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One Mistake
Billy Butcher Masterlist
Summary: Homelander got you. According to him, Butcher made one mistake, and it was to fall in love with you. He thinks you’re his weakness. But it’s actually the opposite, he makes you stronger. Jokes on Homelander, he’s the one that made a mistake by bringing you here…
Pairing: Billy Butcher x F!Reader
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1728
Warning: Violence, sequestration, blood, mouth bleeding, fight, humiliation, fluff, soft!Butcher, you’ll feel satisfied reading this
A/n: This fic was requested and I had so much fun with it! (you’ll see why!!)
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I'd like to request Bob and 🍋 please and thank you 🤭💛
Congrats on your first 500 💛
hi anon! ofc, one lemonade w/ bob coming right up! (with a gif of lew as harrison because why not)
minors dni below the cut!
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"We should probably leave, before we start a scandal.”
Bob's head nuzzled at the sensitive skin just below your ear as he whispered to you, trying to be discreet as he teased you. It was the first Navy Ball you'd attended together, and the sight of Bob in his dress whites was enough to make your head spin. You'd been fighting temptation all night, and at first, Bob was completely in the dark about it. Your cheeks were often a little flushed, and your loving gaze wasn't all that different from the lustful look you'd been giving him all night.
"What do you mean? I'm behaving," you whispered, giving him a look of innocence that was half-feigned.
"I saw those bedroom eyes you were giving me earlier, if you look at me like that again, I'm not going to be able to help myself, Darlin'."
"Well, Sweetheart," you smirked, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you raised an eyebrow at him, "Sounds like you have a real problem on your hands."
Bob took you by the hand, smiling politely to anyone he passed by on his hurry to rush down the corridor. Once you entered the now empty hallway by the bathrooms, he backed against the metal door to one of them, smirking devilishly at you as he walked in, pulling you behind him. With a swift motion of his hand, the door was locked, and seconds later, he was lifting the hemline of your dress up to your waist, your hands clutching the fabric to keep it out of the way.
"Told ya to stop looking at me like that, Baby. I can't keep my hands off you when you do." He panted as he struggled to get his pants unzipped in a hurry, his cheeks becoming flushed as he got more flustered just thinking about what he was about to do with you.
"Can't help it," you grinned, holding your hands up pleadingly, "It's not my fault you look so good."
"Fuck," he groaned slightly as he stroked his cock, readying himself as he backed you against the wall.
With a quick thrust, he shoved himself into you, causing you to gasp at the sudden intrusion. He paused for a second to allow you to stretch around him, feeling your muscles tighten on him.
"Fuck, so tight, baby," he grumbled as he fucked himself into you again, "Not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that."
"Good," you said breathlessly as he picked up speed in his movements, fucking you hard and fast as he held you in place, "Just means we'll need to go for round two later."
"I'll give it to you as many times as you want, Sweetheart, just say the word," He husked as he continued his strategic thrusting into your spot, causing your knees to buckle and your thighs to shudder as you came closer to your climax.
"Bobby!" you squealed as your fingers slipped from the back of his hair, to clutching his shoulders tightly as you reached your boiling point.
"That's it, beautiful, I've got ya," he coached as he brought you through your orgasm, his own following suit moments after.
"There's my girl, looking so pretty for me," Bob purred as he stroked your hair, fixing a couple of loose strands that fell over your face as he pulled out of you, "You're gonna look even prettier at home in a couple hours when I can get you out of this dress and give it to you properly like you deserve."
You laughed as you readjusted your dress, smirking at Bob as he pulled himself back together again, fixing his sandy coloured hair in the mirror.
"That a promise, Lieutenant Floyd?"
"Always, honey."
join my 500 followers celebration here!
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okay, gonna drop a little snippet of 'watch' here and then i need somebody, anybody, to tell me to sit my ass down and finish it
smut below the cut, be warned
He’s a lot. You can feel yourself adjusting as you slide down his length, your promise quickly forgotten. Greedy fuckin’ girl. But you can’t help yourself, brain short circuiting, body molten as you take him inch by inch. It’s too much, all consuming. There’s no space for another thought, any more consideration as he fills you, as you take what you need. 
He whimpers as you bottom out, grinding against the curls at his base, breathing heavily.
‘So good,’ you whisper, ‘So good, you know that?’
Your head hangs forward against his shoulder as you gulp down air, as you feel yourself clench and leak around him, as he twitches inside you. After moments in almost silence, you lean back to look down at him.
His eyes are glassy, fucked out as he looks back at you.
You lift your hips, and the moan he lets out is pained. Your skin is on fire, and you want his hands everywhere.
‘Frankie, touch me.’
‘I can’t -’
‘You can,’ you grit, ‘You can, because I told you to.’
He moans again, and suddenly he’s everywhere. He knows where you need to be touched like you’ve done this before, his fingertips scorching and cooling as he strokes your thighs, your neck, as he grips your ass. Encouraged, you continue to move, slowly rocking up and down on his cock, breathing raggedly. Every noise that escapes the two of you seems to come without being registered, something primal, starved. Already, the coil is tightening, your body racing towards where it needs to be, and you know it will be intense, feverish and white-hot to come around him, so thick inside of you. You lean further forwards and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your sternum, licking the skin before turning his head to take a nipple in his mouth - warm and wet and sucking, lathing it with his tongue.
‘Fuck,’ you hiss, moving faster, chasing, chasing what is so close. You grip the hair at the back of his head, tugging and keeping him close to your breast, keening against him.
‘Like that,’ you gasp, ‘Yeah, like that baby, god, so good, you’re so good for me, feel so good baby boy, you have no idea -’
You feel yourself tighten and tighten, and Frankie holds you harder, force that feels so delicious that you don’t even care about the hurt, not until it turns to iron, not until he rips his mouth away from you -
‘I’m gonna come -’ he whispers desperately, gripping your hips so tight you couldn't move if you wanted to. ‘Please, baby, please - stop - I can’t - I’ll come -’
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 11 days
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Urban Cowboy - Jake Seresin x Reader
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pairing: Jake Seresin x f! reader
warnings/content: smut, unprotected p in v, mildly mean!dom Jake, teasing, jealous Jake
word count: 3.2k
The sounds of some 80s pop song echoed throughout the Hard Deck, a cheap colourful strobe light flashed around the room, its rainbow coloured beams striking random bargoers as they began to dance along to whatever was playing. It was new idea your aunt had come up with - doing theme nights at the bar once a month as a way to freshen things up and breathe new life into the military bar scene. 
Since you moved here four months ago, you’d gotten familiar with the regulars - there was Bradley Bradshaw, a man far older than he looked, with a penchant for comandeering the piano if the bar needed livening up, Natasha Trace, who had a fiery personality and often kept the other guys in their place, especially when the beers were flowing and they started flirting with unsuspecting patrons, Robert Floyd, the shy backseater who was always polite, tipped well and seemed to be the permanent designated driver on nights out, Reuben Fitch, who stood about a foot taller than you, and always had a witty comeback on hand, just in case, Mickey Garcia, who was sweet, but could talk anyone’s ear off about Star Trek, and Javy Machado, resident score keeper and pool table champion. 
Leading the group, was your Aunt Penny’s boyfriend, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell. He often would come in, finding a table at the back of the room for his squad before abandoning them to spend the evening at the bar, chatting your aunt up and offering up any excuse to come behind the bar and sneak a hand to her hip or steal a squeeze of her rear. It was sweet the way your aunt and Pete were loved up, like a couple of teenagers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. 
This afternoon, Pete came in at four o’clock sharp, just as he promised to help set up. As he hung a couple of decorations you and your aunt had managed to find online, he turned to you and smiled, watching as you prepped the theme night’s cocktail menu.
“I forgot to tell you, another one of my guys is going to be here tonight. He’s been off training at a different base for the last few months, just landed in this morning. You’ll like him. He’s a firecracker.”
