's a much too harsh environment to support any of the ferns and shrubs surrounding you. The only conclusion you can draw is that Paul had all these plants imported for you. The notion sends a wave of affection through you as you finally turn to face him.
"I know this transition has not been easy on you. I wanted to do something to ease your homesickness."
"You did all this for me?" Paul turns bashful for a moment as though it hadn't occurred to him how well this gesture would be taken.
"I care deeply for you. I know it was not my choice to bring us to this planet but I hold some responsibility for the impact it has had on you. I wanted to help in any way I could." You turn away from him for a moment and run your hand over the closest fern to you. The feeling of it makes you close your eyes as it takes you back to the days you spent in the forests on Caladan.
"How is it you always know what I need?"
"You are my betrothed. It is my duty to know what you need and provide it." You feel him approach you from behind as he takes one of your hands in his.
"Thank you, Paul." You squeeze his hand gently, smiling as he returns the gesture.
"You're welcome."
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steph-speaks · 14 days
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A Tiny Miracle
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Author's Note: Went to see Dune part 2 last night and my brain hasn't shut off since. 🫠 This is just a tiny little Paul x Wife!Reader blurb set during the final fight scene.
"My lord."
Paul's eyes narrow after he hears Gurney try to get his attention. Shaddam seems to squirm, albeit reluctantly, under his narrowed gaze.
He glances over his shoulder to find Gurney holding a protective arm around you.
And the tiny little bundle in your own arms.
"Paul," You breathe, the sheen of sweat from your labors having already cooled on your skin, the blood still staining the lower half of your dress. "We have a daughter."
Paul is in front of you in an instant, cupping your face and hovering his other hand under your own that cradles the baby's head.
"You should be resting," He murmurs as he touches his forehead to yours. "You're exhausted."
"I'll let you do it next time, then." You tease as you close your eyes, content as he manages to peek down at her without relinquishing his touch on you. You had missed his presence during the birth but he had been occupied with the arrangements of this gathering. Your tired eyes look over his shoulder to see his Harkonnen cousin staring at you in particular and seemingly fascinated by your exchange with Paul.
"Her name?" Your husband asks fondly without looking away, his gloved fingers caressing her head of hair.
"I—" You shake your head, embarrassed, especially with everyone's attention directed at the three of you. "I haven't decided yet."
"That's okay," He assures, lips upturning as he presses his nose in your hair. He already knows what her name will be. "We have time."
You nod and someone directs you to sit down next to Jessica to rest. You've had your differences, it's true, but she seems to put those feelings aside when she smiles softly at you and the baby before surveying the scene before her.
Feyd-Rautha steps forward to begin the duel, pointing his blade towards Paul.
"I'm glad you got to see your child, Atreides. It will be your only chance."
Paul positions himself in a fighting stance, the black-toothed sneer Feyd directs at you sending a shiver down your spine, making you clutch your daughter closer to your breast. You wonder if it was wise for the Fremen to lead you here, to put the wife Muad'Dib front and center in front of the enemy.
He rakes his dark eyes over your blood stained dress, almost approvingly.
"Maybe I'll take your bride as a war prize when I win. I do love seeing a woman covered in blood."
Something dark passes over Paul's face at the threat. He can deal with threats to his own person, but you? He feels his own blood boil as the possibilities of this duel flash through his mind. A path, one that floods certainty through his veins, becomes as clear to him as the sands of Arrakis.
"May thy knife chip and shatter."
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nonpoppin · 1 month
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BEGINNING OF THE END
Paul Atreides x Reader
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Summary: Things reach a boiling point.
Warnings: Sickness, hallucinations, talks suicidal tendencies, , blood, talks of medicine and needles! kissing, making out, brief dry humping. TELL ME IF I MISS ANYTHING!!
Notes: Look, this was supposed to be the end but it's a part two instead, please don't hate me y'all 😭 Part three is already in the works! This is like 8k words!! No cricket mention! Maybe in part three! The summary is sorta funny once you reach the end of the story please laugh-
PART ONE
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“You are being ridiculous.”
“When the worms feast on my flesh I hope I taste nice.”
The changing divider is just thin enough to allow shadows to pass through and because of this Paul sees the maid throw her hands up before he hears her curse in her mother tongue. Paul swallows a snort, a small smile playing on his lips as he flips through an old book— it's been like this for hours. Your new maid was kinder than your last and, her cruelest punishment was making you look like a proper lady, as proper as you could look when your sickness allows you to skip out on all the corsets, ties and uncomfortable bonnets with their big ugly bows and flowers.
Paul hears your maid curse, your shadows move and you giggle. It's a soft sound, so soft, he almost misses as he turns a page in the book he's pretending to read. Still, it rasps and he hears the little gasp of pain you take after the humor passes and he frowns. The new medication works but not well enough, it takes away your bigger symptoms but it puts new ones in its place. Pinching lungs traded for ones that squeeze and contract suddenly, your drowsiness swapped for the inability to sleep— the notes said nurses found you awake at all times of night, bleary eyed and delirious but filled with too much energy. Your lack of appetite was pushed aside for your constant hunger and its consequence was not being able to keep any solid down.
Paul flips another page, his frown falling into an indifferent line. He's not supposed to know that about you, he was specifically barred from reading your medical files— something about respecting your privacy and doctor– patient confidentiality. Paul flips another page, he hears you giggle and your maid chide you and tries not to twitch at the sound. You've been giggling a lot recently, not that he really cares, it's just… if the action brought you pain why do you continue to do so? How can you find humor in anything with your circumstances? Then, he wonders if it's another side effect.
Paul goes to flip another unread page when you finally step from behind the divider. You look… Paul clears his throat and politely looks away feeling exasperated. The maid, Lyra, is still busy with the workings of your dress— the deep green fabric falls off your shoulders, your breast barely contained by the sinking fabric, your hair wild but not horribly so, it almost looks purposely roguish but with the state of the rest of you, he knows that's not the case. You look at him, the smile on your face is a touch whimsical and your eyes misty and it's then he knows you're not all there— it's the early workings of your medication, he guesses, he was sent to fetch you not too long after a dose. “Paul, if you were a worm–”
Paul shuts down the conversation before it can even start. “No.”
It's almost cute, how you wilt into yourself. Lyra uses it as an opportunity to pull your dress up before it can fall and expose you completely. She fixes a few buttons and he hears a zipper, then the fabric is hugging your figure nicely. Lyra eyes your hair for a moment, a finger brushing away a strand that hangs in your line of sight and you smile at her, leaning into her hand with a hum. It only makes the woman frown.
“She’ll be fine once she gets some food in her.” She says to Paul. Though her tone is concerned, she pitches her lips into a soft smile, “Don’t think I like this variant much. She doesn't remember most of her day then she spends the other half throwing up.”
Paul doesn't think of your medical files. His nose doesn't twitch at the new information, he doesn't immediately file it away in his brain as another reason to hate this stupid new medication. Forgetfulness. The word repeats in his head and he closes the book, his fingers tapping across the cover before they stretch and repeat the motion– Lyra pretends not to notice it as she guides you back to your bed. It makes sense, he thinks, maybe you forgot the way you were supposed to be acting around him, the moment this medication was introduced you had dropped the formal address of ‘your majesty’, you had started to smile at the sight of him. His fingers twitch as you groan something to Lyra— your head hurts. Another side effect?
Paul is standing before he realizes. “I’ll talk to her doctors.”
Lyra looks a touch surprise, her eyes shooting away from you to the prince then back to you with twitching lips. “If that's what you want to do, my lord.”
He's out of the room so fast, she can't help the laugh that escapes her. “Oh, that poor boy.”
You blink up at her, “Hm..?”
She only pats your hand fondly. “I’ll tell you when you're more coherent.”
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Leto tries to outpace his son but Paul matches his stride. “–And she is throwing up her meals, what is the point of feeding her if she can not keep it down?”
Leto glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I thought I banned you from reading her files.”
Paul blinks, but he doesn't stumble in his stride nor does he slow. “I didn't. I simply talked to her maid, she's very forthcoming.” He lies.
Leto turns a corner, Paul follows. So, the King tries a different tactic. “I thought you wanted her dead?”
That causes his son to trip a little. “I did. I do, but as future King I won't deny she is of more value alive–” Paul sees his father frown, the ends of his lips twitching downward and he rushes to add, “–but I also realize she is human, she's not that much older than me and she's sick and this variant seems to be making it worse.”
Leto slows to a stop, just a bit and actually seems to consider his words. “The doctors say this variant is working the best out of all the ones they tried–”
“Father, if you were to ask her, her name, she'd answer wrong.” Paul interrupts, his voice a touch annoyed as he thinks back to you. You'd probably ask about worms again or make some ill-timed joke about your possible death. His mind flashes images of you, sick, confined to bed to now; standing, delirious and breasts spilling out of your dress— he instantly puts a cap on that thought and clears his throat. “We are supposed to keep her alive and that is not living.”
“I’ll bring it up in the next meeting about her health–” Paul opens his mouth and Leto gives him a sharp look. “–No, you may not join. But, I'm sure Lady Balliol appreciates your sudden… interest in her care.” There's a touch of amusement in his father's voice and the King pats Paul on the shoulder as he moves to pass him.
Paul freezes as he tries to process that statement, “What?”
But only Leto hums in reply, his mind already elsewhere. Paul falls in step with him and tries again, his voice louder. “Dad, what do you mean by that?”
The man gives his son a sidelong glance before looking away, his lips pursing— suddenly any amusement he seemed to find in the situation is gone. “It’s nothing, really.”
“It’s obviously not nothing.” Paul says, “You never say anything without meaning, you, yourself told me that. So what did you mean by that?”
“It’s just,” The King starts carefully and Paul can see in his face that he is carefully picking his words. “You hated Lady Balliol from the moment you saw her, you called for her death– wanted her head to roll with her fathers’.”
Paul goes to interrupt but Leto continues, his brow dipping in thought, “If I listened to you the first time, the very girl you worry about would be dead, do you understand that? You brought me pages of what dead Kings would do to inspire me and now you come to me worrying about her care after talking to her, what, a handful of times?” Leto looks at him then, his eyes searching. “This switch is odd if not a little cute and this sudden interest; I can only understand if you grew fond of her in the moments you spent together. I am aware that you loiter around her room, after all.”
Paul goes pink in the face. “It’s not like that.”
King Leto frowns at him, “Isn’t it? Even in sickness, she is a stunning sight. Her wit, when she is sound, is astounding and I find her quite humorous— if you have a small fancy for her, it's okay. Truly, I would rather that than you see her as some type of pawn, she's—”
“Human.” Paul says, his face still pink as he looks anywhere but his father. “I know she is human. Flesh and bone like you and me.”
“And?”
“And what?” Paul asks, annoyed. “She’s sick.”
