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gladiatorcunt · 4 months ago

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- MOTHERBOARD BIRDCAGE | XVI.

the machine masturbated and we had to take it or die

cw: kinktober prompt (dubcon) fem reader, takes place at the beginning of dune 1, fem reader, dark!paul, misogyny, allusions to collaring and bondage, implied mind control orgasms, cunnilingus, arranged marriage (reader and paul are the same age), slight degradation/dumbification, reader has an implied attraction to leto, implied overstimulation, teasing, paul talks about reader like she’s a literal meal, dead dove do not eat, unedited

please do not repost, translate, or feed this work to ai

kinktober 2024

The winter sun hangs heavy on Paul Atreides' head like a pale crown.

“You look radiant, my love.”

An exhalation, “Thank you, I am happy it pleases you.”

“I think it will always please me to drink in the sight of you for the rest of our lives, a crucial part of my every meal.”

His father smiles, pleased and amused, a saying that is learned behavior then. Leto Atreides studies your gait, dragging his weighing stare back to your neutral face as they yearn to drift lower, lower, lower.

The dawn marking your second decade of life flies in on wedding bells, the night sleeps restlessly on the Atreides’s ship to Arrakis.

You pace back and forth, now kept in a room in your in-laws stronghold on the sand planet. Your marriage bed is practically all that exists in the beige space, unassuming built in shelves on either side. What is a wife to do but drape herself over the golden sheets and sigh the days away, after all.

Paul has been very polite with you, smiling charmingly against your mouth during your chaste first kiss, keeping his touches brief and only from his fingertips to the small of your back. You would take a step away and you could practically feel his fingers splay out, yearning, the air crackling, but he always let his hands fall to his sides.

You smile at him when you can, in your own way, tense and barely there. You haven’t been married for 24 hours, and your husband is already off doing his duty. You try not to think about it, the reason for the Atreides to stay on Arrakis and your loneliness. Paul is someone you’ve known for as long you’ve been his wife, but you have no one else.

His mother is deeply complicated and his father… Paul told you it’s just better for you to stay away. So you have, wasting the hours away pacing, going over your outfit options with the new handmaids you selected, the rejects from the ones sent to be picked over by your mother in law. The loneliness has become unbearable, Paul visits when he has the time, brief kisses and barely there grasps of your elbow.

You can hardly be blamed for being at your wits end one night, huffing as you roll over in bed after your afternoon nap and sliding one of the pillows between your supple thighs. It’s where Paul rests his head for the few hours you share a bed as most married couples are meant to do, you can still smell the traces of sea vapor and cold tree bark that he left behind.

“Hah….” You softly moan, languidly rocking your hips, missing your clit entirely but you have been on the brink for so long that there is no need for direct stimulation.

Your cunt quickly wets the expensive golden fabric through your undergarments, and you allow yourself to imagine it’s a man’s thigh you’re grinding on. Your husband’s, pale but flushed pink and thickened with sinewy muscle, used to tensing up. You can’t say if you feel a great desire to turn these visions into reality, but the imaginary is safe, and safe is good. You cannot mess up smooshing an ordinary pillow against your weeping cunt.

You are used to arousal being shameful, everyone stuffs their fingers up their holes and goes through trial and error until they hurtle over the edge, and they’ll don their gowns to tell their juniors the horrors of sexual proclivity. You’ve never even fingered yourself, the most you’ve done is shyly slip a digit in and then yanked it out when you felt a dull burn.

If only your teachers and staff of your castle could see you now, dry humping your distant new husband’s pillow with no orgasm in sight. You sigh and sink your head into the remaining nest of pillows, lounging in the lazy pleasure that’s barely pleasure at all. Your eyes flutter shut, which turns out to be the pivotal moment of your marriage.

You feel him before you see him, a lanky hand gingerly slides over your wide hip into the dip, not halting your movements or guiding you, merely touching to touch.

Your eyes shoot open and you try to flinch but Paul hisses something quietly, a wave of calm washes over you but you still look over your shoulder to hesitantly meet his eyes. Paul grants you a small warm smile, rubbing circles into your hip with his thumb.

“I was planning to discuss this with you, but apparently you’ve taken matters into your own hands, my love.” He softly chuckles, bending down to peck the swell of your warm cheek.

His next words are whispered into your pores, his mouth so close that you feel the stitches sewing his skin to yours, “I know this has been a new experience for you, and you barely had time to get used to Caladan before you were whisked away here, but you have to know that I promise to be a loving husband.”

How can you be assured of that? If there is anyone to be wary of in this universe, you’ve been taught that it is one’s husband.

“Yes, well, can you at least…” You awkwardly trail off, pointedly gesturing to the pillow wedged between your thighs, he had not let you move since he had returned.

Paul's face transforms in genuine confusion, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing ever so slightly, then his eyes drift down to the pillow and he exhales an ‘ah’.

His grip tightens, the tips of his fingers form mini half craters in your flesh. “I don’t see the point in that, unless the way you’re clutching onto the thing for dear life causes you pain then it can remain where it is.”

You get swept up in the undercurrent warning. He’s right unfortunately, the pillow is too silken to bring you any discomfort, you are just too prideful and prone to embarrassment. From the glint in his eyes, this will be something he will help you work on until it’s a trait of a past you. You shyly meet his stoney gaze head on as you let your thighs relax, they slide down the pillow and settle on the plush bedding.

Paul leans over with interest, sliding his hands from your hip dips to caress your inner thighs. You automatically tense up and he tuts, fixing you with a cajoling look.

“Come on.” He coos, his fingers travel up your thighs to play with the tufts of hair peeking out from your underclothes. “How are a husband and wife meant to get to know each other if their bodies are uncharted territories? You don’t even speak to me.”

You sigh, relaxing your body so your husband can peruse it as he pleases. Paul leans down to get closer and gets a hold on your underwear, in an instant they’re torn away. You react with an aggravated exclamation, Paul smiles as he leans down to press a kiss to the center of the hair on your mound. Your breath hitches but you say nothing, frozen by the shock of what is supposed to be a perfectly natural moment between a married couple.