“Isn’t that your way of saying he’s a cocky asshole?”
“I wouldn’t say asshole. He’s just very…confident. I think you’ll like him though.”
“Are you talking about Jake?” Penny piped up as she looked at Pete, watching as he climbed up the step ladder to hang another decoration from the ceiling.
“Yeah, don’t you think they’d hit it off?”
“I think she might hit him.”
“What? No way. Jake’s not that bad.”
Penny scoffed and shook her head, laughing. Holding her hands up in surrender, she walked away, retreating back to the bar to begin making sure all the key ingredients to your drink menu were where they needed to be. You continued to stuff the evening’s special menus into their plastic protective sleeves, shaking your head at Pete’s attempts to try and set you up with someone from his squad. It wasn’t the first time, you’d been on a date with Bradley once before, but found the age gap was too great between the two of you, with Bradley in complete agreement that you were much better suited as friends than lovers, and on a date with Reuben, who, despite efforts between the two of you, there was no chemistry shared there. 
As five o’clock approached, you hurried into the back stockroom to change into your themed outfit for the night, pulling your hair out of the velcro rollers that Penny had helped you wrap your hair up into, creating the perfect 80s voluminous curl that would make even Christie Brinkley jealous. Your tight fitting Daisy Duke style shorts accentuated your curves, hugging your thighs and hips in all the right places, your crisp white button down shirt tied just under your bra, showing off your tanned, soft midsection. A pair of mid-sized silver hoop earrings hung from your earlobes to complete the look. Your aunt’s stash of Aqua-Net hairspray was all you needed to finish it off, stepping out the back door to shake your curls out and spray them with enough hairspray to ensure they wouldn’t budge for the night. 
You reentered the bar to find Pete’s friends piling in, the other regular patrons all trickling in and getting comfortable as they came through, turning the bar into a sea of cheesy fake mustaches and 80s style Hawaiian shirts, brightly coloured polos and coordinating Bermuda shorts, wigs and legwarmers. The evening was quickly livening up, and you got to work behind the bar with your aunt, pulling pints and mixing drinks, firing off orders left right and center as the bar filled with partygoers. 
An hour into the night, Bradley approached the bar, his aviator sunglasses perched atop his chocolate coloured curls, his loud, brightly coloured Hawaiian print shirt buttoned just enough to allow a few sparing curls of chest hair to peek out from the top. He leaned against the bar, smiling at you, his mustache neatly combed to closer resemble a style from the 80s. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he was trying to emulate Tom Selleck. You’d seen pictures of Bradley’s dad and Pete from back in the 80s, and recognized the shirt anywhere. It was clear Bradley was dressed identically to his father, and you had to admire the dedication he had to the theme. 
“What can I get you, Bradshaw?”
“Hi dollface, I’ll take a Budweiser. And a chance to take you for a spin later?”
“We’ve done this before, Bradley,” you laughed as you cracked the top off the beer bottle and slid it across the counter to him. Bradley shook his head as he sipped the frothy liquid, grinning as he set the bottle down on the counter.
“I didn’t mean you. I’m practicing. I can’t be dressed like this and not use some kind of weird 80s shit to impress a girl, right? I’m just…using you for practice. Did it work?”
“Bradley, why don’t you, I don’t know, just, be yourself?” 
“Because tonight I’m not myself. I’m some single 39 year old in the 80s trying to get a date, apparently.”
“Well then, gag me with a spoon, that was gnarly. Try a different line. One that doesn’t begin with “dollface”?”
“Got it, thanks!”
You watched as Bradley sauntered away to go try his luck with a pretty blonde over by the jukebox. You smirked to yourself as you heard Bradley start singing along to Madonna, carrying the tune with an impressive baritone that you weren’t expecting. You knew he could sing, but singing Madonna was a whole new side to him. Turning your back for a moment, you began fixing a drink for yourself, mixing together the ingredients for a Shirley Temple. You looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered blonde man approach the bar counter, his hair slicked back, and a blonde mustache that made poor Bradley’s look unimpressive rested on his upper lip. The most stunning pair of bright green eyes looked at you, and a set of perfectly straight, whitened teeth fresh out of a Colgate commercial flashed a smile at you.
“Hi Darlin’, I’ll take whatever’s on tap.”
“Sure thing,” You nodded, trying hard not to audibly gulp at the adonis of a man standing in front of you. 
“Are you new ‘round here?” he drawled, “I’d remember a pretty face like yours.”
“Uh, within the last four months, yeah.” you nodded as you finished pulling a pint of draught for him, the frothy head of the beer perfectly resting in the glass. 
“Oh! That’ll explain it. Lieutenant Jake Seresin, at your service, m’am.” He winked, and you felt yourself melt a little at the sight of this human embodiment of a Ken doll flirting with you. 
“You’re Jake?”
“Depends who’s askin’, Honey.” His accent was thick and heavy, something straight out of those reruns of The Andy Griffiths Show that your mom made you watch when you were a child.
“I’m Penny’s niece,” you nodded, giving him your name and laughing softly as your cheeks blushed, “I moved down here to help her out with things around here while I try to figure some life things out.”
“I see,” he smirked, sipping his beer, the foam brushing against his mustache as he set the glass down. “And does that list of things you’re figuring out include finding a strong, charming, handsome Southern boy?”
“It might, do you know any?” You quipped, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your own drink, pretending to feign disinterest in the handsome stranger before you.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“That so, hun? Who? Do I know him?”
“Not yet, but I think he sure would like to know you, Darlin’.”
You shook your head, your curls bouncing as you started to laugh, unable to control yourself. Jake was as bold as he was handsome, and you were suddenly realizing what Pete was referring to when he said that Jake was confident. He practically exuded a cocksure confidence from every pore in his body. And while that would normally repulse you and send you heading for the hills, with Jake, it felt different. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, his magnetic charms and graces pulling you in, and your inhibitions wearing down. However, you also knew how to deal with men like this - he was in need of an ego check, and you were just the person for the job. 
“Is that right? Well, you tell your little Southern-fried wannabe cowboy of a friend that if he’s interested, he’s going to have to stick around the bar all night. I promised Aunt Penny I’d help her make sure this night went smoothly, and I don’t need a knockoff Dukes of Hazzard cast member distracting me.” 
“Wannabe cowboy?” Jake gasped in feigned offence, clutching his chest dramatically as he slipped into an even thicker accent than earlier, “Now Darlin’, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re breakin’ my heart over here. One thing I ain’t is a wannabe cowboy. You know, I used to ride in rodeos as a kid? Was one of the best there was for under 15 year olds, ‘til I decided to join the Navy instead.”
“Oh, so you’re like, a real cowboy then,” you teased, your voice dripping with sarcasm. 
“S’pose you could say that. Only one real way to find out, ain’t there?”
“Take you to a farm and watch you wrangle cattle on horseback?” you retorted sarcastically.
“You’re funny, I like that.”
“I bet you do.” 
Jake leaned in across the bar, a smirk forming on his lips as he looked at you, his bright green eyes fixated on your lips as you spoke. His long eyelashes fluttered at you as he eyed you up, practically undressing you with his imagination. You grinned as you gestured to the sign behind you, reading that if you disrespect a lady, you owe everyone a round. 
“Watch it, Lieutenant. If you’re not careful, I’ll go ring that bell and you’ll learn a very expensive lesson.”
“Oh, Darlin’, I can guarantee, I ain’t gonna learn anything from it. I’m just dumb enough to do it again. Can’t help myself around a pretty girl like yourself.”
You scoffed and rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you laughed at his relentless attempt. You knew the only reason he persisted was because you were teasing him, but at the same time, you didn’t mind the attention he was giving you. He wasn’t as tall as Bradley, or as broad shouldered, but he was built like a linebacker, with a solid frame and the accent alone was enough to drive you crazy.