Leto has an odd smile blooming on his face and the sight of it makes Paul want to squirm right out of his skin. Whatever Leto sees when he looks at his son, it's enough of an answer but still; he is a father and can't help taking the moment to tease him. “You can still like sick people, you know.”
Paul seems to twitch at that. “Yes, I know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. In old times, when one was wed— they'd say ‘In sickness and in health.’ Nothing can really stop love, I believe.”
Paul stops walking, hoping that his father would continue without him. Though, his face falls when Leto stops too— the both of them are right outside his private office and Leto is still smiling like he knows something Paul doesn't. “In fact, I have even read some interesting works— The Kings of old marrying off their Princes to nations they took over.”
“Well, we don't always have to follow the ways of Old Kings do we?” Paul says, his face looking as if he sucked on a lemon. “We can see where they failed and learn from it, yes?”
“Oh, no, these marriages were quite prosperous. Brought peace to the realm and all that.”
“Dad?”
The King's smile grows, “Yes?”
“You’re going to be late for your meeting.” Paul inclines his head towards the office and Leto laughs.
“Oh, now you don't want to join?”
“I think I'm quite alright out here.” He says, his eyes darting away. “I have things to do, as you know.”
Leto chuckles and with a shake of his head, he slips into his office. Paul gets a brief glance of the men in there— at the doctors and their notes splayed across the table then he sees Duncan, two of them make the barest of eye contact before they both look away, though a thought crosses Paul's mind. If he couldn't have a say in these meetings— maybe he could convince someone else to be his voice.
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Lyra, your new nurse-maid, is a lot of things. She's a whole head shorter than you, plump and filled with curves and a mother. She gets nervous around you, treats you like porcelain when you cough or develop a wobble in your step but she's stern. Stern but not cruel, like your last nurse-maid and she tells you, you act like her youngest. A melancholy little five year old who knew a little too much about death and rot because of her father who happens to be a farmer. Lyra, stars-guide-her, treats you like you're her child and it makes you ache.
When you die, it will hurt her.
You don't voice this, of course. You've come to a certain realization that it's all you do— hurt people, curse them with an early death or the burden of your care. You had tried to warn your father off from it, tried to convince your brother to make him see reason and look where that got them; dead or banished for caring. You try to imagine what will happen to Lyra after your death, she just— she just cares too much and if she has her way, there will be a story about you twisted and pecked at till it made you look pretty. Your sunken cheeks passed off as high cheekbones, the dark bags under your eyes spun to be mysterious. You will die, yes, but some part of you will live on with a better life than you had now.
You sit, wrapped in thick blankets and an IV planted in your arm and your mouth chalky. They've been flushing the prior variant of medication out of your system— they had pumped you full of so much activated charcoal you vomited for a straight hour and now they're rehydrating you in preparation for the new variant. You wish they'd let you die, that someone would let that old maid in and let her pull the plug and bar the doors. You want to be put of your misery, you wish to save the time of every doctor and nurse experimenting on you and have them focus on something worthwhile like– like, you don't know, the creeping death that's been appearing on Arrakis?
But you are ignored. Of course you are— you are no princess and a lady of high standing no longer, you are a prisoner. A pretty one; a toy to play with until you give out and they get a new one. So, you pick at your fingers and think almost absentmindedly that you should be alarmed at how easy the skin peels and how you don't bleed and maybe it's odd because humans bleed but not you, not the King's favorite toy, you peel more and more and more and–
That's not right.
Your head is swimming but you are sure you bleed, you are sure you're human.
“You are something far worse.” Your father snickers and you flinch. You look up (— when had you looked down?) And you don't know how you didn't notice him the first time. He had always been a big man, commanding every space he entered and despite how ridiculous he looked in the small chair, he had a nasty sneer on his face, his brown eyes filled with hate.
That's not right either, he never looked at you like that. Your father loved you.
“I did, didn't I?” He mutters. “Loved you enough to forsake everything I built and this is how you repay me?” He gestures to you, the green and gray dress you wear with little embroidered hawks on the collar. “You would break bread with the enemy?”
“I have no choice,” You whisper and your voice echoes, thundering in your ears. “They won't let me go— they won't let me die–”
“I don't want to hear that.” Lord Balliol hisses, his face twisting. You can't help but to look away, his face is all wrong, too angry— too filled with hate. “You betray your blood with your very life–”
Your heart drops, this isn't right. He wouldn't say this, he wouldn't but he is and your lip wobbles, “Papa…”
“I wasted so much time on you.” He continues, his voice hard and it's like he can't hear you. “Do you realize that? Do you realize what you cost me?”
“I never meant to– I-I only wanted–”
“Be quiet!” He shouts and you flinch away from him. “You have cost me everything, everyone. My wife, my son, my people; you are nothing but a curse–” And when he spits your name, it sounds like it is. “You are my biggest disappointment, my worst regret and for that, I can not let you live.”
You are shaking, the blanket clenched between your fingers. “What?”
“I can't let you leave this room alive.” Lord Balliol says but he is warping; he is nothing but smoke when he throws himself at you. A creature made of darkness and death and smells of sulfur— his hands wrap around your throat and when he squeezes, it burns. You claw at his hands, only for them to faze through and then you call for him. For your father and not the monster that he becomes, he does not answer but his hands tighten.
When you wake it is with a scream. Your fist strikes the prince across his face but you are too blinded with fear to even notice. Paul falls back with a shout of surprise and you still don't notice because you are still screaming, clutching at your chest and heart as you scramble away with hiccuping sobs.
“Papa,” You cry as Lyra runs for you. The maid is at your side in seconds, catching you just before you fall to the floor and uncaring of your thrashing, “Papa, papa, I'm sorry!”
Lyra soothes you through your sobs, through the tremors that rock through your body, her hand smoothing over the silk bonnet that barely stays on your head and Paul watches. There's little else he could do now that he was nursing a bloodied nose.
Paul doesn't know what's more pitiful, the fact that you still call for your monster of a father in this state or the fact that you got a hit on him. He hates the thought the moment it crosses his mind — he is being mean again, he knows it's not you. Not really, he had caught the wild, dazed look in your eyes before you swung on him and honestly should have known better. You were having a night terror, he had been near your room the moment you screamed, entered only second to Lyra who seemed surprised to see you having one.
“It’s never this bad.” She had said, her eyes wide and her hands shaking. She had wanted to run to you instantly but this was— you had screamed as if you were being torn apart from the inside out and Paul knew he had to be the one to wake you, especially when you began to scratch at your chest and arms.
Finally, you had quieted. Your sobs turned into hiccups that tampered out to sniffles. Lyra holds you till you stop shaking and only pulls away when Paul calls to her, “You need to fetch a doctor.” He says and when she doesn't move, he uses what Duncan calls his princely voice, “Fetch them all if you need to, wake my father if you must. I'll stay with Lady Balliol.”
Still, she hesitates but one look at his face she disappears from the room. Paul waits a moment, then two as he wipes his nose, “You hit like a soldier.” He says it more to the air than to you but you respond all the same, forcing yourself to stand— using your bed as support.
“I was a soldier.” You mutter, “I was his weakest but I was trained.” Paul moves closer to you, his arms outstretched as if to help you climb back into bed but you curl away from his hands and his help and pull yourself back up on your own. The effort has you sweating and when you swallow, your throat burns faintly. Your hand shakes as you rub your throat and Paul sniffles from the spot near the door and the reminder that you struck the prince has your heart tripping over itself. “I’m–”
“If you apologize, I'll actually scream.” Paul says, his voice flat. “You have nothing to apologize for. I shook you awake during a night terror, of course you hit me.”
You fall silent, blinking at him owlishly. “But you're bleeding.”
“I doubt it'd be the last time I'll bleed.” Paul says, he smiles and it is small, “But if you want to get even, you can always tell me what you were dreaming about.”
Your eyes dart to the chair near the bed and you think of your father, of the creature he became and how it tried to kill you. You swallow and this time, you can't hide the wince it pulls from you, “It is nothing good.”
“Well, I suppose that's expected. You were dreaming of your father weren't you?”
You frown at him and Paul finds himself amused with how you bristle. You are nothing more than skin and bones but your hackles rise and he nearly expects you to hiss at him, instead you pull your blanket on to you, a barrier to separate yourself from him. “Why ask a question you already knew?”
“To see if you'd tell the truth,” He says, shrugging. “To see if you were lucid. It's nice to see that you are.”
You pull a face and it's almost so delicately confused, Paul nearly cooes at you. He missed this, missed coming to your room and having to argue his way into a conversation with you, he missed the you that despised him for who he was and what he represented. He draws closer to you and you don't budge from your spot on your bed, eyes following his every movement, almost unnervingly alert. He sits in the same chair your father sat in your dream and his is smaller, kinder as he finally breaks eye contact— looking away to grab tissue for his bloody hands. “Where’s Lyra?”
“Getting your doctors or my father.” Paul answers, “Why did the dream of your father scare you so much?”
Your lips purse as you look at Paul. He's still not looking at you, he's wiping fruitlessly at his hands. The blood smears but does not remove. You reach for your basin of warm water and grab a rag and when you hold a hand out, Paul's head snaps up almost automatically, “What do you–”
“Give me your hands.” You interrupt.
Paul hesitates before shrugging— what harm would you truly cause now that you're lucid? The only violence you craved when your mind was still was your own death. He gives you his hands and frowns when you begin to wipe them, you free his hands from his blood and in turn, you stain yours. Your hands shake as you pass over each knuckle and when his hands are clean, you reach out to his face— your eyes lock and Paul sees a girl. But not a scared one, you meet his eyes with a frown before they flicker down to the mess that is his nose and he watches you twitch at the sight of his blood. Your lip wobbles and Paul thinks you are about to ask permission to touch his face but he flinches when the cool rag touches his face.
You are gentle and he finds himself leaning into your hands as you wipe away the blood, another hand cupping his face gently to hold him steady as you do so.
Paul thinks you are disgustingly soft. Too soft to be a soldier, too soft to be the daughter of some deranged commander. He has only known you for a handful of weeks, nearly three months and he sees why you rot. You are too soft and it allows infection to dig its way into your flesh, you are being kept captive— a statement you had said plainly a hundred times over and you wipe at his face like he is fragile and that he is the one who had the nightmare.
Paul will miss you when you die, he thinks. He'll miss the arguments, the fights, the drug induced rants and most of all, he'll miss your softness.
It is a thought that has him yanking away from you. His stomach turns and he swallows back the sickness that creeps up his throat. You won't die, he forces the thought into his head, through the darkness that seeps into his mind— he isn't sure when it formed but he clears it as fast as he can. He promised you a cure, a long life and maybe, one day, when he is King– he'd pardon you. You couldn't die because he had plans for you, beyond you unsealing records of your family. Your softness, he realizes, must be contagious.