Paul drags his nose through your pubic hair, his tongue darts out for small licks every so often. You ball your hands into fists as he moves his mouth towards your swollen bud. When he finds it, he latches on and starts to suckle, smoothing his hands up and down your legs as if you’re nothing more than a frightened bull, a beastly thing that he tames and conquers.

“Refreshing.” He murmurs into your folds, his tongue leaves your clit to lick broad stripes before fucking inside your sloppy hole. “I could do this forever if my wife would let me.”

He would do it even if you kicked and screamed, but that’s neither here nor there. You don’t even need his powers to be open and willing this time, well, open enough. He has an acquired taste, little wives who ultimately bend to their husband’s will but act as if a spiked chain is around their neck.

The cool metal will become as warm as Arrakis’ sun in the blink of an eye.

You dig your nails into your palms, convinced you can barricade yourself against the pleasure through sheer will. Paul Atreides has never been one to succumb to your grievances, you’ll crumble to pieces under his influence, it could be a soft and slow thing if you act properly. He wants hearts to bloom in your irises, sparks of light forming a ring around your pupils, miniature collars.

You flail about for a moment and carve into the sheets with your heels, your skin so smooth you slip and lose your footing. Paul keeps watch from his vantage point between your thighs, lapping up the wetness pushed out by your body in the same way you’ve seen him sip his drinks. Slow, but purposeful, an act of seduction under the disguise of something truly mundane. He curls his tongue and it reminds you of a dance, you’re caught up in the whirlwind.

“I think…” He pants, nearly out of breath and he has not even been in your cunt for five minutes, “Your sweat should be bottled, I would spray it on my pillow and have the sweetest dreams.”

You don’t know what to say to that, Paul’s knack for muttering words that steal the breath from your lungs is another thing you’ve not grown used to.

“You fill me-” lick “-to the depths of my stomach.” lick

“Paul.” gasp, on the cusp of a nip to your inner thigh. “Husband.” gasp, this one is softer, your thigh gets a kiss now. “Let me- I can tend to you instead, you don’t have to do this.”

He laughs into your curls, and the tip of his nose glistens with you. His eyes are half lidded, more animal in heat than man. You’re truly too sweet for words, for the looming threat that is Paul Atreides. Desperate to perform your wifely duties, it’s much more bearable for you to degrade yourself by pleasing your husband than it is to imagine that what would truly please him would be burying his face in your beautiful cunt.

He doesn’t say any of this to you, however, because there are times when Paul prefers you just as on edge as you like to keep yourself. Your fingers twitch and slowly unfurl, but your growing hope that this strange torture will stop is dashed as Paul dives down to suck on your swollen bud. You’re surprised by how sensitive it is, how it twitches and throbs under his tongue’s attention.

Your fingers seek out the bed beneath you, begging for its help, trying to claw through the mattress itself. Paul’s fingers are digging into the meat of your thighs now, like you’re a piece of bread he can tear through to devour your innards. Your inexperience rears its head in a terribly embarrassing way, you don’t know where to look or how to push him away or how to fight against your body’s response. Your mind whispers that you want to card your shaky fingers through his hair, but you don’t, you do not.

If not because you’re determined to maintain the distance you share with Paul, then because he would enjoy it too much. He’s terrible, in a subtly sinister way, but he would drink up your every touch and scrap of affection like a parched tree.

“This cunt, it makes me sick. This hole… you’re so wet, my flower.” The syllables drip from his pink mouth like the drool that pools in your entrance. “You send me over the cliff into madness, ever since the first moment I saw you. My wife in everything but name, the missing vessel of my soul.”

Paul kitten licks your clit, tenderly raking his nails up and down your squirming legs. You act as if you can buck off your incoming orgasm like a wild horse, like your husband eating you out is a serpent wrapped around your sternum. Luckily, it’s in his DNA to tame unruly creatures, bring them to heel under his stern outstretched hand.

You mewl, a soft hearted creature at heart, practically purring, “Please.”

“Please, what? You know I’d be more than happy to give my wife whatever her heart desires. Have you forgotten my vows already? Maybe your brain is leaking out your cunt.” Paul inquires suggestively, he flattens his tongue over your hole and stills, the corners of his mouth hike up when you inevitably rock your hips against his face.

“I… why did you stop?” You don’t say that if he’s so desperate to meld your skin together then why is he ceasing his overbearing actions, but that might come across as disrespect, and Paul seems to enjoy disrespect because he can make you wish you had never been anything but the pet cleaning his feet.

A wife is not disrespectful, especially one that will soon become an even greater royal. You are blessed to have this life, as unwanted as it is, you could be a concubine, one of his father’s perhaps. Time will tell if you wish to belong to a different Atreides, but you are anchored to the present with every useless thrust your hips do.

“That’s alright, if you’ll only let me make you come by wearing yourself out, then I don’t mind. Be my quest, my love.” Paul chuckles, though it’s muffled in your folds.

You make him forget what time it is, what his next schedule will be and who he will have to navigate interacting with. History must be looking kindly on House Atreides once again, because you seem to be heading for a day wasted in bed after he’s done with you. It will be a great help to have a wife whose head is too high up in the clouds to place another cinder block on your already strenuous load.

He guesses Gurney and Duncan are right, being “pussy whipped” does exist. He can’t wait to come to meetings with his wife’s pleasure hanging off his body like the finest jewelry.

You speak again, your tone is irritated and breathless with anticipation, “D-dear. Please, husband, I feel strange, I know I’m doing it wrong. I’m sorry.”

That usually works, right? Husband’s like it when their Wife’s apologize when they believe they’re solely in the wrong. Paul seems to join them in that, nevermind that the only thing wrong you could ever do is place yourself as a separate being from him. Marriage is not for people who are content with being untethered to their lover, it’s for the howling monsters who imbed it at the center of their selves.