It was almost 11 when Jake stopped you again, this time, outside of the stockroom when you’d disappeared back there for more maraschino cherries and pineapple juice. He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, causing his pastel-coloured polo shirt to bulge around his biceps. His lips curled up in that annoyingly perfect smile once again as he stood in your path.
“Hey, Honey, need a hand with that?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” you shrugged it off, shaking your head as you smirked at him, “You often follow girls into storage rooms?”
“Only the ones worth following.”
“Wow, Lieutenant, with a response like that, it’s a wonder you don’t have a trail of broken hearts following you around.”
“What is your issue, anyway? You got a thing against blondes? Pilots?”
“Please,” you smirked, shaking your head, “I went on a date with Rooster. He’s a pilot.”
“Is it ‘cause I’m from Texas?”
“No, it’s because you’re probably the most arrogant prick I’ve ever had the displeasure of coming across, actually. God, it’s like you think all you have to do is flash that stupid handsome smile and I’ll throw myself at you.”
Jake’s face fell slightly as he raised an eyebrow at you. You could tell he wasn’t used to having a girl put him in his place like this, but his crestfallen gaze was quickly replaced by that shit-eating grin he seemed to never go without sporting. 
“Honey, you’re real pretty when you get mean like that.”
“You’re impossible,” you sighed in exasperation.
“But you love it, don’t you?” 
Jake closed the gap between the two of you as he spoke, taking a couple steps closer to you. You bit your lip as you hesitated, thinking about the consequences that might follow if you acted on your desires. 
Fuck it. 
Your hands gripped the fabric of his polo shirt, pulling him down to your height as you crashed your lips into his passionately. You kissed a slow, hot trail up to his ear, a breathy moan escaping your lips as he put his hands on your hips to bring you in as close as possible, his body heat radiating on to you. 
“You gonna show me just how good you are, Cowboy?”
“Yes, m’am. I reckon I could show you a better time than any other man in here.”
Jake’s hand slipped down your curves, reaching around to cup your ass cheeks as he hoisted you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around your waist. You quickly discarded the cherries and juice that were in your hands, wrapping your arms around his neck to steady yourself. Jake’s lips worked their way along your neck, wet, fervent kisses that made your body squirm with pleasure, your arousal growing and burning in your stomach with each second. 
“Back door?” He murmured against your neck, his hands keeping a firm hold of your ass.
“Two steps behind me, to the left,” you panted, nodding your head as he sucked on your skin. 
It was unseasonably warm for May, the humidity hanging in the air as you left the air conditioned building. Jake pushed you up against the wall, using it as leverage as he quickly reached down to undo your shorts and wiggled them out of the way. He ran two of his thick fingers along the outside of your lace underwear, stroking the dampened fabric as he smirked to himself.
“Someone’s eager, aren’t ya, Darlin’?”
“Just shut up and fuck me, ok?”
“Now, that any way to ask for it?”
A wicked grin appeared on his face as he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, stroking at your clit with a feather light touch, just enough to make you whine for more. 
“Jake, I swear to fuck, if you don’t take me right now.”
“Shhh, Sugar, don’t want anyone to hear, do ya? Unless you get off on getting caught,” He purred as he coaxed his fingertips inside of your dripping entrance, pumping them into you with precision.
You tossed your head backwards as Jake thrusted his fingers further into you, each movement harder and faster than before. The determined look in his eye alone was almost enough to send you over the edge. This man was hell-bent on making you orgasm, and he was on the right track to get you there within a matter of seconds.
“Fuck, s-so close, Jake,” you keened, your fingers gripping his thick blonde hair as he brought you to your climax.
“That’s it, Sugar. Look at you, you’re a mess and I ain’t even started on you yet.”
“J-Jake, please,” you whimpered, coming undone as he fucked his fingers into you at a breakneck pace.
“Speak up, sweetheart, can’t hear ya.”
Your head started to spin as he pulled his fingers out of you, causing you to whine at the loss of contact. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, he slammed his hips forwards, shoving his thick cock inside of you, causing you to cry out in ecstasy at the sudden fullness. Trying to be quiet, you secretly thanked your lucky stars that the sounds of Your Love by The Outfield blared throughout the club. Just as the chorus picked up, Jake rocked his hips forwards again, fucking himself into you with enough force to make you feel as though he might blow your back out right then and there.
“That’s it, Sugar, takin’ me so well,” Jake smirked, “What was that you said about bein’ a wannabe cowboy? Bet those other boys can’t fuck you like this, now can they?”
You were practically rendered speechless by Jake’s precise, rhythmic thrusts into your cunt, his masculine grunting and teasing proving enough to throw you back over the edge once again. Your legs began to shake and shudder while he bucked his hips up into you, his eyes full of lust and hunger as he brought you to your second orgasm of the night. Your walls clenched around him tightly, eliciting a low, pornographic moan out of Jake. 
Raking your fingers through his hair, tugging on it as you threw your head back, you screamed out his name, louder than you intended. You lost your ability to hold yourself together as Jake’s thrusts became sloppier, his own orgasm following close behind yours. 
“Fuck, am I good?” He groaned, his eyes pleading for permission.
“On the pill, you’re good,” you panted, nodding quickly as Jake let himself go inside of you, your name falling from his lips like a sacred prayer as he repeated it over and over, praising you.
“Now, how ‘bout letting a strong, handsome Southern boy take you out on a date so he don’t feel so bad about fucking you until you can’t walk a couple hours after meetin’ ya?” He grinned as he readjusted himself and pulled his clothes back up. 
“I think I can fit you into my schedule, on one condition.”
“Mhmm? What’s that?”
“Next time, you come wearing a cowboy hat.”
“Deal, Sugar, I’ll even let you wear it.” 
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 16 days
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okay, gonna drop a little snippet of 'watch' here and then i need somebody, anybody, to tell me to sit my ass down and finish it
smut below the cut, be warned
He’s a lot. You can feel yourself adjusting as you slide down his length, your promise quickly forgotten. Greedy fuckin’ girl. But you can’t help yourself, brain short circuiting, body molten as you take him inch by inch. It’s too much, all consuming. There’s no space for another thought, any more consideration as he fills you, as you take what you need. 
He whimpers as you bottom out, grinding against the curls at his base, breathing heavily.
‘So good,’ you whisper, ‘So good, you know that?’
Your head hangs forward against his shoulder as you gulp down air, as you feel yourself clench and leak around him, as he twitches inside you. After moments in almost silence, you lean back to look down at him.
His eyes are glassy, fucked out as he looks back at you.
You lift your hips, and the moan he lets out is pained. Your skin is on fire, and you want his hands everywhere.
‘Frankie, touch me.’
‘I can’t -’
‘You can,’ you grit, ‘You can, because I told you to.’
He moans again, and suddenly he’s everywhere. He knows where you need to be touched like you’ve done this before, his fingertips scorching and cooling as he strokes your thighs, your neck, as he grips your ass. Encouraged, you continue to move, slowly rocking up and down on his cock, breathing raggedly. Every noise that escapes the two of you seems to come without being registered, something primal, starved. Already, the coil is tightening, your body racing towards where it needs to be, and you know it will be intense, feverish and white-hot to come around him, so thick inside of you. You lean further forwards and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to your sternum, licking the skin before turning his head to take a nipple in his mouth - warm and wet and sucking, lathing it with his tongue.
‘Fuck,’ you hiss, moving faster, chasing, chasing what is so close. You grip the hair at the back of his head, tugging and keeping him close to your breast, keening against him.