It's what's making him all gooey and twisty inside. It makes his cold heart melt and he forces himself to stand straight, his hands that are twitching, clenching and unclenching are forced behind his back as he clears his throat. He ignores how you frown at his reaction just as he ignores his urge to apologize. “Your dream?”
The rag feels heavy in your hands, and you twist it— wiping your knuckles clean. “It wasn't my father,” You say but your voice cracks as you drop the rag. “At least, not at the end.”
“Meaning?”
You blink at him, annoyed. “Meaning it was just a nightmare, my Prince. Not the key to the universe.”
Paul smiles like he knows something you don't, his eyes twinkling, “I find dreams to be forthcoming about future events. Maybe your dream is warning you?” You frown, a hand going to your neck and you flinch when you find the skin is raw. Paul frowns and takes several steps closer to you, bending at his knee, “Let me see.”
You hesitate but drop your hand and hiss when Paul's cool, prodding fingers brush over the flesh but he hushes you with a grimace. You try to pull back nervously but Paul follows your movement, standing and nearly climbing on top of you, “Paul, what are you–”
“These are burns.” He says, mystified. His touch is still gentle and it makes you shiver. “How in the world did you–”
King Leto clears his throat. Both of your eyes snap to him and the man is all but fighting a grin as your doctors linger just behind him, their eyes turned politely upwards. The sight they're greeted with is no doubt… scandalous, you are sure. The prince is all but straddling you, his hand while on your neck— are more caressing than choking or grabbing, his other hand is on your shoulder, keeping you steady. If you moved your head down or if the Prince moved his up, you’d be face to face and that thought has you instantly leaning away. You try to scramble from the bed— the King is before you and the proper etiquette is to bow before him but Paul keeps you to the bed, pushing you back when you try to get up.
“What are you doing?” He hisses, he shifts and his feet meet the ground again but he keeps his hands on your shoulders therefore keeping you planted on your bed. “Stop moving, you're injured.”
You swat at his hands, urging him to let go but Paul only bares his teeth in annoyance, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shift. “I need to bow–”
“You do not.”
“Your father is The King-!”
“And I am the Prince and I've yet to see you on your knees before me.” Paul snaps. Leto snorts and Paul feels himself flush red once he realizes what he's said but it seems to go over your head as you turn in his hold, Paul looks down, confused at your sudden silence but your hands sudden lash upwards, fingers tickling under his arm and Paul barks out a sharp laugh and bows away from you out of instinct. King Leto watches this unfold with wide eyes, his mouth opening then closing as you push yourself out of bed, ignoring Paul's glaring as you drop into a near perfect curtsy before him.
“Your Majesty.” You greet before you wobble just barely. Leto is quick to greet you back, his voice warm as he grasps your hand and pulls you from the curtsy. He's smiling but it drops once he gets a good look at you. His eyes flicker to Paul who stands only a step behind you, his arms clenched to his sides then to the room around you.
“There are no candles in here.” He says. Your brow dips in confusion but Paul takes a step forward, his voice low.
“Nothing in here can hold a flame. Nothing in here should burn. ” Paul says, he takes another step forward and this time his voice is worried, “Her medicine is not–”
King Leto’s snap to him, a frown forming. “Enough. It is not your place-”
Your hand twitches in Leto's grip and it makes him look at you— makes him realize that his hand is still linked with yours. You're frowning at the King and he blinks, surprised that you're showing him a negative emotion for once. He has only seen you witty and docile, you had sly tongue, yes. But you've only ever used it to plead for a quicker death, so to see this directed at him, it makes him pause and it's enough of an opening for you to speak, “Actually,” You start, your voice strong. “I would feel better if it was Paul's–”
Paul clears his throat. You blink, eyes flying to him and his eyebrows are raised and you stutter, face warm as you correct yourself, “I would feel better if it was the Prince’s place, Your Majesty.”
Leto drops your hand, his eyes flickering between you and his son with an odd look. The both of you are shoulder to shoulder, nearly pressed against each other and Paul shifts closer to you when his father lets go of your hand, as if bracing himself to catch your weight if you were to fall. Closer than strangers should be but neither of you shy away from each other, in fact,his son preens— his shoulders rolled back to stand straight, a smirk twitching at his lips. They make eye contact and it drops but Leto frowns. “Explain.”
“You all want me alive, yes?” Leto nods his head and you continue. “Well, with all due respect to you and the doctors– you're doing a horrible job at it. The Prince has been the only one keeping track of the side effects with each dose and if I'm being frank, he is the only reason I know what day it is. Sure, the new variant is keeping my heart beating but I don't– I don't remember anything, I am sure I'm losing taste and I keep having horrible nightmares and now there are burns manifesting on my skin.”
“The Prince has made it mission to see me every day and speak to me even when I'm choking on my own spit and asking bizarre questions. He sits and talks to me and it is the only interaction I have outside of Lyra, The Doctors and the rare visit from you, Your Majesty. You want me living but this isn't– Keeping me locked away in a little room is not that.”
The room is silent, Leto looking away deep in thought, his lips twitching. He can see why his son likes you— Paul had made the same argument but Leto had only brushed him off as a boy with a crush. He takes a breath and then— “Alright.”
Paul speaks first. “Alright..?”
“Your lady has spoken and it'd be remiss of me not to listen.” Leto says and he ignores Paul's huff. “The Prince will have a say in your health— in your medicine, that is. And you, Lady Balliol, may have your freedom.”
You make a face. “I always had my freedom. You said I did.”
“You do.” He agrees. “But I permit you to walk the halls, the garden— by the void, go horseback riding if you can muster the energy but I only have one condition.”
You look at him but the King is only looking at his son. “You are to be at her side and if you can not, you will be in charge of finding a suitable replacement. Is that understood?”
Paul looks at you from the corner of his eye then quickly away. “Of course.”
Leto nods. “Good, that starts tomorrow. Now leave us.”
The room snaps into motion at the Prince's dismal and suddenly Paul is on the other side of the room, being guided at the door by his father while the doctor's prod at your skin and usher you back to bed. Lyra loiters in the corner of the room but you don't look at her, instead you keep your eyes on Paul and he gives you one sharp nod before the door is closed.
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Paul took to his new orders like a fish took to water.
For the next week, he's at your door— prim, proper, with his hair curled and dressed comfortably. You had been in a much worse state, your neck wrapped to your ears in bandages, your eyes were bleary and your mouth had been thick as if filled with sand but every morning Lyra had dressed you in a cute dress that didn't reach your ankles in fear you'd somehow trip down stairs. Paul would always look you over, his lips would quirked up and say,“You’re beautiful.”
You had bare your teeth at him each and every time and he'd chuckled, unfazed by your intimidation. “You jest.”
Paul would look away but still offer his arm to you and you'd take it easily, stumbling into a steady pace with him. “I would not joke about one's beauty.” he'd say as he turned a corner, he would stop and let you look at the paintings on the wall. He'd bite back any cruel comment he'd spit in other situations and watch with a small grin as you took in every detail. “Would you rather I called you hideous?”
“I would rather us walk in silence.”
The second week, The Prince did just that much to your annoyance. Though, this time your trips were no longer in the castles but the endless courtyards and gardens. He'd offer you his arm, his lips sealed yet drawn in a tight smile that only grew when you'd turn to him and ask him questions of the statues or plants or ask him what he had for breakfast. The Prince would look at you, his lips unmoving but head tilted— he was teasing you, you realized. You had asked for silence and he granted easily knowing you'd soon ask him to help you fill it. Not willing to beg for him to speak to you, you had turned to childish tactics— you had tickled the Prince when he refused to answer your questions, chased him around the ground when he tried to escape your hands and threatened to tickle him more if he kept to his silence.
By the third week, you realize your Prince was a chatterbox. He'd talk about anything if you let him and you did— Lyra looked almost bored as she stood behind you watching as Paul ranted about the side effects of a new variant they wanted to introduce you to. The three of you had been nestled in one of the gardens, Paul had wanted to teach you chess but when he saw what a poor student you were, he simply gave up and allowed you to move the pieces mindlessly around the board.
“And get this– one side effect was urinating blood.” Paul threw his hand up then he glanced down at the board and moved a piece at random. “You would not believe how hard I had to fight to keep that out of the equation.”
You shoved his piece with your own, knocking it off the board but Paul caught it before it could hit the ground. “You should have let me try it, at least. Maybe it's the cure.”
Paul shot you a withering look, “It would have shut down your kidneys.”
You had met it with a sarcastic grin, “Oh, yay.”
The fourth week doesn't start the same. Paul isn't there to greet you in the morning and you try to swallow back your disappointment as Lyra helps you undress to get more comfortable. Once that's done, you dismiss her with a wave of your hand, you ignore her gentle concern and tell her you only mean to stay in bed for the day. You have spent weeks on your feet, you confide in her and while it is fun, you are tired. She leaves with little fuss, pressing a kiss to your hairline and promises she'll be back before lunch. You watch her go with a smile before you turn to your window.
Nothing says freedom like a room with a barred window but you know better than to take it to heart. You had spent the first few weeks begging for your death and now some still feared if they left you alone long enough, you'd throw yourself from the window. You had thought to do so once but now you just stare, watching with a small frown.
Distantly, waves roll and crash against the beach, dragging out sand for a moment only to push back new sand in its place. Seagulls squawk as they take flight, sparrows flitter about, sometimes a few land on your windowsill peering past the bars and meeting your gaze before taking flight once more. Distantly, there are servants of all ages and genders bustling about the castle, you can hear them talk, hear them laugh, you hear them living.
It is a strange thing to realize, that everyone, everything, is living in some way. That even the sand and waves will have someone who will look back on it fondly. That the people outside your room have family, friends, and legacies to carry their memories. It is strange not having that to yourself— with your father and his closest supporters dead, who will remember you kindly? Your maid and her silly stories? Your brother? The thought had your eyes watering, your brother was everything to you— he had allowed you to feel like a child when everyone else had treated you like an experiment, you remember his smile, his hugs and how he frowned when you coughed. It is with kindness, you hope the Royal family tells him you are dead.
Paul had told you he was safe, far away on a planet where hurt and sickness was unimaginable. You hope with him free of you, of your father, he worries for nothing and sleeps all day in the sun.
You turn in your bed, pulling your blanket high as you sniffle. Your mind races when there's nothing to occupy it and you find your thoughts settling on your Prince. You wonder how he'd remember you when you were gone— if he remembered you at all. Surely, your memory would get washed out by grander things, his coronation, the first day the crown sits on his head and he's referred to as a King. You try to picture it, him dressed in greens and gold, a beautiful lady on his arm— his Queen, your mind supplies and it has your mood souring even more.