“Hm, that’s what I thought. This doesn’t have to be something you force yourself to endure, I can make you feel so good if you allow me.” He whispers and tightens his hold on your thighs, spreading them farther and diving back in for thirds, fourths, fifths, sixths, sevenths.

You moan louder than you thought yourself capable of, and Paul matches you with a deep one of his own that comes from the back of his throat. He slips his tongue back in your hole, his dark eyes keep watch so he can catalog every miniscule change in your expression to comb over like one of his precious digital logs. You are fire made into a humanoid being, searing curves climbing over the golden sheets like a flood of flame, your limbs searching out any reprieve from how irrevocably your lust penetrated your body.

Paul’s eyes flit towards the bundle of restraints in the corner of the room, not hidden from your line of sight, you’ve just stupidly never noticed them. You don’t notice the thought slithering around in your subconscious until it’s brought to the forefront. He opens his jaw as wide as he possibly can and does everything in his power to swallow you whole, thrusting his tongue in you until your previous self pools below your ass and wets his chin.

He would play with your clit like he’d rather take it and fidget with it when political matters get too stressful, but you arch your back as he goes to take his hands away from your thighs and his mind is made up for him. See? You really are shaping up to be an outstanding wife.

He curls his palms around the thickest part of them, pushing them apart until you whine at the slightest hint of a burn. Paul wants to show you that you can be split on more than just his cock.

You hear his voice in your head now, reverberating throughout the halls of your skill. It seems so hollow, like a bird’s, the whooshing sounds of his suggestions rattle your foundation.

A faint bundle of heat flutters in your cunt, from your clit to the precise tongue pistoning in and out of your loosening hole. Paul’s dark stare impales you into place, leaning on your elbows in this once cold marriage bed, all the trappings of luxury.

My beloved wife.

The wind fanning my flames just by existing.

You are so very dear to me, when you slump in defeat, when you laugh, when you think I’m not looking. I always am.

Gorgeous girl with a cunt most of my men would fall on their weapons to weep at your feet in hopes for a taste.

You’re so sleepy, so lax. Oh, I know. You can drift, my flower, I’ll be here, I’ll keep you anchored.

Your maids have been bored, I’ve noticed. They should be happy to change these sheets when I summon them tomorrow, life itself clutched in their hands.

Let go, my love, drench my tongue and my face, I want you to spray it so far your come coats the back of my throat. You never did give me a suitable wedding gift.

Your body assumes its own battle stance, locked up tight right before your spine feels like it’s been snapped by an invisible force. Your orgasm burns its way out of you, but you choke on how cooling it is at the same time. You’re lost to him, too out of it to be able to tell how you adorned your husband. You feel drying wet skin nuzzling between your thighs, you hear sheets being rustled in your mind as Paul blows steady air onto your clit.

Your fingers find their way through his brown almost-tresses as the small licks start again, rekindling.

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lady-phasma · 1 year ago

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Diplomatic relations

Feyd x gn!reader

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI! NSFW, spit as lube (I guess, kinda), penetration, honestly a little tame compared to my usual stuff.

The poll came in at 57% soft!Feyd so here we go. This is probably as soft as I can make him.

Summary: No physical description of reader. Feyd is on a diplomatic tour of an unnamed planet (not Caladan) under Harkonnen rule. You catch his eye, smuttiness ensues. Plot if you squint. 4k words

You looked away almost as soon as his eyes met yours. You didn’t want to be caught staring at the na-Baron. Feyd-Rautha’s presence on your planet had cause quite the uproar. Though many of the houses were pawns for the Harkonnen, some still remained who defied the colonizers. Your house couldn’t openly oppose the Harkonnen, but you knew that they were not respected. They were feared. They were fearsome after all. The na-Baron’s delegation had been sent to keep the peace, to quell uprisings, to provide confidence to the planet. You supposed it worked for some.

However, you wondered if the na-Baron was enthusiastic about his diplomatic responsibilities. He looked bored and distracted. You hadn’t thought it would be possible for him to notice one person out of the hundreds who crowded the city streets to show allegiance. But someone had caught his eye. He straightened a bit, turning his head slightly to look at you as the procession moved on. You swallowed hard and looked away again.

Your thoughts whirled and spun the rest of the day. That night, you would be in the same room as the na-Baron, possibly as close as the next table. Your house had the “honor” of hosting him on his first night in the city. You were preoccupied as you went about your errands, looked over the financial ledgers, dressed for the dinner. The hours seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly, dragging on for days.

As you walked into the main hall that evening your eyes searched for the na-Baron. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until a servant spoke to you and you hadn’t heard them. You nodded, unsure to what you were agreeing, and walked through the groups of people mingling and conversing.

You found your seat at the secondary table. The head table was reserved for the Duke and his guests. You continued to scan the room, lost in thought, unable to put your finger on why you were intrigued by the na-Baron. You barely heard the sounds around you, the chattering was a dull noise. You felt a chair pull out next to you but didn’t register who the occupant was until it was too late.

Feyd’s fingers stroked the utensils on the place setting, lightly aligning any that were askew. You looked up from his pale hands to his face. You were startled to see that he was staring at you. The Harkonnen skin and hairlessness were disarming amidst the bright colors of the hall.

“You must be old enough to know that it is rude to stare,” Feyd smirked as he spoke. “Surely you have seen a Harkonnen envoy before?”

“I- I-“ you stumbled over your tongue, then swallowed. “Yes, my Lord na-baron, I have seen such an envoy before.”

“And?” Feyd stretched the word out.

“Yes, I came of age last year and I know my manners,” you replied. You straightened your shoulders, squared them, and turned to face him more fully. “Did you need assistance to find your seat?”

Feyd laughed. His black teeth caught the light and you stopped a gasp before it could leave your mouth. They were almost horrible to look at, but the lips that surrounded them dulled that impression, somewhat.