‘Like that,’ you gasp, ‘Yeah, like that baby, god, so good, you’re so good for me, feel so good baby boy, you have no idea -’
You feel yourself tighten and tighten, and Frankie holds you harder, force that feels so delicious that you don’t even care about the hurt, not until it turns to iron, not until he rips his mouth away from you -
‘I’m gonna come -’ he whispers desperately, gripping your hips so tight you couldn't move if you wanted to. ‘Please, baby, please - stop - I can’t - I’ll come -’
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 18 days
Note
For the prompts, how about number 7. I like it when you tell me what to do? I can just imagine Jake saying that to Venus 😏
Everyone say thank you to Helena for giving me a reason to write the Jeep Wrangler fucking fic! Want to read more about Jake and Venus? Click here!
"Get in the car."
The four words are music to Jake's eyes. It doesn't matter that it's been said in a hushed, demanding tone. In fact, that makes it all the more better.
He nods, quickly getting out a couple twenties from his wallet to give to the bartender. Venus grabs his free hand, leading him away from the bar, away from all those who were trying to flirt with him.
Jake didn't flirt back, he would never. And while she knew that, it didn't stop the green eyed monster from coming out.
But rather than yelling or throwing drinks, she had found a better way to deal with jealousy.
"Get in the back." Her breathing is ragged from kissing him, hands on his chest to press him against the car door.
"I like it when you tell me what to do," Jake smirks.
"I can tell by your raging boner," she remarks, her fingers unbuttoning the top three of his shirt, allowing the silver chain around his neck to glisten in the moonlight.
With anyone else, Jake would have been embarrassed. But with Venus, it just eggs him on. Over two years now and it's still mesmerizing the effect she has on him, her effortless ability to render him so quickly.
"What can I say V," he leans down to be at eye level with her, "You're fucking gorgeous."
She tries to fight back a smile, her eyes closed, fingers seemingly frozen on his shirt.
"Get in the car before I take you right here Seresin," She mutters, trying to sound demanding. It helps that she's brushing her raised left knee against his growing bulge.
"Anything for you Venus." He places a gentle kiss on her warm cheek before opening the door, following her orders quickly.
As soon as he sat down, she was all over him. Her amber eyes remained locked on his face as she lowered herself down into his lap.
"Oh fuck," Jake groaned upon feeling her bare, wet core grind against his denim covered crotch, "W-when did you take those off?"
"When that blonde was flirting with you," Venus said before sinking her teeth into his unmarked neck.
Fuck military regulations.
Jake's head tipped back, practically presenting himself for her, "God, she was trying so hard. Can't-fuck-can't hold a candle to you V."
A whimper leaves her kiss bitten lips, her hips rolling against his at a near frantic place.
"Need you Jake," she says against his skin. A constellation of bite marks and developing bruises now littered across his pale neck.
"I-I got ya V." One of his hands cupped the back of her neck, allowing him to crash his lips against hers. The other went down, underneath the hemline of her sundress, fingers searching.
A loud moan fell from her lips when his fingers found her soaked entrance, quickly thrusting inside her. It was fast and hard, desperate pants coming from both of them quickly filling up the Jeep Wrangler.
She places a hand against the cool glass to support her as she grinds down against his fingers, thighs shaking from pleasure.
"Fuck you're clenching me so hard. Don't know if I can get a third one in," Jake chuckles.
Her available hand wraps around the silver chain he has on, tugging on it. The pressure around his throat, the way it decreases the amount of oxygen he can take in, causes Jake's cock to throb.
"D-don't know if you'll be able to put your cock in me before coming," She grunts against his lips.
"Think you just want me r-real bad V." His voice is shaking, his cock aching for some kind of relief.
"Want to ride your cock and watch you fall apart underneath me." Her hands fly to his zipper, undoing it and the top button. Jake shimmies his hips, his pants and boxers down to his thighs.
He pulls out of her, using his slick-covered fingers as lubricant for his cock. It wasn't the same with his fingers than hers. He knew if he asked she would, but that took away time Jake could spend being inside her.
She lets out a sharp gasp when the thick head of his cock brushes against her entrance. Venus wishes she would get use to it by now, the last thing Jake needs is another ego boost. But god, he's so big and it feels so good to be filled by him again.
Once he's fully inside, he stills, waiting for her to speak, to tell him it was okay.
"Jake, I swear if you don't fucking move-"
There it was.
The sound of skin slapping against skin combined with the little ah-ah-ah's quickly fill up the car, the windows now foggy from their actions.
"How-shit-how do you feel so tight every time?" Jake is barely able to ask, his head buried in the crook of her neck.
Her fingers find his blonde hair, gripping the soft strands for purchase. A witty comeback dies on the tip of her tongue when his cock brushes against the spot that makes her see stars.
Her tight walls clamp down on his cock, causing Jake's eyes to roll to the back of his head. God he loves this, loves being consumed by her and only her. The idea of someone else was absurd. Venus knew this, Jake had make it abundantly clear.
But damn if he didn't love the unexpected benefits of jealousy.
Somehow, his fingers are able to find her aching clit, drawing circles on the bundle of nerves.
"Oh fuck! Jake, fuck!" The worry of being too loud has gone out the door. In fact, she would love for one of those girls to try to find Jake, only to see her riding his cock.
The very thought causes her to increase the speed she's raising and lowering her hips. Jake's are desperately trying to meet hers, thrusting upwards.
Sometimes Venus and Jake liked taking their time, liked trying to make each other fall apart in a unspoken competition to see who would crash first.
But this was desperate. Bob and Maeve had probably returned from the bathroom (how those two thought they were slick was beyond Venus) by now. She also just wanted to feel him, to be full of him.
And Jake wanted the same thing.
She comes first, Jake having to wrap an arm around her waist to help her stay upright as she shakes against him. He keeps thrusting, wanting to prolong her pleasure, wanting to feel her tight walls hug his cock for as along as possible.
"C-c'mon Seresin. Wanna....wanna be full of ya."
Her words tip him over, the back of her thighs flushed against the top of his as he comes undone. Jake's really thankful he parked in the back of the lot, away from other cars.
Venus rests her head on Jake's shoulder, his arms wrapped around her waist, bodies pressed together. For the next few minutes, they just sit like that as they catch their breath.
"Sh...should we go back inside? Like soon?" Jake asks, breaking the silence.
Venus shrugged, "I mean, Bob and Maeve can keep themselves entertain with each other, so I'm not worried."
"If you're not worried, then I'm not worried," Jake says before pressing a kiss to her warm forehead.
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 18 days
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A Verbal Agreement
Summary: You hated Jake Seresin. Truly, you did. Or at least you strongly disliked him. But as it was, he did something for you that no other man could, and it kept you coming back for more. 
Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader (no use of y/n)
Word Count: 1.2K (no one is as shocked as I am that I kept it short) 
Warnings: Smut. Dirty talk. Enemies with benefits. Language. The Blonde One™️.
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You hated him. 
Truly, you did.
Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Maybe strong dislike would be a better way to describe it. 
Jake Seresin was a smug son of a bitch. He was the bane of your existence in so many ways, and got under your skin like he was trying to burrow there and make it his home. His arrogance annoyed you, constantly walking around with a holier-than-thou attitude, like he was God’s gift to women, the Navy, and society in general. His smirk made his face punchable in a way that you were barely able to resist smacking him when he shot it in your direction. 
But damn, if his ability to string together filth didn’t drive you fucking crazy. 
“That’s it. Fuck. That’s my good girl.” 
You clenched around him at his words, a moan leaving you because of the praise. 
Dirty talk was something you considered to be an artform. It was one of your biggest turn ons, and so little men knew how to actually execute it. So often when you’d ask for it, it came out awkward, cringy or obnoxious. They fumbled over words and made everything sound so unappealing, unable to find that perfect balance of praise and degradation that you longed for, that you would barely be in the mood to finish after they spouted off what they thought was sexy. 
So it would figure, of course, that you discovered Jake was the best dirty talker you had ever been with after what was supposed to be a one time mistake after a few too many drinks at the Hard Deck. He made everything sound so flawlessly erotic and natural, you were basically a puddle for it every single time.  