The universe had cursed you. A sickness that could not be cured, it was shutting down your body even with the countless medications Paul makes you try. The void haunts you, a sickly little crush that clings to your skin and tears through flesh whenever you and Paul spend time together. You two have grown close— impossibly so. It was rare to see you not on his arm, you not poking at his sides, it was rare to see him not looking after you. His warm eyes trailing after you as you talked to Duncan or some other guard, your mind wanders and you wonder when the line had become so blurred between you two, you wonder when his absence began to hurt so much.
You are so lost in thought, you don't hear Paul enter the room. He crouches, his eyes meeting yours as his hand reaches out, he feels your temperature and frowns when finds you warm. “Are you okay?”
You blink at him, squinting through your lashes. “You’re late.”
Paul hums softly. “I am, I'm sorry.” His hand moves down, caressing the side of your face. This is also new; the touching. He's always doing it now, linking fingers or fixing stray baby hairs. “Have you waited long?”
You lean into his touch, a sigh leaving your lips. Paul is cool against your heat and your heart slows when he doesn't pull away. “I didn't wait at all.” He runs a thumb over your cheek and smears a tear into your skin, “Don’t be so full of yourself, Paul.”
“I’m sorry.” He says again, his voice is soft. He's still rubbing drying tears into your cheek and he opens his mouth again and you let out a tired breath.
“Paul, if you say sorry again, I'll shut you up myself.”
Paul's thumb freezes and it makes your eyes open, “Will you?” He murmurs but he's smiling at the familiarity of your words. His thumb starts its pattern again, “Is that a threat or a promise, Balliol?”
When you only stare at him, your eyes narrowing, he swallows. “I’m s-”
Paul's lips are soft. Softer than yours and that has you pulling away just as fast as you kissed him but you are not prepared for Paul to follow your lips with a sharp breath, his hand on your face curling to keep you close. He turns your soft kiss, hungry, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip as he gently leads you back against your bed. Paul doesn't break the kiss as he crawls on top of you and though he is gentle, the pressure makes you gasp and Paul slips his tongue into your mouth. The feeling has you squirming under him, you've only been kissed once and that was only a peck before the guard you convinced to do so felt bad and scampered off— you're new to this, to making out and kissing with tongue and Paul doesn't seem to mind, you're a little lost on what to do but you suck on the tongue that Paul swirls around your mouth, you're awarded a soft moan that has you heating up.
To say Paul was guiding you would be a stretch— Paul was only kissing you, pressing into your body and knocking knees until he fit close to you. He's careful with his weight, with how he moves himself but he's only kissing you, he won't stop kissing you. Even when you break from his lips with a small whimper, his lips only move down to your chin then your neck, his tongue swirling across your healed scars and when he nips, a small moan bubbles from your lips, your hands clenching at the fabric on his chest. Paul pulls away from you and he looks ruined, his face is flushed red, his hair is wind whipped and his lips as pink as they are swollen, glossed with your shared spit and he licks his lips as if your taste doesn't bother him. His lashes are fluttering with each breath, his chest heaving, “We must stop.”
The noise you make is tortured, your fingers tightening on his shirt. “We mustn't.”
One of Paul's hands clasps over yours and he presses your palms flat against his thundering heart, “We must,” He says again but he's still looking at you like he wants to swallow you whole, he's still on top of you. “You are sick.”
Your hands pull at Paul's shirt and he goes easily, “It’s not contagious.”
Paul breathes a soft laugh and rewards you with a kiss to your nose. He shifts and he's in between your legs, pulling your leg up to wrap around his waist. “You’re warm.” He tries.
Using your leg, you draw him closer. “I wish it were warmer.”
“My clever, darling girl.” He murmurs before kissing you again. You smile into the kiss, gasping when your Prince rolls his hips forward and it is a pleasure that you've never known before. Your hips buck to chase the fleeting pleasure, a whine leaving your lips. “Yeah?” Paul mumbles into the kiss, he stops his hips for only a moment before pressing deeper, his clothed dick grinding against your core, “You like that?”
You nod, face flushed and heart pounding as Paul grins and goes for a deeper kiss—
Lyra knocks twice against the door frame and Paul is slow to pull away, he sighs against your lips and runs a thumb over your warm cheeks. “Go away.” He orders but Lyra doesn't so much as move from the door.
“Time for her medicine and her lunch.” Lyra says her voice stern. “A lunch she is meant to have with the entirety of the royal family.”
“We can reschedule it.” Paul says but he's already climbing off of you and you're shaking in his absence— this is embarrassing but Paul acts like it's any other day. You refuse to look at Lyra even when she makes her way to you, clicking her tongue.
“I have a daughter around your age too.” She sniffs, settling the tray over your knees. Your attention goes from the wall to your medicine, the many needles and pills on the tray. “It is not the first time I've seen something like that. Expected better from the prince though.”
Paul's face is pink once more. “She kissed me first.”
You shoot him an offended look and he instantly apologizes, hands thrown up and Lyra laughs, disinfecting your arm. “That’s even worse. Making her do all the hard work.” She preps the needle. “Please go and clean up, Your Majesty. You look… disheveled.”
Paul wrestles a hand through his hair the moment she says it, his tongue darting over his lips. “Right.” He says, he smiles at you and takes a step forward, bends and pecks you on the lips. “I’ll see you soon, Balliol.”
You are left gaping as your Prince all but skips from the room and Lyra lets out a soft laugh. “Do brace yourself, my lady. You have opened a door I fear you can not close– here, don't tense your arm.” She pulls your arm straight, the needle presses against your skin and it breaks. It snaps and Lyra flinches back as it flies to the floor. She pulls your arm closer, her breath hitching. “My lady–”
The blood that leaves your arm is boiling. Bubbling and so dark, it's nearly black. You are so very warm but this— even as the blood leaks from your arm, you do not feel pain. Why do you not feel pain? “Well,” You mumble, watching as your blood stains your sheets. “No closing this door.”
Lyra lets out a near hysterical laugh.
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finelinevogue · 14 days
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timothée chalamet masterlist
*•.,’•*•.,’•*•.,’•*•.,’•*•.,’•*•.,’•*
✨ timothée chalamet:
🌙 paul atreides:
love isn’t weakness - paul helps you see love isn’t a weakness
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Note
T’s characters reacting to you telling him you’re pregnant HC? 🩷
Paul
If you are in a committed relationship with Paul. He is excited but anxious when you tell him.
"You are with child?" He would ask pulling you close and away from everyone else. "Are you positive?" The excitement was heavy in his eyes but the anxiety bleed through his tone.
When you nod he would take you into his arms and bury his head in your shoulder, whispering he will protect you both.
Laurie
"PREGNANT? WE ARE PREGNANT?" He would shout over and over in disbelief.
From the moment you two married he had been thinking of baby names. He wants a large family with you and wanted to start right away.
Laurie would pick you up and spin you around, laughing and crying. "I love and I love our little baby first of many." He said kissing you repeatedly.
Hal
You tell Hal in the morning as you both are getting ready for the day. It's one of the only time you two are alone.
"A baby? A little princess is growing within my queen?" He would say with a smile placing his hands on your waist.
He knew he would have to have children one day. But he didn't expect the emotions that hit him. "Words can not express how I am feeling knowing we are going to have a child."
He would drop to his knees and kiss your stomach and swearing his loyalty, love, and protection to your little family.
Lee
Lee is in a panic. He worried about the child being like him. The lack of stability in your lives. He is spiraling and in the worst move ever, he leaves.
He is only gone for 5 minutes before he is running back to your apartment and dropping to the ground and begging for forgiveness. He is expressing all his fears and emotions but he loves you and he wants everything with you.
"I'm scared but nothing makes me feel safer than when I'm with you. Together we can get through anything. I hope our baby has your big heart.
He picks you up and lie you on the bed and couple with you all night, rubbing your stomach and brainstorming your next move.
Wonka
You have to tell him twice. The first time his mind is a bit in the clouds, but the second time he is frozen for half a second and then he is running around the room.
He grabs you and he dancing around the room. "A little gum drop of our own? A little baby Ruth that is half you and me?" He is in disbelief and he's kissing you passionately and tear both of your clothes off just needed to be with you.
After having sex, he would gather you in his arms and kiss the crown of your head. "Making this child with you is my greatest creation."
Kyle
"Is it mine?" Is the first thing out of his stupid mouth. He means it as a joke, but his dry tone has you hitting his shoulder and leaving.
He doesn't move for a while. 100 percent sure you are coming back and know he is joking.
When you don't, he is grabbing his bass and running after you. He tries to play it cool and play it off. Asking if you know if you are having a boy or girl.
When that doesn't work, he starts playing a song he wrote about how much he loves you. He expresses how bad he is with his emotions but he is happy because you make him happy.
"We have to get a eat the rich onesie" he would say grabbing your hand and squeezing it.
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thewordypeach · 1 year
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Cherry Waves
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Cherry Waves
pairing: Paul Atreides x fem!reader word count: 9.2k warnings: fluffy smut. virginity. oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, vague mention of dom/sub, breeding kink?!?!?, etc. chubby reader, no use of y/n (however your name is daisy lol) summary: you consummate the arranged marriage to your new husband, paul atreides. author's note: this is my second story that i am posting! i've been working on this one for awhile now... absolutely adore Paul Atreides and Dune. watched both movies like 5 times and just finished up the book! waiting for the next one from the library :) also Timothée's hair in this film is just ungodly and totally unfair - like i don't know if i want to be his hair or have it?? anyways, it's fluff with smut or smut with fluff??? its cute and dirty. that is all. thank you for reading!!!!! addendum: 05/04/23 - this is picking up reads because of Dune 2 promo and i just wanted to let you know that it's poorly edited, and a sequel will be coming soon.
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For the first time since you landed on Caladan, the rain has finally stopped. And for the first time since you arrived, you are completely alone with him. Your husband. You haven’t spoken more than two words to him; you’ve been nothing but frightened for the last week, afraid of your new life on this new planet. You know you are going to have to accept this new life because you have no other choice. The other thing you are going to have to accept is him. 
Paul Atreides. 
You watch as he kneels before a delicate blossom, eyes fixed upon the intricate folds and hues of its magenta petals. His once sharp features have softened, the angles smoothed into an expression of wonder and reverence. You’ve seen this look of his before but can’t seem to place it. His slender fingers reach out and touch the velvety surface of the flower as if he were under its spell. His dark hair, wild and unkept, falls in loose waves around his face. 
While you can’t help but notice how breathtakingly handsome Paul is, it’s not his looks that initially drew you in, but rather it is his quiet intensity that captivated your attention. He turns and his green orbs take a quick scan of you. His eyes have always held a depth of knowledge and experience far beyond his years, and even now as he observes you, he knows something you don’t. 
“The flowers on Caladan are a wonder to behold,” He says tepidly, almost as if he’s afraid of scaring you away. He knows you’ve been on edge the last few days, practically jumping out of your skin every time he speaks to you. He straightens, his lean frame moving gracefully as he strides toward you. “Each one is so unique, with its own fragrance and beauty. Some are delicate and sweet, like the jasmine that grows near the waterfalls, while others are bold and robust, like the wild roses that climb the cliffs.” 