The laugh was mocking but amused. He understood your tone as well as your impertinence. His blue eyes on you sent a chill down your spine. Almost as quickly as the laugh had appeared, it was gone. The grin that replaced it was somehow worse.

“No,” he spoke so lowly that it sounded as if the words rumbled from his chest. “No, I believe I already found my seat.”

There was no one on the planet who could make him move and the Duke was too subservient to object. Resigned, you turned back to the table and sipped your wine. All of your emotions mixed together: anger at his presumption, mild fear of his capabilities, and, strangest of all, curiosity. This man was intriguing and intensely attractive in a completely mad way.

Your food was unremarkable and you barely noticed if you had eaten any or not when they carried the plates away. Your dinner companion barely spoke at all. His interactions with the nobility were perfunctory and diplomatic. There was constantly an air of boredom about him. As imperious as he seemed, you didn’t think that this detachment was intentional. He understood his role here, his duty, but his thoughts were constantly elsewhere.

Only once during dinner did you interact with Feyd. Purely by accident, you turned to him to ask a very discourteous question. You caught yourself but he saw your face and wouldn’t let you go. Like an animal in a trap.

“How may I be of service?” His grin was infuriating. Without context, anyone looking on would think he was being as pleasant as was possible for him.

“It was nothing,” you tried not to spit the words at him, irrationally angry at that grin.

“No, please,” he leaned forward onto his elbows, grin falling just a bit as he dropped his voice. “Go ahead. I won’t command you, but I could.”

Your eyes widened at this, this threat. Was it a threat or a jest? You couldn’t read that infernal mouth. You made your face a mask, attempting to conceal any emotion.

“You could…” you began. “However, that shouldn’t be necessary.” Your chest began to tighten as you spoke. The feeling in your stomach wasn’t new but you hadn’t felt this in a long time. You felt like, no, it wasn’t possible… You felt as if you were flirting with him, and he with you.

“I was going to ask, Lord na-Baron, what is it you would rather be doing that sitting here? It’s a rather improper question, so I bit my tongue.” The truth seemed like the only way out of this trap.

You did not expect his smile to fall completely. Only for the briefest of moments he let his surprise show. He recovered and quipped back at you.

“Quite improper, but my answer would be much more so.” He grinned and leaned back in his chair, feeling he had won this round. A blush ran up your face, evidence of his victory.

After the Duke and his retinue offered the required pleasantries and excused themselves, the guests rose and began to leave the main hall. You stood before Feyd and succeeded in not looking at him as you began to walk away.

As you turned down the passageway, headed to your quarters, you heard heavy footfalls behind you. You glanced over your shoulder and the tightness in your stomach redoubled. There were only a few of the household staff remaining in the halls. You were nearly alone with the na-Baron. Your mind offered, unbidden, the word exhilarating.

His strides were long enough that he caught up with you in little time. His height was impressive after having been sitting next to him. Not much taller than yourself but tall enough to command attention.

“Were you tired of my company?” One corner of his lip curled in a smirk. “Or were you nervous I might answer your impertinent question?”

You stopped walking at this. He turned and looked at you, studying you.

“No, my Lord na-Baron,” you replied levelly. “I could not tell which you enjoyed more: my company or mocking me.”

His smile faltered then grew. You assumed no one ever told him the truth. You knew you could become afraid of him, perhaps should be, but you weren’t yet. Two chattering guests walked past and you moved to the edge of the hallway to let them pass.

Feyd stepped past you and leaned against the wall, his long coat belying the muscular figure underneath. Your breathing became shallow. His proximity to you was informal. It was unnerving. You couldn’t know what he was thinking and his smile was always simultaneously pleasant and malicious.

“Your confusion shows on your face,” he whispered. “What are you trying to discern?”

“Well, um, you, Lord na-Baron,” you dropped your gaze from his. “I do not yet know if I can trust you.”

Feyd dipped his head to meet your eyes and force you to look at him. He was barely smiling at all. His brows furrowed earnestly.

“You can trust me. I am only ever what I seem. I am an open book to any who care to read closely,” he whispered, mere inches from your face. He straightened and your eyes followed his. “Those who see that, don’t often call me ‘na-Baron’ every time they speak. Though I understand the risk one takes with using my name. I am quite��. impulsive.” And that smile again. This time with a touch of fondness in his eyes that suggested he was recalling a pleasant memory. Though you couldn’t imagine that murdering someone for using your given name would be pleasant. From what you knew of Feyd, he probably had done just such a thing.

“How might those who ‘read closely’ decipher your enigmatic smile?” Finding your voice, you spoke directly at him. This made him grin even more, showing his black teeth.

“Perhaps that may always be a game of guessing,” he quipped back. He took a step away from you and waited for you to follow. Your heart was almost pounding in your chest. You walked beside him, but allowing yourself to have some distance to think by staying one step behind. You tried not to stare at the slope of his head down to his neck, his hands, the only visible parts of his body. But they seemed to glow against the black cloth of his coat.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The silence was tense but not uncomfortable. You weren’t sure you could guess anything about him. Your first appraisal of him may have been entirely incorrect, or mostly.

The main house sprawled, much like a palace though more understated. You knew the halls and passages by heart, but you weren’t guiding Feyd. You followed him without thinking. Your instinct told you to gather yourself and head directly to your chambers without a backward glance. Your curiosity was stronger than your instinct. Curious about him, yes, but also curious as to why he was so interested in you.

Feyd didn’t stop as he opened the door and entered his room. You paused, waiting for an invitation. He held the door and looked at you, no expression on his face. Your choice he seemed to suggest. He didn’t hold out his hand in a welcoming gesture either. You took one more breath to make your decision.

His room was probably a drastic change for him from his home on Giedi Prime. He had been given a guest room fitting of his station. The sumptuous fabrics and ornate furniture were more grand than those in your own quarters. You paused near the middle of the room. If he sat you would join him. He didn’t.