It was no secret that Jake loved to hear himself talk, and this was the one situation where you not only didn’t mind, you wanted it.  
“Taking me so fucking well. You were made to take it, weren’t you baby?” 
“Yes,” you gasped, nodding rapidly, your nails dragging down his back. “Made to.” 
“Yeah you were. I’m making you feel so good, aren’t I?” 
Your moan turned into a scream of his name as a sharp smack came down on your ass, Jake nearly bending you in half as he fucked you. “Answer me.” 
You knew from knowing him for so long that he hated being ignored, especially in bed, and especially when it was about how good he was making you feel.
“Yes! Fuck!” you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls. “So good!” 
His chuckle and his smirk were both so smug, in any other situation, you would have rolled your eyes. But here, in the privacy of your apartment, it sent another wave of arousal through you, and you couldn’t help but arch into him. 
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got that straight, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and as smooth as velvet. “Not like you would have been able to deny it, anyway. You’re so fucking soaked, you’re making a mess of the sheets and those pretty thighs of yours. I can only imagine how good it's going to feel when I come inside of you. Is that what you want?” 
“Uh-huh,” you breathed. 
"You’re so fucking tight, baby. Sucking me in like a damn vice.” 
"Please," you whimpered. You were close; so close. But you needed more. “Please, please, please.” 
“God I love it when you beg for me.” 
He said the words almost to himself, so you didn't answer, caught in a whirlwind of lust and frustration. Jake’s hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, tight circles against it. Your vision blurred at the stimulation. 
“You want my cock so bad, don’t you?” 
“Jake.” 
You felt the edges of your control fraying, the pleasure building to a breaking point. Your whole body shook - sweet release so near that you could almost taste it. 
"Yeah, baby," he growled, his hips pounding into you even harder. His thrusts became more urgent as he neared his end, too, demanding and pointed."You want to come for me?” 
You couldn’t answer, falling into the haze of what he was making you feel. Your mind was a blank canvas, lost to the sensation of his cock filling you, all that existed was the intense sensation of him thrusting against your nerve-endings, the friction between your clit and his fingers, and the rhythm of his voice, husky and perfect, pulsing through you. 
Another smack to your ass, and then his hand found your chin, squeezing just tight enough where it drew you out of your head. He guided your gaze toward him. His eyes, always so mischievous, were dark and calculating. “Do you want to come for me?” he repeated, and you moaned at the authority ringing in your ears. 
Your voice was barely a whisper as the words tumbled out of your mouth. “Yes. Please, Jake. Make me come.” 
“Then do it. Be a good girl, and come for me. Now.” 
Your body responded to his command instantly. You arched into him, your screams echoing in the room as you shattered, your nails digging into his back. He never stopped talking, his voice coaxing as much from you as he could. 
“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up. Come inside this sweet little pussy. And you’re going to take all of it, baby.” 
Your body felt like it was on fire. Wave after wave of pleasure coursed through you and he kept up his relentless rhythm, chasing his own release. You felt him go rigid inside you, and then his hips jerked forward once, twice, and then a third time as he joined you over the edge. He grunted out your name as you clung to him, your arms around his neck, your legs wrapped around his waist, feeling him pulse inside you.
For a few moments, you both laid there, panting as you tried to catch your breath. Jake settled more of his weight on top of you in a way that always made you feel more secure as you came down from the high, and you placed a soft kiss against his neck in appreciation.
“I still hate you,” you mumbled into his skin. 
Jake chuckled low in his throat, and then laughed even harder when the sound caused you to clench around his softening cock. He pulled out of you slowly, sliding over your sensitive flesh. You could feel his cum slipping out of you, furthering the mess between your legs. You couldn’t help but shiver as he settled on the mattress beside you, pulling you into his sweaty chest. 
“Whatever you need to tell yourself, darlin’.” 
“No, I mean it.” 
But even as you said it, you were cuddling closer to him, draping your leg over his as got comfortable. Post-orgasm was one of the only times he was quiet, or at least not as chatty, and you enjoyed basking in the afterglow that always followed these trysts. 
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you could feel the smirk that was no doubt a mix of smug and indulgent as he did. “Sure.”
“Shhhh,” you murmured, “don’t ruin it.”
He laughed lightly, but settled down, not saying anything else. 
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Notes: I really have no idea what this is or where it came from, but here we are.
Thanks to @roosterforme @mak-32 and @sylviebell for reading it over and all your help! And to Mak for a stunning banner, as per ushe.
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 18 days
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i gotta take you home.
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Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x F!Reader
request for @cevansbaby-dove Sorry it took me so long! I hope you like it!
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"God she's so annoying," Hangman whines to anyone who will listen. You're across the bar, dancing with Rooster.
Which bothers Hangman more than it should.
Coyote chuckles to his left. "Yeah, okay." He brings his beer to his mouth.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hangman asks.
Coyote's shoulder touches his ear in a shrug. "Oh nothing."
Hangman watches you spin yourself in Rooster's arms, a carefree laugh falling from your mouth. Rooster grins down at you, one hand around your waist, the other cradling his beer.
The way your body is pressed against Rooster has Hangman planning out ways he can covertly shoot Rooster down from the sky.
Which is a new development.
It is no secret you and Hangman don't get along. From the moment he laid eyes on your h/c hair, and took in your e/c irises, you annoyed him.
There was no way someone could be so beloved by doing...well...nothing. But alas, that was the case with everyone you met.
Besides Hangman.
He'd be lying if he said it wasn't due to the way he couldn't charm you like other girls. You managed to see right through all his shameless flirting.
And yeah, it hurt his ego a little.
Or a lot.
You turn around in Rooster's arms, planting your back against his chest. Rooster leans forward, placing his chin on your shoulder. Hangman catches his eyes, and Rooster's left eye closing in a shit-eating wink.
Coyote chokes on his beer at the interaction. "You gonna let him get away with that?"
Hangman rolls his eyes.
"Get your head out of your ass, man. We all know you're obsessed with her."
"No way." Hangman shakes his head. "I can't stand her." Even as the words come out his mouth, he knows it's a lie.
__
The song ends, and you separate from Rooster.
"Is he looking?" you ask your friend.
Rooster chuckles. "He hasn't take his eyes off you since you walked through the door, babe."
You glance over your shoulder at the blonde aviator. The object of all your fantasies. The guy who manages to push your buttons. Who drives you insane. Who makes you so mad with the simplest comment.
Despite it all, you're in love with him.
Too bad he doesn't return your affections.
The two of you make eye contact. He glances between you and Rooster. A blonde eyebrow raises, a silent question.
What's going on with you and Rooster?
You shrug your shoulder at him, hoping that's all it takes to get him to saunter across the bar to you, ready to push your buttons.
Another song starts, and since Jake has made no move to stop leaning against the bar, you reach around Rooster and take a shot from the table. Throwing it back, your arms wrap themselves around Rooster's neck.
Rooster looks down at you in warning. He knows how you get when you're in the middle of one of these....things....with Jake.
"It's fiiiiine, Roos," you tell him, holding out the syllables in your words too much. "Just keep dancing with me."
You pull your friend closer to you, and Rooster relaxes in your arms. "Whatever you say, y/n/n."
The two of you dance, lost in one another. You and Rooster went on one date. One date is all it took for both of you to see one another only as friends.
Since then, Rooster has played your wingman in trying to get Jake to make a move. It usually doesn't end in Jake's arm, but rather in an argument with him.
"Mind if I cut in?" you hear a voice behind you. The southern accent you've been dying to hear all night. Rooster backs off without another thought, spinning you into Jake's arms.
The blonde aviator smirks down at you, tightening his arms so your flush against him. He leans down to your ear. "Were you trying to make me jealous, darlin'?"
The intimate gesture sends goosebumps down your arms. The smirk on Jake's face deepens, letting you know he definitely noticed.