You are frozen in place, knees trembling beneath your skirt. Paul stops when he is in front of you, his body mere inches away. Those eyes of his, perfectly green like the forest that surrounds the two of you, sparkle with reverence. He’s been in disbelief at how strikingly beautiful you are and how you don’t even realize it. The thought of you not knowing your strength or beauty brings a sadness to him that he can’t shake; it brings forth a determination to help you see and understand your true worth.
Gently, he raises his hand and touches a finger to your temple, sweeping away a piece of black hair. Underneath the light, the strands of hair shimmer with a blue hue.  He moves his attention back to your face, “Caladan didn’t have daisies until you,” 
When it comes to you, Paul can’t help but be tender. He knows you’ve been through so much. He sees the turmoil etched upon your face; Paul is afraid your sadness and fright will be permanent, and he does not want to go forward if you are intimidated by him. The corners of his lips pull down, shaking as he confronts you, “I… I know that you are scared of me, Daisy,”
Your throat tightens. You aren’t scared of Paul but rather, you are scared of what lies ahead in your future with him. He’s the son of Duke Leto Atreides; Paul has responsibilities that you never dreamed of. Folding your arms around your body, you swallow dryly and think of what to say with careful consideration because you can tell that Paul is growing frustrated with your lack of reciprocity.
“My lord,” The way you regard him by his formal title makes his chest constrict. He does not want such formalities when it’s just the two of you but he bites back the urge to correct you. He impatiently awaits the rest of your words. Your eyes cast downward, afraid to look him in the eye as you confess, “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of the responsibilities that come with being your wife. I do not want to burden House Atreides.”
Concern floods Paul’s face and he is quick to shake his head. His brow knits together and he rushes to speak, the words tumbling out before he can think about what he’s saying, “Daisy, you need to understand that I didn’t choose this life either -”
He stops and inhales deeply to calm himself. Paul takes a step closer and the gap between your bodies narrows. Immediately, you can’t help but notice how his scent is a tantalizing combination of rain and a woody floral. It makes you think of safety. Paul drops his voice to a whisper, “I have responsibilities to House Atreides that I can’t simply ignore. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you or that I won’t do everything in my power to protect you.” 
“You don’t even know me,” Your voice shakes with emotion. This isn’t how you address nobility but damn Paul’s title. His status brings forth an apprehension that claws inside your already rattled heart. You have known each other for less than ten days and yet here he is, declaring protection with everything he has. However, despite his best effort you still feel like a burden. He’s too young to feel like this - he has his entire life ahead of him and now? He has a wife to take care of. Your eyes snap up and you breathe out, “You shouldn’t have to deal with this, any of this…”
Paul studies your face, sensing your doubts and your burdens. Your eyes remain clouded with fear and melancholy. Oh, how Paul yearns to alleviate your concerns and set your mind at ease, but he feels helpless in doing so. His father never taught him how to be a loving husband; Paul is only schooled in politics and the responsibilities of a Duke. Navigating the complexity of matrimony has never been part of his training.
“I understand that this might be difficult for you to understand,” He cups your face and caresses your cheek with his thumb. Paul realizes this is the most affectionate he’s ever been with someone and it breaks his heart knowing this is the first time you are on the receiving end. He silently vows to give you all the love he has. As he speaks, warmth radiates off his words, “You are not a burden, and you will never be a burden to me because we are in this together, Daisy. You are my family now. I promise we will figure this out, together.”
Tears swell in your eyes, “I’m sorry, m’lord -”
“Daisy,” He sharply cuts you off, “You don’t have to apologize - none of this is your fault, okay?”
Paul leans his forehead against yours, “We are a team now. You are my wife and I will do everything I can to protect you.”
You close your eyes, letting the tears fall down your cheeks. Paul is quick to wipe them away and much to your surprise, he kisses each of your eyelids. Your hands cling to his waist, suddenly desperate to keep him close. Paul notices the change and feels your urgency as if you are afraid of him slipping away. He responds by planting butterfly kisses on every inch of skin he can reach. More tears crash down and Paul sweeps them away. You can’t help but giggle at the valiant effort that your husband is making to make you feel better. 
The sound of your giggle makes Paul giddy and it causes his stomach to flip. He’s never felt like this before. His lips stretch into a smile as he continues to assault your beautiful face with endless amounts of affection. Paul stops for a brief moment, pulling away to see how your face has brightened. You look like sunshine now and it leaves him breathless.
Your eyes flutter open, wanting to see why your husband has stopped. Paul is peering at you with so much love and admiration that it makes your breath hitch inside your chest. You have never felt so safe and so adored. A look flickers across his verdant eyes and before you can say anything, Paul captures your lips with his.
Technically, this is not the first time he has kissed you but this kiss is exceptionally better than the one you were forced to share at the ceremony. This kiss felt natural and it felt right. There is a certain innocence to how he is applying soft pressure against your lips. Almost as if he’s afraid of breaking you. You want more, no, you need more. You can’t get enough and truth be told, neither can Paul. A desire ignites inside him and his stomach coils as something stirs inside his pants -
“Paul!”
The interruption causes you to jump but for Paul, the interruption of Gurney Halleck angers him. You are blushing at being caught in a compromising position, hiding your face against Paul’s chest as the future Duke turns to the weapon teacher. Annoyed, Paul scowls at the smirk on Gurney’s face. Gurney didn’t think Paul had it in him because truthfully, Gurney didn’t support the arranged marriage; he had his own misgivings and predictions about you. But upon seeing this revelation, Gurney’s opinion swiftly changed.
“My apologies for the interruption,” Gurney clears his throat, “My lord, may I remind you that your weapon’s master doesn’t like to be kept waiting…”
Paul glares at Gurney before turning his attention back to you, his face softening into that of a lovesick puppy. Your face is still pressing into his chest. Gently, he lifts your head and sweetly kisses your cheek, murmuring, “I will see you later, okay?”
Unwillingly, Paul tears himself away from you and stalks toward Gurney who is patiently waiting by the edge of the garden. Gurney, having known Paul since he was a wee little one, chuckles at the bulge in the young master’s pants. When Paul is close enough, Gurney leans over and mutters, “May I suggest a cold shower before training?” 
Paul’s face turns bright red upon realizing what Gurney is talking about.
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Throughout weapon training, Paul is distracted. His thoughts are consumed by you. Gurney notices and finds himself pushing the young boy harder, and harder. Paul mustn’t give in to thoughts of temptation. Gurney barks order after order, hitting Paul over and over until the boy is on the ground, huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his face. 
A look of determination etches upon Paul’s face as he lifts himself from the ground, swinging his blade around and glaring at Gurney. Paul is about to lunge at his weapon’s trainer but Gurney makes the quick decision to draw the session to a close because it’s clear, they won’t get much farther than this. 
“Paul,” Gurney orders, raising his hand for the boy to halt, “That’s enough for today,”
“I’m not done yet,” Paul hisses, clutching the handle of his blade. He eyes as Gurney walks over to the table of weapons and begins to clean them, buffing the blade until it shines.
“Your skills are improving Paul,” Gurney says gruffly, “But there’s something else you need to learn if you want to be a good husband,” 
Paul looks at Gurney with a quizzical look, unsure of how being a husband has anything to do with a training session. The young master huffs, “What are you talking about, Gurney?” 
“What I mean, boy, is that being a good husband takes more than just sword skills,” Gurney replies, his tone serious. “You need to have control over your thoughts.”
Paul blushes, had it really been that obvious? He sheepishly admits, “I… I guess I was a bit distracted...”
“A bit?” Gurney guffaws, throwing his head back. Paul’s naivety is something else. He presses, “You spent two hours thinking of your wife - this type of distraction is unacceptable, young master Paul. What are you going to do when an enemy has overpowered you?”
“I have my shield -” Gurney is swift to penetrate the forcefield of an unsuspecting Paul. The defence shield vibrates at the intrusion causing Paul to stumble, his green eyes snap to his waist where the blade is hovering above his sweat-soaked shirt. Paul lets out a sigh of frustration, feeling like he has not only let himself down but Gurney as well.
Gurney scorns, “How many times have I told you? The defence shield is only -”
“As good as the person wielding the sword,” Paul finishes Gurney’s sentence. Gurney ignores Paul and continues with his speech, “Even the most powerful shield can be breached by a skilled warrior and no matter how advanced or sophisticated your shield technology is, if you can’t properly use your sword, you are vulnerable to an attack.”
Gurney sheathed his blade, eyeing Paul who looks defeated. Gurney lets out a exhale, “Paul, marriage is a lot like weapon training. You have to be willing to put in the work, to learn and grow together, and to be there for each other through thick and thin.”
Paul turns off his defence shield and runs his finger along the edge of the blade, fascinated by the vulnerability - one wrong move and he could cut himself, and bleed to death. Suddenly, the weight of being a husband falls on his shoulders and he thinks about the promise he made to protect you. He's liable for another person now and he wonders if he's even ready for the responsibility of having a wife. The young master mutters, “What happens if I can’t keep my promise of protecting her?”
Gurney furrows his brow and gives Paul a stern look, “Then you’ll have failed not only her, but yourself as well,” he says firmly, “A true warrior doesn’t waste time worrying about the what-ifs. Instead, focus on the task at hand and what you can do to prevent it. Train harder, study your enemy, and always be one step ahead. The best way to protect her is to be prepared for anything that comes your way and that means forcing yourself not to think frivolous thoughts about her,”
Paul grimly nods but Gurney sees the young boy hasn’t been convinced yet. Gurney feels for him; this is new territory and Paul has yet to find the best way to navigate it. Gurney continues, “As for your wife, you cannot be with her every moment of the day, but you can teach her to be just as skilled with the sword as you are.” 
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Paul hurries down the corridor of his family's castle, trying to get back to you as soon as possible. He is so excited to see your face that his stomach is churning with anticipation. He wants to hold you, touch you, kiss you. You are all he’s been thinking about and he is so close to seeing you again. Paul accelerates around the corner and nearly collides with his father, Duke Leto Atreides. Paul is caught off guard and he stumbles back.
Duke Leto regards his son with a knowing look as if he had been waiting for Paul. Leto watches as Paul straightens himself out, smoothing and adjusting the black tunic with the House of Atreides symbol on his chest. Paul suddenly feels nervous being in the presence of his father, he’s unsure of what to say or do. Paul waits for instruction. 
“Paul,” His father nods. Leto knew that Paul would be in this area of the castle because Gurney had already informed him. In fact, Gurney had also informed the Duke of the kiss that the young master and his lady shared in the garden - Gurney said it wasn’t just any kiss either. It was the kiss; the type of kiss that would’ve certainly led to something more had it not been for Paul’s strict training schedule. 