He stepped in front of you, looking, not speaking, and you felt that damnable blush rise to your cheeks again.

“If I may,” he began. “I’ll answer your question.”

You tried to nod but couldn’t. Your mouth was as dry as Arrakis.

“No, I did not want to be trapped at that farce, the quiet tension so palpable one could cut it with a knife. I was thinking of all the things I had in mind for you.” He took a small step forward and tilted your face up to his, fingers guiding your chin. His eyes were fierce and you saw no mocking in his slight smile now.

“Then you were correct, your answer would have been quite improper,” you managed to reply, mustering the last of your propriety.

“Yes,” he drawled. “Yes, then it would have been improper, but we’re alone now.” He swept his hand, indicating the empty room but he didn’t look away from you. He didn’t wait for your to respond. “You aren’t deferential to me like the others in your house. You are… intriguing. As I sat next to you, I decided I wanted you and I get what I want. Always.”

Your body tensed as he leaned forward and kissed you. At first you were rigid, unsure of what you truly wanted, but as one of his hands found the back of your neck you realized you had actually wanted this all along. Still wary of him, you kissed him back but did not move to touch him. His other hand slid to your waist and gripped you firmly, fingers digging into your flesh through your clothing. You exhaled and softened in his arms. You felt his smile against your lips. You assumed it was a triumphant grin but set your pride aside and opened your mouth to him.

Feyd’s tongue slipped into your mouth. His hand gripped the back of your neck harder. You placed your hands on his chest, tentatively, testing this new closeness. He slid his hand from your side to your back and pulled you in closer. You didn’t want the kiss to end but he pulled away and looked at you.

“Was that so bad?” he ask, finally without a grin.

You could only shake your head as your heart thumped in your chest. You moved your hands upward, slowly, to his neck. Using both your hands, you pulled him back down to your mouth. A small groan left his mouth and he pressed his body against yours. You licked his black teeth, growing braver. You still felt hesitant, nervous, even a little frightened. You had experience, you weren’t shy, but those were with people from your home planet. He was a Harkonnen. Completely hairless, scarily pale, and notoriously cruel. Something about the combination of those thoughts made you press against him in return.

His lips left your mouth and he drug them along your jaw, down your neck, the graze of teeth making you shiver. You let your hands rest on his shoulders, resisting the need to move your hips against him. Patience, you thought.

Without warning, Feyd let you go. Suddenly, his arms were gone. Then he spun you around so your back pressed into his chest. He wasn’t going to be patient. He clamped one hand on your throat and rested the other on the lowest part of your stomach. His lips grazed your ear and his breath was hot as he spoke.

“Are you going to give me what I want?”

“Yes,” you replied though you weren’t sure the sound was audible.

“Say my name.”

“Yes, Feyd,” you swallowed, feeling his hand move on your throat as you did. “Anything you want.”

He chuckled at this, the sound vibrating into you from his chest. His grip on your throat wasn’t tight but it held you in place as he slid his hand farther down your stomach. You didn’t let yourself moan as his hand grazed your thigh but you involuntarily moved your hips. You didn’t want him to take his time. Your need was getting the better of you. This seemed to be happening so fast, yet it had truly begun at dinner. Your desire had been growing with every step toward this room.

Feyd kissed just behind your ear, down your neck, as his hand dipped between your thighs. You knew he could feel your arousal even through your clothing. You wanted to push against his hand and gain more friction. He continued to tease, up and down, but then his hand slipped under your clothing. His touch on your bare skin elicited a groan from you. He released your throat and used both hands to free you from the garments.

You were momentarily embarrassed at your sudden nakedness but that was pushed out of your thoughts when he put his mouth on your shoulder blades, kissing each in turn. You began to turn to face him but he stilled you with his hands. You looked over your shoulder as he tossed his coat onto a chair and pulled his shirt over his head. He was actually magnificent you realized. He was hailed as a great fighter but you understood now it was more than skill, it was also strength. You watched him take his place behind you again then turned to face front once more.

You realized Feyd wasn’t just clever, he was always a step ahead of everyone. When you had entered the room you had been so anxious that you only took a cursory glance around the space. However, he had maneuvered you to stand in front of the bed. Now that you saw it, your breath caught in your throat. He was kissing your spine, your ribs, letting his hands explore everywhere but where you needed him. You took a deep breath and instead of the exhale you expected you moaned. He kissed his way up your back and you could hear the smile in his voice.

“I take it you are no longer confused by me?”

“Quite the opposite,” you replied. You moved your hands behind you, finding his hips, and pulled him to you, back to chest again. It was infuriating that he still had his pants on. You slipped your fingertips under the waistband. Even half-clothed his erection was obvious against your backside.

Feyd gently pressed your arms to your sides and you felt immediate disappointment. But then he began to unfasten his pants. The heat from your body flooded to your core. The need, the ache, that had been growing there was now fully aflame. You felt one of his hands rest gently on your hip when he came back to you. Seeming to keep a bit of space between, you he guided your forward until you were only inches from the bed. His hand slid up your side, to your chest encircling you. You sighed again. His mouth explored and made its way back to your ear.

“Lick,” he commanded, holding his other hand in front of your face. It took a moment for you to understand and another moment for you to summon the courage to follow the command. He made you feel things you didn’t know existed. In a spilt second he made you feel like you were doing something wonderful yet illicit. It thrilled you and, as soon as your brain sent the signal, you lapped at his palm. He made a sound like a chuckle, but deeper. You pleased him.

You couldn’t see but you heard Feyd stroke his cock with his recently wetted hand. You whined. Not a moan but an actual, involuntary whine. The waiting was excruciating even if you couldn’t predict his actions, whatever was to come would surely feel amazing.

Feyd’s hand moved from your chest around to your back, rested gently between your shoulder blades, and began to press you forward. With your heart racing you leaned forward, placing your hands on the bed.