"Never," you grin.
"Nah," he agrees, the word hitting against your cheek. He pulls you closer to him. "Too bad it worked."
The hand around your waist cements there, his other own coming to the nape of your neck, making sure to get twisted in your hair. Jake uses that hand to crane your face up at him, those green eyes of his sparkling with mischief.
"You don't even like me," you murmur.
"Come on, now, you don't really believe that, do you?" Jake whispers back.
"Of course I do, Jake, you've never given me a reason not to," you admit, his eyes putting your under a spell.
"Hmm," he hums. "I love it when you use my first name."
One hand grabs the collar of his shirt, the other finds home around his neck. You're wracking your brain, trying to think of a way to get him to make that sound again.
The hand around his neck comes around to his jaw, and he lets his head relax. You play with the hair around his ear.
"This is the most you've ever touched me," he says. You let your hand explore down his neck, then his arm, finally resting around his waist.
"Tell me somethin', Jake," you say. "Do you really dislike me?"
The hand in your hair tangles itself tighter. "Would I be holding you like this if I did?"
Your finger slips through one of the belt loops on his jeans. He cradles your head as if he would rather die than let you go. His eyes glace toward your mouth.
"Are you gonna kiss me, Hangman?" you ask him, your eyes dropping this his lips. You pray the answer is yes. You can't hear the music in the bar anymore.
To be honest, you're not even sure you're still in the bar.
"Oh I want to," he murmurs against your temple. "But not in the middle of this bar."
__
Jake pushes you against the outside of the Hard Deck. He looks down at you, his chest heaving with want. Hooking a finger under your chin, he tilts your face up.
"I have wanted to do this since the moment I laid eyes on you," he admits.
"Why didn't you?" you ask.
"You bruised my ego, if I'm being honest."
"I thought I was playing hard to get."
Jake chuckles. "You played that pretty well, darling."
Tightening your arms around his neck, you tell him, "Enough talking, Hangman. Show me what I've been missing."
Jake grins. "Yes, ma'am." His hands come up beneath your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist. Jake doesn't waste any time cementing his lips against yours. You follow his lead, letting him deepen the kiss. He moans against your mouth as your fingers slide into his hair.
Oh. So that's how you get that sound out of him.
You are putty in this man's hands, and it is as wonderful as you've imagined.
Jake runs kisses along your jaw, then down your neck. You lean your head back, trying to give him as much access to those sweet spots as you can.
"Darlin'," he hums against your skin. "I gotta take you home."
"Okay," you say lamely, comepletly intoxicated with the way he's making you feel.
"Okay." Jake's arms fall from around your thighs, setting you back down. His calloused hand reaches for yours, pulling you to him for one more kiss.
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 18 days
Text
Just Like Old Times
Day 27 | Prompt Grey Skies | Rollo x F Reader
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Previous from this series
Credit to GIF owner
Warnings: angst, smut, nsfw
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You craved him.
Even after you kicked him out and swore to never see him again. Being close to Ragnar and Lagertha made that impossible.
It only became easier when he left, after another stink of jealousy over his brother’s fame, Rollo took off.
Keep reading
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 18 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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utterlyhopeful-fics · 19 days
Note
SO
I was listening to my angst playlist and taking an angsty shower angstily, like ya do and!!!!
WHEN A STAR DIES READER AND DUNCAN DO YOU HEAR ME ARE YOU FOLLOWING IT IS SPOT ON
Literally almost jumped out the shower to send this
Angel Lips
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Summary: Chani comes crashing back into your life but at least she brings Duncan with her.
Warnings: Paul is back on his bullshit. He's cruel! Pregnancy and birth mentioned. BLOOD. talks of cheating and CHEATING. A smooch is shared.
Notes: Don't look at me, i don't know what this is, blame Cocoa. Im supposed to be working on other stories. This is 2.3k words, bye.
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When Maia Atreides is born, she is a frighteningly silent baby.
The doctors and your ladies said they have never seen anything like it, a baby who doesn't cry after all the prodding, poking and pulling. They handed her to you after you refused to allow them to whisk her away to do more testing— a silent baby wasn't a bad baby and when she looked up at you, her brown eyes wide and curious, you smiled. You had another child with little fanfare, there was less crying and blood and Paul was—
The door opened and Oliver had darted into the room, he's arms were filled with all his little toys and trinkets he could carry and Paul is only a step behind him, his hands both guiding and urging, his voice low and reminding the boy he has to be quiet, that his sister is new and will be easily frightened. The two make it to your bed and Paul lifts his son, placing him at your covered feet and he lets all the toys drop, “He thought his sister would be bored without toys.” Paul explained when the boy is quickly distracted and trying to peer at the bundled baby in your arms. “So he brought all his favorites.”
You smiled at your son, allowing him to shuffle forward and take hold of your arm as he looked down at his sister and she looked up at him. “Oliver this is Maia,” You introduced, your voice had been soft and shaking, nearly reduced to tears at the sight of your two babies together. “And Maia, this is your big brother, Oliver.”
Oliver says hello in the smallest voice ever, he's very close to his sister's face but he's cooing and doing nothing but calling her cute.
Paul frowned. “Maia?”
Your eyes flicker to him, your smile faltering at his pinched look. “Is it– is it not a good name?”
Paul doesn't answer, he ignores you entirely to come closer to your bed. Your mouth hangs as he carefully pulls Maia from your arms, and you realize with startling embarrassment—he's inspecting her and he must see her resemblance to him because he lets her little hand wrap around his finger as he finally lets out a hum. “My mother wishes to see her.”
Oliver is curled against your side and you try to keep positive. “She’s allowed to come in–”
“She’s in her study.” Paul interrupted. “I’ll bring Maia to her while you rest here with, Oliver.”
The look you give your husband is pure bewilderment. You have just birthed him another heir, a pretty little babe who doesn't cry and he wants to whisk her away? He does thank you, he does not congratulate you. He holds his daughter with a frown and you wonder where the man who made her went because this— This is not the Paul you've known for the past year. Oliver tried to cling to you when got up but quickly backed off when a pained hiss leaves your lips as your feet touch the floor. Paul takes a step back, his voice is confused. “What are you doing?”
Your legs shook and it felt like your insides were going to fall out if you so much as move wrong but you refuse to not be there in that room when Maia is presented to Jessica. When you pulled Maia from his arms, Paul let you— he had opened his mouth to stop you but the look in your eye had been liquid fire, “Your mother calls.”
The walk to her study was the most painful thing you've ever done and Paul does not help. He does not guide your step with a helpful hand nor does he help carry your weight. You stumble through the castle barefoot and sweating, the servants and guards part when they see your form, the front of your birthing gown soaked with blood.
Maia Atreides, your darling girl, only cried when you reached the outside of Jessica's private study. The door is whisked open and Leto is pulling you into a chair, cursing his son for his idiocy— he calls for the doctors who appeared seconds later. They had shadowed your step the moment you stepped out of the medical room but they, just like everyone else, had been mystified by your journey. Paul had tried to defend himself against his father's cruel words but he was growing pink in the face and Oliver fled from his side to yours— and Maia, sweet, Maia had not stopped crying.
Though, your ears were ringing. You hear little to nothing as you keep eye contact with Jessica, Maia drawn close to your chest. The Atreides mistress had her fingers pressed to her lips and you would never forget the giddy smile she was biting back.
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Maia is celebrated in a public gala four weeks later.
The Atreides hall is filled to the brim with people from all walks of life and every corner of the universe. People talk, sing and dance— your mother had come up to you and kissed your cheek, she looks different now, older and wealthier. The gown she wears is something she could never have afforded in your youth and her smile is genuine when she told you she wishes Maia brings you as much wealth as you brought her. The comment made something sick climb up the back of your throat and you had quickly excused yourself with a polite smile and a curtsy and your mother titters off to go get another drink.