Leto is amused by his son’s red face which is impatient and restless. The Duke knows that Paul will not disobey his orders and decides his teachings in matrimony couldn't have come at a better time. He offers a smile to Paul, “Relax, son - Gurney told me you’d be here,” 
Paul clears his throat and nods, “Yes, my lord - can I help you with anything?” Paul is dreading the answer and finds himself becoming resentful toward the Duke because now, Paul has been delayed from seeing you. When the Duke gives a curt nod, Paul’s stomach drops - why did he have to be such a fool and ask such a question? 
“Yes, Paul. There is something you could help me with,” the Duke motions for Paul to follow him down the corridor of their castle. As they walk through the dimly lit castle, the glowglobes above them illuminate the towering walls made of rough-hewn gray stone. The Duke’s footsteps reverberate through the long, empty hall, echoing off the walls and filling the silent space. 
Leto thinks about how small Paul used to be and how it seems like it was only yesterday that Paul was running around the castle and playing pretend with all of his imaginary friends. He has grown into a tall, handsome young man but despite all of his training and teachings, Paul still has yet to master his stoicism. Leto notes how Paul's lips are pursed with muted animosity - his son is annoyed with him. The Duke is amused by this; he knows he is yet another barrier keeping Paul from his new wife.
As the Duke regards his son, he realizes that Gurney is right. Paul is completely smitten by you and those verdant eyes of his are pooled with so much love that it spills out. His infatuation with you is written across Paul's face. This is a side of his son that he has never seen before. It pleases him because originally, Leto was resistant to the arranged marriage brought on by the Padishah Emperor who insisted that Paul take one of his daughters from House Corrino.
The Duke knows that this type of look on royalty is frowned upon and that it may be seen as a weakness. But Leto cannot help but feel proud of his son for allowing himself to feel and express intense emotions. In a world where political alliances rule, it is a rare and precious thing to see someone unabashedly show love and affection. Leto thinks of his own reasons for not marrying his concubine, Lady Jessica, and does not wish for Paul to be burdened with the same regrets.
With a sense of determination, the Duke decides to do everything in his power to help Paul build a strong and loving relationship with you. Leto refrains from chastising his son about his open display of affection because he realizes that Paul needs guidance on other matters; matters attaining to the bedroom.
He knows Paul has received the talk about procreation but Leto is about to give his son advice on proper lovemaking. It's a topic he was unwilling to breach but Lady Jessica was insistent that it happens tonight as it's obvious the newlyweds will be consummating the marriage sooner than later; she gave her own advice to you earlier and now, it is the Duke's turn.
He takes a deep breath, carefully selecting his words. He doesn't want to scare Paul and begins imparting his knowledge with a casual statement, “Gurney informed me of your training session,” He pauses when he realizes that Paul isn't paying attention to him. However, the Duke presses on, “Paul, you’re a husband now. You have a wife - a beautiful wife -” 
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Paul interjects rather dreamily as a dazed look crosses his eyes. There he goes again, letting his love spill out. Leto realizes that he'll have to remind Paul about the importance of keeping his emotions in check but for now, it could wait.
"Yes, she is. And now that you're a husband, there are certain things you must do and certain things you must not do," Leto stops and turns to his son, watching as Paul's expression changes to that of confusion. "You are responsible for her happiness, her sadness - your actions will directly affect her well-being."
Paul slowly nods, taking in his father's words. Leto cocks his head to the side, asking, "Son, do you know how to keep your wife happy?"
The young master shakes his head and casts his gaze downward - no, he doesn't know how to keep you happy. And it's been plaguing him all day. It's what kept him distracted during weapon training. But when his father speaks again, it's not the type of advice he was expecting to hear: "Listen very carefully, Paul. I’m going to tell you the secret to keeping your wife happy -" 
Leto glances around, making sure that they were alone and just for added measure, he lowers his voice, “You’re going to kiss her lips, kiss her until you can’t breathe. And your hands, they’re going to touch her. Everywhere. Slowly at first, but with purpose...” 
Paul's face grows hot with discomfort and simply put, he's dumbfounded by these instructions; it takes him a minute to realize that his father is giving advice on foreplay. His cheeks burn crimson. He's hesitant, feeling like a fool for asking such a silly question, “How do I know if she likes it?”
"Oh, you'll know, son … you'll know," His father's eyes darken and it startles Paul. His father inches closer, his voice dropping to an even lower octave, “Your fingers and tongue are tools, they will aid you in making your wife happy."
This advice is the limit of the boundary Leto is willing to cross. He's unwilling to give any more as it is up to his son to learn that not every woman is the same and that what Lady Jessica likes might not be what Lady Daisy likes. Leto also doesn't want to scar his son with his own prowess because what he and Jessica do in their bedroom is none of Paul's business.
But of course, Paul can't help but wonder how his father knows such things and it quickly dawns on the young master that the Duke does these things with Paul’s mother - is this the reason for their happiness? The thought makes him feel uneasy and strange. He never thought sex could have such a profound effect on a relationship but it makes sense. Paul suddenly understands the gravity of his father's advice and the complexity it will bring to his own marriage; ultimately, Paul is frightened yet intrigued by the idea that his tongue and fingers will help him in the pursuit of your happiness.
Paul's brows knit together and he gazes down at his fingers, watching as he repetitively curls and uncurls them. He clarifies, "I can... I use them... on her?"
"Yes, Paul. Use them on your wife - and remember to listen to her. Nonverbal cues are still cues, her sighs and moans will tell you everything you need to know," His father sees Paul struggling to hold back the utter panic and he feels for the young boy who is about to become a man. Leto remembers feeling the same way when it came to bedding Lady Jessica for the first time. He places a reassuring hand on Paul's shoulder and adds: "The most important part is consent, Paul … remember, you have an entire lifetime to spend with her. Don't feel like you need to rush through it all tonight."
Paul nods, his throat tight and dry. The prospect of seeing you makes him anxious, and despite knowing that he desires you with every fibre of his being, he can’t shake off the uneasiness of being a disappointment. What if he can’t please you? What if he can’t perform? Will this make you love him less?
“Breathe, son. Breathe.” The Duke pats his son's shoulder and gives an encouraging smile, “You’ll do fine, Paul. I’ll see that a change is made for your weapon training session tomorrow and I’ll make sure that Gurney Halleck doesn’t bother the happy couple.” 
“Have a nice evening son, and be safe,” with that, Duke Leto Atreides departs, leaving Paul alone in the corridor to ponder on what lies ahead of him tonight.
The young master leans against the cool stone and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. The weight of responsibility and expectations from both his father and his new wife weighs heavily on his conscience. Paul has to remind himself that he loves you and he is willing to do anything to make you happy. 
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The sound of the bedroom door opening startles you. Quickly, you stand. Hands trembling as they smooth out the cream-coloured negligee that adorns your body. It was a gift from Paul’s mother; she gave it to you earlier. It seems that gossip travels around the castle at an alarming rate because not even an hour after you and Paul were seen kissing in the garden, Lady Jessica was pulling you to the side for a little chat because she seems to think that tonight is the night that you finally consummate your marriage.
And she’s right because the moment Paul steps into the room, and closes the door behind him - locking it - you know exactly what is about to happen. Paul stands across from you, eyes blazing at the sight of you, drinking in your body. He’s wearing his usual black tunic. His wavy hair looks even more dishevelled than before. His cheeks are rosy. And once again, his eyes capture you and pull you into those pools of emerald. Every ounce of his love surrounds you and it spreads like wildfire across your body.
You can't believe that Paul Atreides is yours. He's so unbelievably handsome with his aquiline nose, his high-cheek bones, and his slender neck that tapers gracefully into his lean shoulders. He oozes noble lineage and the thought of providing Paul with an heir makes you giddy.
“My lord,” You finally speak. You give a curtsy, bowing your head in the process. Paul cringes; he hates when you call him by his formal title. He despises it. It makes his blood boil. He takes several long strides until he is standing in front of you. Paul places his fingers beneath your chin, lifting your head until your eyes meet his. 
For a moment, you look… frightened. But there’s something else hiding in those russet-coloured eyes of yours. Paul softens, he’s suddenly all too aware that he still has the remnants of distaste written across his face. “Daisy, please… when it’s just the two of us - Just you and me - call me Paul,”
It almost feels like treason disregarding his title but he doesn’t want such formalities with you. Never. Ever. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you nod, "Of course, my -"
You swallow his title and shakily breathe out, "Paul," his name sounds foreign as it leaves your lips. You feel … naughty calling him by his name. You don’t think you’ve ever regarded Paul as such, not even during your marriage vows did you call him just Paul. His name leaves your lips once more, “Paul,” 
The way you say his name makes him smile. He smiles so wide that his teeth make an appearance and the skin by his eyes crinkles with delight. He softly replies, "Daisy,"
You return the smile and your eyes glisten with adoration as you and Paul regard each other with a newfound appreciation as if you're meeting him for the first time. It might as well be since the first few days were tumultuous, filled with uncertainty and a longing to be anywhere that wasn't Caladan. But now, all you want to be is with him. 
Paul can't help himself anymore and gives into temptation, his eyes glancing down at the negligee your body is adorned with. It’s a bit tight and it leaves almost nothing to the imagination; he's able to see the colour of your flesh through the transparent silk. His eyes linger on the imprints of your breasts as they poke through the fabric but what really intrigues Paul is the secret that lies between your thighs. Paul notices the strap of your negligee has started to slip down your shoulder and he reaches up to adjust it, his fingers gently brushing against your collarbone as he does so.
Immediately, he notices that the simple touch has caused goosebumps to explode across the surface of your skin followed by a tinge of red. Paul is fascinated by this change and wonders what other reactions you have in store for him. Meanwhile, you're growing impatient with him. You wish he'd just kiss you already because you miss the feeling of his lips against yours. But he doesn't and unbeknownst to you, Paul is planning to take his sweet time. 
Paul steps back, unbuttoning the top of his tunic. He's never gotten used to the tightness of his uniform and he lets out a sigh of relief. His eyes briefly glance at you standing there. You look annoyed by his actions and this amuses him.
You begin to shift on the balls of your heels, teeth biting into your lower lip as you think ‘patience is a virtue’. Paul has had a long day of weapons training and royal responsibilities. Surely, he is tired. But you have also waited all day for him and waiting a few more minutes sounds torturous - maybe if you ask him to kiss you, he'll listen.
"Please, Paul..." Your voice comes out whinier than intended. You feel embarrassed but it's Paul's reaction to your petulance that makes the pink colour in your cheeks deepen into crimson.
He pauses, a single eyebrow of his raising as his lips lift into a playful smirk. "Please, what, Daisy?"