“Such a good pet,” he growled. You would have blushed if there had been any blood left in your body. It was currently all pooled in your core, throbbing with that need for him. He slid his hand down your back and gripped your hip. After what seemed like an eternity, you felt his cock between your thighs. You couldn’t control yourself and you pushed back a bit, trying to feel more of him. He gently held you in place. He moved so slowly, teasing you with his length. When he had the angle he wanted he put his hand on your other hip and pressed against you.

It was so slow. Every movement was wonderful torture. You tried not to push against him, so you pressed your face against the bed and groaned. He pulled back and began pressing into you again. You realized he hadn’t yet given you his full length and you gasped as he bottomed out. Over your breathing you heard the most delicious sound come from him. It was a groan, perhaps a word, but certainly a sound of extreme pleasure. Now, you did push back into him.

You looked over your shoulder as you ground your hips slightly and his eyes were open, watching your ass. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his mouth was slightly open. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so unique, in your life. Before you could appreciate him any longer he pulled back, started a new stroke, and caught your eye. He winked at you, cocky yet comforting.

You couldn’t take it, you buried your face in the bed clothes, overcome with desire. This man was your undoing. Just as that thought flickered in your mind Feyd increased his pace. With steady movement he brought forth a litany of noises from you. As he sped up you moaned and pushed back onto him. His low, rumbling groans were intoxicating.

Feyd’s hands roamed up from your hips, over your back, around to your stomach, ceaselessly exploring you. When he leaned forward, pressing his stomach along your back you reached behind you and grasped his arm. Pulling him down on you by his forearm, then traveling up to his bicep. Your fingers dug into his muscle His rested his forehead against your shoulder.

You felt the pressure building in your core from the consistent rhythm. You were lightheaded, dizzy with the feeling of Feyd’s weight on top of you, his scent, his sounds. Then a brightness shot through the fog as he reached around you and stroked the center of your heat. You made an undignified sound.

“Please, yes, there,” you groaned, unable to decide if you wanted to press forward into his hand or back to meet his hips. “Please, Feyd, don’t stop.”

“Of course not,” he replied as he kissed your shoulder and stoked the heat in your belly. He growled against you as he sped up. Pounding into you, his hand between your legs, his body pressed against yours, Feyd dominated all of your senses. You had no thoughts. Only the growing pressure inside you.

“Wait for me,” he said quietly but firmly. You could barely nod, much less speak to answer him, as all your concentration was focused on holding back the cresting wave.

Feyd’s strokes were deep but quick. He grazed his teeth over your skin. His unoccupied hand dug into your hip so he could fuck you that much harder. Then you felt it. The stutter of his hips. His hand between your thighs sped up. A flood of heat ran over your entire body. At the same time, your core seemed to explode. His grunting made you cum that much harder.

He let out a final, deep moan, mingled with your name, and spilled his black seed inside you. You inhaled shakily, smiling to yourself. The lightheadedness was back and you felt emptied, completely hollowed out. You stayed still as he caught his breath. You tried to relax as he pulled out, but were unable to stifle a small gasp. You were ruined but never wanted this to end.

Feyd gently stroked your back and then began to guide you up, almost lifting you from the bed. When you were standing in front of him he kissed you on the forehead, then the lips. With his hand on the small of you back he led you to the side of the bed. He didn’t instruct you to lay down, you didn’t have a choice. There was no way you could remain standing on your shaking legs any longer. He covered you with the blanket then stepped away for a moment. Unable to keep your eyes open you listened for him.

He soon walked to the other side of the bed and slipped into it, pulling you against him. He tucked you as close to him as possible. He kissed your neck. Then nuzzled his face against you before resting his head close enough so you could feel his breath on the back of your neck.

“I always get what I want,” he whispered. Your lips curved into a gentle, satisfied smile.

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ghostgirl101 · 6 months ago

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Being Loved By Paul Atreides

A/N: Quick lil blurb headcanon thingy while I work on my next set of hcs between a Feyd and Paul love triangle 🙃

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're never alone, not inside your mind or out of it. The Water of Life gave him the pooling knowledge to break into others' and he almost always knows how you're feeling, without even having to say a word. Even if you're quiet about how you feel and are usually good at pushing things down and hiding them away, Paul always manages to bring the to light, and you'll know you're caught out when you look up from where you are to immediately catch his blue-in-blue gaze locked onto yours with a knowing look. Sometimes the knowing look turns a bit cocky when what you're thinking about happens to be him.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're an anchor to his humanity and burden as the Messiah, having a profound and unbreakable bond tied with you that transcends any ordinary relationship. The love he feels for you is a force in itself, scarily powerful and true and darkly pure, that no other force in the Known Universe could sever it.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're the only one to see him at his smallest and most vulnerable, in between council meetings and fights in his name during the Holy War breaking out over the worlds, the guilt that racks him to his core and makes him want to hide away from it all. The nights that are spent clinging to you so tightly that your skin goes pale by his hard grip, and there's nothing more to feel but the overwhelming heat of his body pressed up as close as it can against your own, his dark hair tickling your neck and face while he burrows into your neck to smell nothing but the soft signature scent of you, and of home.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that every touch, gesture, and moment of closeness feels like something more, like every action to pull you in closer isn't just physical, but a mental strain too, to merge your thoughts and sense of self with his own, so much so that it's almost suffocating.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that you're never protected more than you are when you're under his fierce, observant watch and devotion. He insists that he doesn't need his guards or watchmen as he can look after himself, with heightened senses and strength enough to know what's coming his way in the present moments and the hidden intentions of those around him, and so they're sent to watch over you instead with keen eyes and strict instruction. If Paul himself is not standing watch over you by your side, you can feel his eyes on you, as if it's omnipresent, and god forbid anyone to let their gaze linger on you with a look he doesn't like, because that's a sure way to be sent down as a sacrifice to the sandworms.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that the only advice or insight he's given that he would truly and wholly think over and consider would have to come from you and be believed by you without the influence of others, because his trust lies in you, and its enough to make him pause for a moment in thought as he pulls apart your words and all their meaning to see if they can fit in and around his plans.