Since then, you have stuck to the outskirts of the event. Smiling at the young bumbling girls who rush to greet you, and nursing what feels like your fifth glass of wine as you keep a close eye on Oliver who dances with his grandparents and Paul who parades Maia around the room. He's in the middle of it all, a proud smile on his face as he boasts about her to all who cares to listen and there's dozens that do. They crowd around the baby when Paul shows her, cooing and poking and joking about her potential suitor line already growing. She is only four weeks old and the comments make your blood boil. These people have more plans for your daughter than the number of days she's been alive.
You bring your glass to your lips again, taking a deep gulp of the warm wine when you see her draw closer to Paul the third time tonight. You have never seen her in person before today but you knew instantly who she was when Paul went doe eyed and speechless. Chani is just as beautiful as you feared her to be and she had greeted you with a small smile and Paul with a hug. She is a polite little thing, sweet and nice— she apparently adored kids. She had spoken to Oliver at one point, her brown eyes warm as she took him in, she let the boy ramble and bounce subject to subject and you realize with a horrible pit of annoyance, you couldn't hate her. Even as Paul greets her again with a kindness he's never shown you, you can not hate how she fawns over your daughter and how she smiles when Maia’s eyes meet hers.
But you can not bear to watch it either. Not when the two of them are so close, eyes start to slide to you to see your reaction. You down the rest of your wine and push the empty cup into the hands of some noble girl who can barely stutter out her offense as you leave the hall. You kick off your stupidly fancy shoes outside the door and your hand finds the cool stone walls as you steady yourself. The last cup of wine wasn't the best idea but who cares, it's not like you're pregnant anymore. You're all but stumbling trying to get back to your wing of the castle and it would be embarrassing if anyone else but you were in the halls.
Steps fall in line with your clumsy ones and a smile pulls on your lips.
It'd be embarrassing if it was anyone but you and him in these halls.
Chani’s sudden appearance hadn't been all bad, not when she brought Duncan with her. The man says nothing as he follows you, he's close in case you stumble and fall and he is so warm that even three paces away you can feel his heat against your back. A giggle spills from your lips and you slow to a stop, your head spinning. You look over your shoulder and smile at Duncan, your face warm, “Hi.”
His lips twitch up, his eyes gentle. “Hello, my heart.”
You giggle at the term of endearment and you turn, stumbling to him. Duncan does not move when you wrap your arms around him, he in fact relaxes, returning the hug for only a moment before he breathes a laugh. “You are incredibly drunk.”
“‘m not.” You deny, still close to him. You breathe in his scent and he smells like the sunlit clearings back on your home planet. When the flowers are beginning to bud in the coming spring. “I just missed you.”
“I missed you too.” He replies smiling and he pulls from the hug. “But I know you'll be mortified if you remember this in the morning, let's get you to your room.”
You perk up at that. “Will you be joining me?”
Duncan's eyes slide to you in soft confusion as he spurs you forward, you grab his hand in your drunkenness, your fingers linking with his as he pulls you to your room. Seeing the look, you elaborate; “I’m sure Chani will be joining Paul tonight so my bed will be empty. Join me.”
Duncan's hand squeezes yours. “Don’t say that.”
“It is the truth.” You shrug, smiling. “He could hardly keep his eyes off of her and the same could be said for her. She denied him but the sight of a babe in his arms must have changed her mind.” Duncan silently listens, a frown on his face. He just squeezes your hand and you realize you are outside of your old room and not your new marriage room. You blink up at him, your lips in an easy smile as you shake your hand free from his and wrap your arms around his neck. Duncan breathes your name in warning when you wobble, his hands flying to your hips to steady you and you push yourself closer to his warm body. “Join me, Duncan. I'll be good.”
“You’re drunk.” He breathes, his eyes are darting across your face before he licks his lips. Your eyes follow the movement and you lean closer. “You are drunk.” When he says it again it's like he is reminding himself rather than telling you and you giggle pressing closer.
“I’m wet.” You say, and your lips meet his chin. Duncan lets out a tortured groan and he backs you against the door and you continue to press kisses to his chin and neck, everytime you get close to his lips he turns his head and you whine in frustration. “I am aching for you, Duncan. I've always thought of you–”
“I know–”
“Even when I touched myself, I– I imagined they were your fingers, I imagined your touch–”
Duncan opens the door and you stumble backwards, tugging him in. You squeal when the door shuts and Duncan lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I know.” He hisses, his voice rugged. He carries you to your bed as you kiss all the skin that you can see, still missing his lips because he denies them from you. You gasp when he drops you against your mattress, your legs are spread and he is between them but he does not move. He's panting, his eyes burning, “If I was a crueler man–”
You whine his name and he flinches like it hurts him. He takes a breath and continues, “If I was a crueler man I'd fuck you into this mattress. I'd make you forget his name.”
You whine, squirming in the bed “Please-?”
“But you are drunk.” He hisses, “I will not do that to you when you can not remember, I want you to remember how I touch you. I want you to remember how it feels to be loved properly.”
He goes to turn but you are pushing yourself up from the bed, it is a mess of fabric and sheets and you grab for him before he can get too far. “Please, Duncan, please–”
He silences you with a bruising kiss. It is hot, wanting and hungry. You moan wantonly in the kiss, grabbing desperately at the fronts of his coat to keep him close. His nose crushes against yours as he kisses you, he licks into your mouth and swallows your moans and as quickly as he kisses you, he stops panting. His pupils are so wide it makes his eyes look black, “When the time comes, I hope you beg for me as sweetly as you did tonight.”
Then he leaves your room, the door clicking shut behind him and you are forced to go to sleep wanting and warm.
The next morning, you barely hear Paul as he rants about you embarrassing him. How you didn't tell anyone and he had to find out from Duncan in front of a crowd full of people that you had gone to bed early and drunk because he heard the whispers of other nobles of how you took to your cups. You could barely bring yourself to care, to point out how Paul barely noticed you leaving because he was so focused on Chani. No, you could only ghost a thumb over your lip and hide a dizzy smile. Paul doesn't notice but from his place behind him, Duncan does.
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 19 days
Text
I'm not the only one
Leto Atreides x reader, Paul Atreides x reader (platonic), Jessica Atreides x reader (platonic)
Warnings: angst, arranged marriage, rejection, loneliness, screaming.
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Synopsis: You marry Leto Atreides, and feel the rejection firsthand.
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 19 days
Text
MOTION PICURE SOUNDTRACK
pairings : paul atreides ⠀𝒙⠀ fem!reader
𐙚 warnings : religious undertones, ( slight spoilers ?! ), suggestive content
words : 0.723k
note. i wrote this barely an hour after watching this movie because my ideas just flooded onto a page. I’m in love with this movie, and I cannot wait for the third ( and final one ). As someone who is in love w movie franchises & trilogies, the build up was so good, but now we wait :3. What better to wait than writing fanfiction !!! ( i need to start writing fics more than 1k bc this is a bit pathetic ).
#. main masterlist. | misc masterlist.
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PAUL ATREIDES.
IN your hazy mind, buried deep inside the sacred caves of your soul, you knew he was still yours.
From his lengthened, yet disguised stares to his lingering, yet quick touches, you knew in his carefully hollowed out heart, he still called you his.
Far inside those ocean blue, star-dusted eyes of his, he was the ripple of water amongst the desert sand.
A glass pearl imprisoned in a tight-fisted oyster.
Paul belonged to them, he belonged to his people.
He was the grace of the hand of god, the messiah of your virtue, desire and sin.
Most of all, however, he belonged to you.
Your flickering eyes watched as he exerted his power over them, your figure trailing behind in his shadows.
They never knew you.
Yet, he knew you better than anyone could. He knew every hue that littered your eyes, he knew every spot on your body, he knew your every thought and language, he knew how to drive you practically insane, seduced by the simple touch of his bare hands.