Paul watches you through those thick, dark eyelashes of his. He waits for your answer and what you're unaware of is that he has enough patience to wait forever. After all, he is the son of a duke. Since birth, he's been taught to endure and persevere. 
“I-I…” You stutter, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the look clouding over in Paul’s verdant eyes. It causes an unfamiliar feeling to stir inside you and your thoughts quickly become a jumbled, incoherent mess. But thankfully, what you can recall is Lady Jessica’s advice: if you can’t tell him, show him. 
Slowly, you walk forward with Paul watching your every move. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the button of his tunic, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement. As you unbutton his tunic, you quietly inquire, “How was your weapons training?”
Your question brings a sense of closeness that you’ve never experienced before. But truth be told, you don’t care about his weapon training. You just think it’ll help speed things up a bit. But Paul is distracted. His gaze lingers on your face; he’s admiring the smattering of freckles that dance along the bridge of your nose. You glance at him and see that his lips are still curved into an adoring smile. It makes your heart swell. 
Paul finally answers your question but his words fall on deaf ears because your mind is distracted by the sight of his lean waist. You find yourself growing envious of his body and begin to feel insecure because there is no denying the fact that your body is fuller than his, your bits fleshy and pudgy. Of course, Paul sees the change in your face and at first, he’s confused. But as he watches your eyes studying his body, particularly his perfectly flat stomach, he realizes what is bothering you. 
"Oh, Daisy..." He coos. His voice breaks through your thoughts and you look at him, puzzled. Paul tilts his head to the side and traces his finger along your rotund jawline. Truth be told, he adores the ampleness of your body. He’s been admiring your curves for days and now, he finally has the opportunity to touch them. Paul is filled with the utmost delight at the prospect of being smothered by you body that’s bigger than his. 
It is this exact thought that unleashes Paul from his restraints and he leans down, capturing your lips with his. You sigh happily and instantly forget about your jealousy. You relish the feeling of his supple lips pressing against yours - finally. He places a hand on the nape of your neck and the other on your hip, fingers digging into your thick flesh. He eagerly presses his body against yours, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
This kiss is different than the one in the garden. It's urgent. Needy. Paul is eager for more and he deepens it by swiping his tongue against your bottom lip. Your mouth opens - you've never been kissed like this before and at first, you're timid. Unsure of what to do. But Paul seems to be just as lost as you are. It doesn't stop either of you from trying.
Time blurs and for several minutes, it's nothing but a kindling mess of trembling hands and soft, wet noises. There is no rhythm and there is no tempo. Paul is sucking your tongue into his mouth and next, you're nipping at his lower lip; he growls when you do so. The growl reverberates through your body and dissolves into a heavy pleasure that presses down into your core. 
Your lungs are desperate for fresh air and reluctantly, you separate. Your chest heaves against Paul’s and you gaze at him, noting how his eyes are still closed, lost in the throes of passion. His lips are swollen, bee-stung. Your lips are swollen too. Paul begins to run his hands up and down your back, his feathery touch tickles and you giggle softly at the sensation. His eyes snap open, verdant eyes flickering with burning desire. 
“Do you want to lie down?” His voice is low-pitched but clear, his intentions are polite and sincere. He'll never stop being a duke even during the most intimate of times. He presses his forehead against yours, patiently waiting for an answer. 
"Yes," Your voice shakes. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. Tension begins to simmer beneath the surface and it causes your throat to dry up, making it difficult to speak. Those pesky nerves have come back and you wish they hadn't because you were having so much fun before -
“Are you okay?” Paul asks lowering your body down first before sliding his body next to yours. Your stomach is violently fluttering and you can only nod in response. You wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.
Paul can just tell by wavering doubt on your face that you’re not okay. He peers at you, his face full of concern. He speaks, “Tell me you’re okay, Daisy,”
You swallow dryly and nod for a second time. Your fingers are gripping his arm because you are afraid that if you let go, he might disappear. It takes you another minute to gather yourself.
“I’m o-okay,” Breathlessly, you repeat, “I’m okay,”
This time it's Paul’s turn to nod. His lips turn into a soft, reassuring smile. He tenderly tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and addresses your concerns, “We don’t have to do this - we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,”
Your heart tumbles over its own rhythm and you quickly shake your head. You want this - you want him. You want him to penetrate you with the bulge that has been steadily growing in his pants. You whisper, “But… but what if I do want it?”
He bites into his growing smile, trying to hide his excitement. He’s thrilled that you feel the same way and he loves hearing you speak. He wishes that you’d do it more and he knows in time that you will. As his father said, Paul has an entire lifetime to spend with you. 
“Make love to me, Paul…” Your confession is quiet. Barely audible. Paul is unsure if he has even heard you but at the sight of your blushing cheeks, he knows that he wasn’t dreaming. You are silently pleading that he feels the way because if he doesn’t, you might just perish from embarrassment. 
Paul pauses to watch the look of yearning etch itself across your face. You start to shift beneath the intensity of his gaze, your eyes dropping down. That’s when Paul feels your hands moving down his body. Your fingers latch onto his trousers, attempting to unbutton them but you’re having trouble, and it’s making you flustered. 
Paul is loving every second of it. He enjoys how your brows have furrowed in concentration and he particularly likes the frustration growing on your face. You bite your lower lip and impatiently huff as you give up. You realize he’s been watching you this entire time and your eyes snap to his. You glare at the coltish expression on his face. Paul finds your exasperation endearing. 
You bury your face into his arm, mumbling, “Paul, make love to me…”
Blood rushes through his body and goes straight down to the bulge straining against his trousers. He loves your wantonness and he wants to hear you beg for it again. He pulls your face away from his skin, eyes devouring you. As he holds your chin between his hands, Paul demands, “Say it again,”
You can’t help but glare again at him. He knows you won’t disobey. You speak, voice clipped with precise ardency, “Paul Atreides, my lord, will you please fuck me?” 
The mixture of his full name and his title sends his blood into a frenzy. If he was already turned on before, then what’s happening to his body now? One thing for sure is that you don’t have to ask again because, within a minute, Paul has hastily thrown off his trousers and he’s now completely naked. 
Your eyes, well… your eyes are instantly locked onto the appendage between your husband’s thighs. Of course, you have seen what a phallus looks like in art and in scientific videos. But in comparison to Paul’s, those examples were tiny and they definitely did not prepare you for the real thing. 
His cock is so engorged and so pink, the tip of it glistening with some sort of secretion. As he moves his body back down to the bed, his cock twitches and bobs. He sees your fascination and watches how you are practically salivating over his well-endowed gift. Your core squirms with anticipation and your thighs involuntarily flex at the thought of him being inside you.
“Do you want to touch it?” His voice is timid, hesitating to request such a thing from his innocent wife but he’s held back long enough. Paul is so sure that he’s going to burst at any second - he watches as you reach out, hand faltering at second thoughts. Paul inhales sharply, “Touch me, Daisy, please…”
When your fingers brush against the tip of his cock, he shudders and his stomach constricts causing his cock to quiver. You quickly look up at him, wondering if you had hurt him but it’s clear you haven’t. He has an intense but dazed look on his face and he’s biting down on his lower lip, restraining himself. Paul is holding himself back and persevering through the pure torture you’re currently putting him through.
You wonder what’ll happen if you firmly grasp his cock, so your hand wraps around his girthy shaft and a throaty groan escapes from deep inside Paul’s body. His reaction pleases you and slowly, you continue to drag your hand down until it rests against the furry tufts on the base of his cock. 
You notice how Paul’s chest is heaving and he’s pressing his body into the mattress, hands gripping the sheets, knuckles almost turning white. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, pleading for more but you’re taking your time, exploring his body, finding ways to incite reactions from him. You know he’s enjoying your hand gliding up and down his cock but what if… what if you were to taste him? You readjust your body so that you’re sitting with your mouth hovering over his cock.
“Daisy, what’re you…” Paul says, his voice deeper than usual. You lick the tip of his cock, tasting the pearly secretion that has been leaking out. Paul gasps, swearing under his breath. You lick his cock again and once more, Paul reacts with a throaty gasp. You’ve overpowered him with one simple move and now he’s yours. It is at this moment that Paul realizes he is supposed to be listening to your sighs and moans but instead, you’re listening to his. 
He watches as you thoroughly lick the tip of his cock. The sensation is immaculate and he’s struggling to remain cool and composed. You aren’t exactly sure what you’re doing but you’re enjoying the smoothness and warmth of his arousal. You seal your lips around him and slowly, very tentatively, lower your mouth down. Paul groans loudly and his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers gripping your hair so that it’s not in the way of his view. 
The sight of you, mouth full of his throbbing cock, practically sends him over the edge. He has to restrain himself by closing his eyes and silently begging that he doesn’t ejaculate - he can’t. Not yet. He’s trying to convince himself that it’s your turn to be pleasured but when his cock hits the back of your throat, you gag and the sound makes him completely forget everything. His eyes snap open, watching as you bring your mouth back up, leaving a trail of spit pooling down his cock. 
“D-Da-Daisy,” Paul sputters out, completely out of breath. You ignore him, dragging both your hands along his quivering cock. He struggles to find his words but when he does, he orders, “Stop,”
He grabs your hands and pulls them off his body. Shocked, you look at him. He looks like a man who has just been to hell and back. His hair is beyond dishevelment, strands of it sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes are wild, his once verdant eyes have been taken over by expanded pupils that have blackened out any colour.  
Before you can ask what you did wrong, Paul is tugging off the negligee and exposing your naked body to him for the first time. His eyes sweep over every nook and cranny, noting every bulge of abundance. He’s taking inventory, marking his favourite areas. He’s particularly drawn to your breasts and how they swell against your chest, gravity pulling down the pillows of dough. They look rather heavy to Paul and he just has to reach up to grasp them. God, they’re so soft and perfect. He’s quick to lower his mouth, latching it onto your perky nipple. The sensation of his tongue swiping over the sensitive bud makes you gasp, “Paul,”
He grins against your skin and can’t help himself, he just has to nibble at the fleshy softness of your chest, which causes you to gasp. Your hand grabs the back of Paul’s head, fingers kneading through his hair, locking him there because your breasts absolutely love the attention. Meanwhile, Paul feels like he is in heaven, sighing happily as little noises continue to escape from your mouth. 
Simply put, he can’t get enough of you. He licks and sucks your breasts as if they were ripe fruits, his tongue sweet and rough against the sensitive flesh. He alternates between too much and not enough, which creates a perplexed feeling between your hips, right in the crest of your crotch. It’s vague, incomplete. You have never felt such a thing before tonight. You flex your thighs, hoping that you can rid yourself of the unnatural feeling. 
With his mouth still attached to your breast, Paul takes his hand and plants it on the inside of your thigh. This movement doesn’t help the unnatural feeling that has been steadily growing and you squirm, hoping Paul doesn’t notice. Of course, he does and he detaches himself to peer at you. He loves how pink and splotchy your cheeks have gotten, and he loves how your eyes have narrowed into a lusty squint. 