Being loved by Paul Atreides would mean that he would never give a moment of a second's thought to any other man or woman but you, because he holds strong to the conviction that you're his soulmate and the leading light of his destiny. If you die, he dies inside with the last of his strength, and he'll embrace the desert with open arms to offer him up to the great Shai Hulud Himself.

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Next Week's Fanfic: Headcanons for a love triangle between you, Feyd-Rautha and Paul Atreides 😎😎 ⊹˚₊‧───────────────────────────────────────────‧₊˚⊹

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to this for my future Dune fanfics): @milaeth @ennycutie @nckcn @void21 @leighta @williamtt33 @deathsimp @tatumrileyslover @beebumbo @the-dark-dreamer25 @lilepad @skboo @keicdcat @1950schick @reggiesmoon @velosrantipole @yoonessa @anonymjuni @saturnhas82moons @xlxnq @frickyea-guacamole19 @meowmeeps @chalklate

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DUNE MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆ MAIN MASTERLIST

#paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x you #paul atreides imagine #paul atreides oneshot #paul atreides fanfic #dune x reader #dune x you #dune x y/n #dune 2 x reader #dune fanfiction #dune fic #dune imagine #dune headcanons

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crescenthistory · 4 months ago

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Miscellaneous Films Masterlist

💌 = fluff I 📭 = angst I 📬 = hurt/comfort I 📜 = smut I 🪧 = humour

ִ ࣪𖤐 paul atreides (dune)

(7.2k) in the silence, there is an us (💌📬: childhood best friends to lovers, different times you and paul have shared a bed over your lives)

⤷ (3.6k) you are my favourite silence (📬: paul's pov in the scene with jessica and the nights that followed)

(3.5k) there will not be a day where i am not there for you (📬: reader does not want to burden paul with her illness)

drabbles:

(1.5k) come back to bed (💌: paul tries to work late into the night, you drag him back to sleep)

(1.4k) loosen up a little (📜: reader helps paul relax)

(1.1k) Paul gets a Fremen illness (📬: even a great leader can get sick and you are there to remind paul of that)

(1.6k) kiss me again (💌: neither you nor paul are one to back down during sparring sessions)

ִ 𖤐 lee (bones & all)

(13.6k) You and I, We've Grown Comfortable Here (💌📬: slowburn romance, life on the road with lee, discovering you're more alike than you thought)

⤷ (3.8k) i found a home, she's beautiful (📬💌: lee introduces you to kayla for the first time) ⤷ (2k) small luxuries with you (📜💌: motel room, their first time together)

drabbles:

(1.8k) a thousand kisses (💌: slow mornings in the truck with lee)

(1.8k) scare actors needed (💌🪧: halloween fic, reader and lee find temporary work at a haunted house)

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goldenatreides · 11 months ago

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- training season -

[ paul atreides x reader ]

2.7k words, oneshot, smut, friends to lovers

summary: in a pinch, a dusty old weapons closet is just as good a hiding place as any.

content warnings: 18+ (minors shoo!) no use of y/n, all characters are over 18, f!reader, smut, religious imagery, mentions of violence, use of the Voice, implied consent, m/f pairing, fingering, PiV sex, semi-public unprotected sex, creampie, uhhhhh overuse of italics, gurney halleck jumpscare,

author’s note: you will pry my italics and religious imagery from my cold, dead hands. i need to be sedated. all feedback is appreciated and lmk if u find anything wrong, it’s my first time writing in a decade i think!! thank you to @earthshells for editing and teaching me about shrimping in bjj <3

🤍 masterlist 🤍 about 🤍 read on ao3 🤍

The clash of two blades resonates through the training room of Caladan.

Paul swipes at your side with his blade but you dodge, elbowing him hard in the ribs, catching him off balance. As you back away, he grabs your arm and pulls you down with him, pinning you against the ground; your face down on the cold stone floor, his legs straddling your back.

Your chest burns at the impact, flush against the floor. You feel his entire weight on top of you, heaving from exertion. His legs keep one arm locked at your side, under him, the other still caught in his grasp, pressed to the ground. Your blade scrapes against the stone.

“Do you yield?” His voice is much closer than you expect. His breath is close, tickling the back of your neck, too close, too warm—a shiver snakes down your spine.

(Why does it do that?)

Dark messy curls fall into your field of vision, some brushing the shell of your ear. A prickle against your jugular taunts you — his knife at your throat. Your shield buzzes with the contact.

(Ah.

He’s pressing it harder today than ever before.)

You make a small noise in answer, sound muffled by the ground.

Paul shifts his weight on top of you by sitting up, his legs still caging your back, knife at your throat. He relaxes the hand that holds yours bound.

(That’s new.)

Instead, Paul grabs a fistful of your hair at the back of your neck, lifting your head slightly. It hurts — but you can’t lie and say it’s… entirely unpleasant.

(Oh.

That’s new too.)

“Well?”

You can hear the teasing grin in his voice. Years upon years of training with him and still, he knows your left side is your weakest. But you’ll be damned before you give Paul the satisfaction of beating you for the third time in a row this week.

You wriggle slightly under him, testing his hold — why is he still clutching your hair? — and finding it looser than you expect, you rotate, using your free arm to lurch back and upwards suddenly, knocking him off you. You hear him land to your side with a thud and a surprised grunt, blade clattering to the ground.

Fingers curling around the hilt of your blade, you spin around, hooking your legs against his to trap him. Now, you straddle him, your knife pressing against his throat.

“What’s gotten into you today, Paul?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” he answers, still grinning.

His eyes are deadly, dark green.

Ignoring his choice to play stupid, you hiss: “Do you yield, Atreides?”

His holtzmann shield buzzes a bright red at his neck.

Your pulse buzzes too.

(Just the adrenaline.)

You want to wipe the smug grin off his face. He could have won so easily, you were distracted, why didn’t he?