He was yours to keep, and you were his.
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In the comfort of your tent, soft oranges bleeding into and staining the night’s dizzy tint, you lay beside each other, your lingering hands abstaining from touching him as your eyes travelled up and down his body.
He was still awake, but it seemed as if he refused to acknowledge you.
Letting out a small sigh, you pushed yourself onto the leverage of your elbow, glancing at his face as you locked eyes with him, watching as his pupils dilated softly, as he flicked his gaze to your lips.
“You should try and get some sleep,” you whispered, cupping his cheek with your free hand as your thumb pressed against his bottom lip. “It’s not good for you to go out exhausted.”
A moment passed before a small smile laced his lips, a glimpse of an old version of your lover coming back.
“What if I wanted to stay up looking at you?” He muttered before leaning forward to press a kiss to your lips.
Your stomach fluttered at that, your body growing weak and the sound of his adoration for you. The keeper of his heart.
Copying his motion, you also moved to deepen the kiss, his hand moving to your waist as he pulled you closer.
You pulled away slowly, breathing deeply yet quietly, as you gazed into his eyes, a deep thought disrupting your raw and pure moment.
“Do I matter to you, Paul?” You asked, your eyes now glossy as you stared at him, attempting to read him somehow.
To find a remnant of emotion or memory on his face.
To study him like the pages of an ancient book.
“What do you mean?” He mumbled, pressing his thumb lightly into the skin of your hip as he caressed it lightly.
“You hardly acknowledge I’m even there,” you explained, pursing your lips into a straight line as you tried to ignore the feeling of his hands on your bare skin.
Paul studied you for a moment in the dim light before sitting up right, causing you to mirror him.
“They need me, you know that,” he answered, placing both of his hands on your face, pulling you in so your faces were inches away from each other, his breath warm on your skin.
“But here, I’m all yours,” he added, taking your hand in his. “I belong to you, and only you.”
His face was sincere and his expression was soft. His heart was pure and his touch was intoxicating.
“I’m yours too, Paul Atreides. I’ll always be yours,” you whispered swollen words, the corners of your mouth twisting into a small grin as you leaned in to kiss him again.
This time, he moved both of his hands to your waist, pulling you onto his lap as he kissed you deeply.
Your body was flush against his, your nimble fingers played with the strands of his hair at the back of his head. He then moved his lips to the crook of your neck, peppering small kisses to every sensitive spot possible, causing you to let out small gasps at the feeling of his lips against your desperate flesh.
Your small whimpers, a raw testimony to his passion.
And all sleep was lost.
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 25 days
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HEATHER MASTERLIST
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HEATHER: Part 1
You watch Draco fall in love with someone else.
LOVE IN THE DARK: Part 2
You can’t continue to love Draco when it’s only shown in a rooms four walls.
ARMS OF A STRANGER: Part 3
You don’t believe you can ever go back to being “just friends” with Draco.
YOU ARE IN LOVE: Part 4
Confessions of love lead to a place you never thought you’d be.
LOVER: Epilogue
An inside look into the happily ever after between you and Draco that is well deserved.
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 26 days
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GTKTM: FAVORITE TV SHOW/FILM PER MEMBER ↳ MAMMA MIA! (2008) — by aish (@maddiebuckley)
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 26 days
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Pride & Prejudice dir. Joe Wright | 2005
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utterlyhopeful-fics · 27 days
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Castles Crumbling
Tolerate It (Part two)
read part one here.
authors note: not sure if this is the ending you guys were expecting but I hope you like it!
warnings: mentions of cheating, mentions of death, miscommunication tropes.
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It was two in the morning when Jake softly unlocked the door to the home he shared with you. He silently took off his shoes and went upstairs to see where you were. He knew taking off on you was wrong. He knew that you just wanted to let him in. All you ever tried to do was love him and all he ever did was shut you out.
He had been planning to propose to you. He was constantly in communication with your best friend Julianna. He was talking to her about things he didn’t quite understand like ring sizes and diamonds. He wanted to make this proposal perfect for you. He wanted to give you everything you deserved and more.
But work was stressing him out. Maverick warned Jake and the rest of the squad that they would be shipping off for an important mission in the next three months. The mission details were classified. All Maverick said was that they’d better prepare their families for the possibility that they might not come back.
Mortality had never scared Jake away from doing his job. He knew he was one of the best fighter pilots in the nation. That was why he was a part of Top Gun.
Mortality never scared Jake until he met you. He knew he loved you. You were the only person he ever saw a future with. Kids, a dog, a white picket fence, he wanted that with you. But in the back of his mind, he knew there was a chance that something could go wrong on a mission. He didn’t want to leave you alone with kids or make you a widow. He couldn’t do that to you. And so he did the only thing he knew how to do. He ran.
Jake crept upstairs and found you sitting up in bed reading a book. “I thought you would be asleep by now.” He said while sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“I can’t sleep if you’re not here. You know that Seresin.” You replied, still looking at the words in your hands.
“I’m sorry.” He said softly. “I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t right to shut you out and I-“
“Don’t even,” You interrupted him. “You can’t keep doing this to me Jake. It isn’t fair. All I've ever wanted to do was help you. You can’t keep shutting me out.”
“Baby, I know I'm sorry I'm just overwhelmed with work. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You didn’t know what else to do?” You replied, voice rising from anger. “You could’ve talked to me. You didn’t have to leave me here crying like an idiot over something that I don’t even know about.”
“I know it’s just that I'm not the best at dealing with my emotions.” He said softly. “I love you.”
“Why was Julianna calling you then?” You changed the subject.
“What do you…” Jake started.
“Don’t play stupid Seresin. I saw her call you five times in the span of 10 minutes. She’s my friend. You’ve only met her a few times. Why would she be calling you at ten o'clock at night?”
Jake’s just looked at you in disbelief. There was nothing going on between him and Julianna. He was simply asking her for her opinion on how to propose and what ring to buy. She was your best friend after all. He couldn’t believe that you would think he was cheating on you with her. If you asked him to give you the moon, he would’ve done it. No questions asked.
“What are you insinuating?” He said slowly growing more angry when he realized what you thought he was doing.
“I’m insinuating that you’re seeing her on the side.” You said, near tears. “Just tell me the truth Jake. I can’t keep sitting here wondering why you’re shutting me out. You can’t keep leaving me here like an idiot.”
“Listen,” he said while grabbing your hands. “There is nothing going on between me and Julianna. I just needed to ask her something. That’s it. I would never cheat on you. You’re the only person I could ever love.”
“So why won’t you let me in.” You whispered. “If it’s not her then who? You won’t talk to me anymore. You won’t touch me. You barely even look at me.”
Suddenly Jake’s face dropped. “I might not come back.” He said, so softly that you might have missed it if you weren’t right next to him.
“What do you mean you might not come back?” You said growing more and more confused.
“Maverick said that this next mission is going to be dangerous. He said to hope for the best but expect the worst and I just-“ Suddenly Jake started sobbing.
You were shocked. Suddenly things started making sense. He was shutting you out because he didn’t want you to be hurt if he didn’t come back. You knew Jake tended to be more quiet when there was a tough mission coming up.
You pulled him into a tight hug and began to comfort him. “Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t help you if I don’t know what is going on with you.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I never wanted to hurt you. I was just trying to protect you.” He said.
“I’m here for you no matter what.” You said, eyes beginning to fill with tears. “We’re a team. You have to tell me if there’s something happening. I love you.”
“I’m sorry.” He said while kissing your cheek. “I didn’t want to be a burden. I should’ve told you about the mission sooner. You’re my rock. I love you.”
As your tears and Jake's tears subside, he holds you tightly. You hold him back feeling all the walls between the two of you crumble.
Jake knew two things for certain. He would come home to you, and he would marry you.
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