Testing you, he drags his fingers upward. His cock throbs at how saturated your thighs have gotten. He doesn’t even think you’re aware of the wetness seeping from your flower and he cups your fuzzy mound, which causes you to squeal in surprise. The sudden intrusion is too much and you’re squirming out of his grasp. Paul is quick and wraps his other arm around your body. He’s strong enough to hold you, keeping you locked against him. 
With his voice barely above a whisper, Paul asks, “Can I?”
You swallow hard. You desperately want him to touch you down there but you’re terrified of what might happen because you heard that unnatural things can occur. Paul senses your worry and feels your hesitation, and immediately takes his hand away - consent is the most important thing. You can’t help but notice how your pussy suddenly feels lonely now…
However, those thoughts are quickly pushed away because Paul pulls your body down with his, your chest colliding with his as he lies underneath you. You feel like you’re crushing him and for a third time, you begin to squirm. 
“Daisy,” His grip tightens. You stop squirming and sheepishly glance up at him. He’s gazing at you, with so much love and adoration, that it makes your breathing hitch inside your throat. Paul whispers, “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
The compliment makes you blush, your skin reddening even more. You confess, “I’m not a woman yet -”
“Yet,” Paul interjects and shifts so that your body is lying next to his. He kisses your temple, “Lay back and relax, I’m going to try something…” 
You’re reluctant for Paul to see such an intimate part of you. He pleads, eyes begging for a chance. He murmurs, “Just trust me, okay?”
His words make you reconsider. You decide to trust your husband and you lay down, inhaling to calm yourself. But the moment Paul places his hands on your legs, your heart rate spikes and rattles against your chest. As he spreads you open, he looks at your flower with reverence. It’s so puffy, so pink and so wet that it glistens beneath the glowglobes. 
He positions his body between your thighs, his cock rubs against the inner flesh, and you shudder at the sensation. He looks at you, worried. You shake your head, “Paul, I need you…”
At your request, he is so quick to touch you. His finger slides along your folds. You suck in and bite down on your lower lip, holding back. But Paul yearns to hear you, and he does it again, repeating the movement. A small groan escapes and it’s all the encouragement that he needs. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you see that he is in deep concentration, studying as your hips jerk when he presses his palm against a sensitive little nub that’s hiding between your petals. As he does it again, your mouth goes slack and a moan slips out. He begins to circle it with determination, knowing this must be the spot. 
There’s a liquid heat pooling in your core and the more pressure he adds, the less you can take it. You are back to squirming beneath his touch, gasping and groaning at the pressure building inside. It’s such a foreign feeling - you feel like you’re going to burst open. You feel scared about what might happen. You want Paul to stop, yet you don’t. Everything is so conflicting and your throat is parched, and you want your husband to look at you. But Paul is so engrossed in what he’s doing - he’s absolutely fascinated at the stickiness that seeps through your magnificent folds. 
Unable to take much more, you reach down and grasp his chin, forcing him to look at you. At first, he’s baffled. He was so sure that you were enjoying his hard work -  your eyes are hungry, having not been satiated yet. The look sends a chill down his spine and when you whimper, his cock twitches. 
If he wants to make you a woman, it needs to happen now. You whimper again, “Paul, I need you … I need you inside of me,”
“Are … are you sure, Daisy?” He asks, eyes glazing over. You nod and reach up to caress his cheek. Paul is so unbelievably sweet. He begins to trail kisses along your stomach, tongue dipping into your belly button causing you to throw your head back into the pillow. He grins wolfishly and continues marking his territory, relentlessly teasing you until you are nothing but a wet, blubbering mess.
Finally, after a lifetime has passed, Paul sweetly kisses your lips and his cock brushes against your swollen labia. The first meeting. Wetness against wetness. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his shoulders down into your body. Paul steadies himself, his chest puffing out with excitement as he lines the tip of his cock against your entrance.
“Fuck,” He hisses. Paul knows it’s going to be a tight fit and he’s worried about hurting you. He plants a tender kiss against your jaw, whispering, “Tell me if I hurt you, okay?” 
You nod, shutting your eyes and moaning out as his cock begins to nudge inside. It’s definitely a little too large for comfort and your body is resisting - you have to order yourself to relax. And when he’s finally pushed past, there’s a popping sensation. It’s quick and it hurts, pain shooting through your pelvis. You wince. 
Paul notices and stops, he attempts to pull out but you’re quick to lock your legs around his. His lips move against your skin, “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” You sniffle, shaking your head. But Paul can see straight through your lie. He asks the question again, shifting because he’s afraid of causing you pain. This time, you answer truthfully, “It hurts but your cock… it feels so good, Paul - don’t stop, please don’t stop -”
He listens and continues to push his hips forward. Your eyes remain closed but your mouth hangs open, little mewling noises coming forth. Paul struggles to remain composed as your tight cunt swallows his girth. At a glacial pace, he pushes into your body and buries his face into the crook of your neck. He’s struggling not to cum because, for him, the suction of your velvety walls is swiftly driving him toward the edge. 
“You’re such a good girl,” He’s barely audible, hands gripping the side of your protruding stomach. He gives one final thrust, grunting, “Cunt so goddamn tight,”
His cock is fully inside, buried to the hilt. You’re gasping, fireworks sparking behind your eyelids. Your hands are trailing along his back, nails digging into fevered flesh. It still hurts but it’s a good type of hurt. He begins rocking his hips, slowly at first, stretching out your virgin cunt. The mixture of pain and pleasure has you splitting open, crying out, “Oh, fuck! Paul!”
For a moment, Paul thinks he’s hurting you again and he pauses. You hiss at him, “My lord, just fuck me already,”
Your lord does not like that. He sits up on his knees, arms placed on either side of you and hovers over your body. It glistens with sweat and you’re eyes have snapped open at the sudden loss. You see that Paul’s eyebrows are knitted together, irritated that you brought up his nobility. He pulls out, noting the smear of crimson around his cock but doesn’t think twice about it and shoves it back inside. 
You cry out, “My lord,”
He seethes, biting down on his lower lip and begins to rapidly thrust in and out. You want to be properly fucked and he’s giving you exactly what you want. The room fills with your cries of pleasure as Paul spitefully fucks your sweet cunt. The same sweet cunt that is making crude, wet noises, making it impossible not to spill his seed right then and there. 
He wants to make sure that you finish too but Paul knows he’s close. He feels the familiar sensation of an orgasm building inside; he knows the feeling all too well because he’s no stranger to masturbation. In fact, he’s spilled his seed onto this very bed many times in the past year. He’s restraining himself, the friction starting to become too much for him - the tight coil wants to snap and he can’t stop thinking about filling your womb with his seed. 
He shudders, willing himself to slow down so that you can catch up to him. His thrusting turns tender and he begins to lovingly guide his cock into your body, burying it against your hilt. Paul notices that you like this more because your moans have become guttural, coming from somewhere deep. He does it again, fully burrowing his cock in your velvety walls. They are contracting, practically convincing Paul to spill his seed. He's barely able to resist the temptation.
You seem to be fighting your own demons and reaching for something that you aren’t even sure exists. Certainly, it must because what else is this feeling that has pooled inside your belly? The liquid is hot, near boiling point. Each time Paul thrusts his cock, it hits a spot and it makes your cunt convulse, and your eyes roll back because the stimulation is too much.
Your hands grip Paul’s strong arms, nails digging into his flesh. Paul reaches down between your bodies, fingers fondling your fuzzy little mound as he remains buried inside. He pushes your puffy lips apart and presses your button. It sends a jolt through your body and you bellow out, “Paul!”
He presses his thumb against the sensitive little nub and glides his cock against that spot, and you’re so close - so close. Paul pushes his cock into the depths of your cunt, practically tearing into your womb. His cock quivers against the friction of your walls and he shudders, eyes closing tight while his hand continues to work your clitoris. He wills himself not to cum but it’s useless because, within seconds, he’s shooting his hot, thick load into your tight, breedable cunt. 
You cry out, feeling as Paul’s arousal fills you. It’s the thought of Paul impregnating you that causes your orgasm to boil over. Your pussy clenches and convulses with gratification at having the opportunity to give Paul an heir. You cling to him, needing him more than ever as you repeatedly call out his name, prolonging the vowels, “Paaaaauuuul, Paaaauuuul, Paaaauuuulll!”
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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 1 year
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Gone Maid
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Pairing: Dark Paul Atreides x (female) Reader
▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.
More at Masterlist
SUMMARY: Your jealous husband will only stop when you’re completely lonely. 
WARNINGS: Toxic Marriage. 
AN: Also thanks to the anon that sent methose 3 ideas, the credit goes to you for this amazing idea. Please, reblog and give me feedback.
--
“Where is she?” you storm inside the room, anger bubbling inside you. 
Paul looks up, a neutral expression on his face. He slowly chews his food, impassive about your outburst.
Your anger quickly declines as the uncomfortable silence grows, the imbalance of the situation making you grow nervous. Paul doesn’t like you to argue back. 
“I want her back, Paul. Y-You can’t keep doing this.” your words cause Paul to narrow his eyes at you, a muscle contracting in his jaw. Your breath gets caught on your throat, a nervous feeling rising. 
“I can’t? Is that so?” he repeats, fork dropping to the plate with a loud crash that makes you jump a bit. 
Paul lets out a dark chuckle, shaking his head as he grabs a napkin, cleaning the sides of his mouth before joining his hands, his eyes staring into you. 
“I make the decisions I see fit for me, you and this Empire. You don’t need to be happy about them, but yes accept them.” he declares and you swallow back a snappy comment.
Stay calm and take a deep breath. Don’t let him get to you, you repeat to yourself. 
“She did nothing wrong. She never uttered a single ill word against the Empire, if that’s what you mean.” you defend your maid, who also shares your home planet.
All the rest of the maids that initially came with you now gone, sent away from you. All because of your husband’s need to isolate you, to leave you completely alone unless for his suffocating company. 
His lips curl into a malicious smile as Paul gives you a knowing look, sensing your desperation. 
“Your maid was a menace. She poisoned your mind against me and don’t you dare lie to me about that. I know the conversations you two often shared about me.” he takes a sharp breath, his blue eyes sending shivers down your body.
He can’t possibly know about that. But he does. He always does. You bite your lip, your throat constricting as the tears rise to your eyes. 
It’s more than predictable how this is going to end and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’re defenseless, powerless, as you always are against him. 
Paul rises from his seat, approaching you until he can cup your cheeks, his eyes tracing your features. 
“Don’t cry, my love. I’m the only one you need.”
-----
If you liked it, then please reblog.
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thefudge · 12 days
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"The point is to give him what he wants."
paul/irulan AU, 2/3
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