Maybe he let his guard down too soon, or maybe — and you’ll never forgive him in this case — he’s going easy on you.

You feel the pinprick echo of his hands clutching your hair. A knot ties in your stomach, but you refuse to associate the two feelings.

(It must be close to lunch by now.)

Surely that must be it.

Paul laughs. It’s bright, airy — did your heart just skip a beat?

“Never.”

He reaches for his blade — that he shouldn’t have lost in the first place, he knows better than that — and as you lean forward to stop him, he uses your momentary distraction to free his other hand.

Which he promptly knots into your hair again, pulling you down by the back of your neck. Your legs slide out from under you against the slippery stone floor. Curse whoever built this castle.

Your own shield joins the buzzing, his knife finding your neck once more, yours still pressed against his, noses a hair’s width away.

His chest moves yours with each breath, every exhale waving strands of your hair that escaped his grasp.

You lie frozen above him for a moment or two. His eyes are so close you can count every individual lash, his pupils so blown you can see yourself reflected back at you.

Something about them is different today.

You’ve been staring at those eyes your whole life. Countless wishes cast on those same fallen lashes, gold flecks sparkling through a sea of forest green. You’ve seen them beam with childish mirth when you stole pastries from the kitchen, both your hands sticky from the bun you shared, giggling under a heavy oak table. You’ve seen them sorrowful and sullen, his under eyes as dark as bruises as he snuck into your room for comfort in the middle of the night after a bad dream, innocent adolescence.

Now, from so close, they’re dark, darker than you’ve seen—a raging sea, so bewitching it can drown you with no warning if you don’t tread with caution. You’ve caught glimpses of it before, in darkened hallways and after too many glasses of crimson Caladan wine, when he didn’t think you were looking—but never with such feverish intensity.

(Just the adrenaline.

He’s just caught up in the fight.)

Paul’s lips part slightly as his chest heaves up and down beneath you. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks, and a mirroring rosy blush dusts his high cheekbones. Few faint freckles dot his cheeks during the summer season and you see them now like clusters of little stars.

His eyes never leave yours, but his tongue darting out and slightly wetting his parted lips grabs your attention and you can’t help but stare. You trace your gaze along the dip in his cupid’s bow, the regal arch of his pointed nose, the cheekbones sculpted as if from marble of antiquity.

(Oh, Maker.

I’m staring.)

You cough to clear your throat from the thick silence that settles over the two of you, broken only by your mingled breaths. His mouth closes, lips curling into a coy smile as he sees you flush more under his stare.

“Something wrong?” his voice comes out husky, deeper than you’ve heard before. Why was the room suddenly so hot? The castle’s heating never worked so well.

You refuse to meet his piercing gaze again, mortified at the situation, desperate to look anywhere but at the boy below you. The boy —your childhood best friend, you remind yourself in an attempt to clear your head of whatever is happening—is different today.

(And whatever is happening is definitely not happening.

It’s just Paul.

He’s just messing with you.)

Still avoiding his eyes, you sit up, excuses already tumbling from your mouth—cut off by Paul tightening his grip on your hair, sending electric sparks tingling at the roots of your scalp.

Your breath hitches in your throat as his voice comes out not fully his own—distant, many echoing voices folding in his own all at once, commanding your undivided attention and acceptance:

“Look at me.”

Your stomach falls through the floor as your eyes snap to meet his. Maybe all those lessons he skipped to hang out with you were not so useless after all.

You feel every point of contact with him a thousandfold. His hand in your hair, yours on his chest, his toned waist between your ever-so-slightly trembling legs. His other hand drops his knife, and slides up to rest on your waist, lithe fingers delicately brushing the stitches of your clothing.

“Paul—” Your voice comes out more of a whispery mumble than you expected.

(Maybe the floor will open up and swallow me whole.)

The hand in your hair relaxes, and his palm slides down to the back of your neck, fingers light as a feather. They hook your jaw, cupping your cheek. You think you’ll suffocate under the weight of his gaze on you.

Paul breaks the stare first, his eyes clinging to your mouth.

His thumb gently traces the outside of your lips, teasing your bottom lip. You hope he can’t feel how your pulse thunders against your neck, your heart threatening to escape your chest at his very touch.

(He definitely can.)

Heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway outside break the spell and you both freeze in a moment of panic. A familiar voice calls out for Paul, as you jump off him and he scrambles to his feet.

He looks around the room quickly, and seeing an old and dusty weapons storage closet, he grabs your hand and pulls you into it, shutting the heavy door as quietly as possible behind him.

Not a moment too soon, as you hear Gurney Halleck’s voice coming from the training room.

“Paul?”

After a beat of silence, Gurney sighs in frustration and you hear the training room doors click as he leaves.

You and Paul breathe a sigh of relief. You’ve both skipped out on one too many tutors this week, but the consequences can wait until…later.

Your eyes adjust to the lack of light in the closet. In the inky darkness, you feel Paul standing in front of you, so close in the cramped space that with each breath his chest flushes against yours. He smells of cedar, of bergamot, of honey. Comforting. Familiar. Paul.

What the hell just happened in that training room? You’re not willing to break the heavy silence first. Neither is he.

Instead, he kisses you.

Your mind goes blank as you feel his lips, softer than a pillow, press against yours. The kiss is gentle, shy, nothing like the fierce training you were practicing earlier, nothing like the commanding voice of the Atreides heir.

(Oh, fuck it.

Maybe it is happening.)

As Paul starts to pull away, you open your lips and kiss him back—feverish, hungry, devouring—your heart hammering out of your chest.

It was as if a rubber band had snapped, releasing whatever was holding either one of you back. He deepens the kiss, and you melt into it—his lips crashing against yours, his tongue tracing against your own. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and softly pulls, wrenching a deep moan from you that he stifles with his lips.

His hands find your waist and he pushes you back against the wall, lifting you up. You wrap your legs around his middle as he presses into you, his hips slotting perfectly between them.

The sudden movement sends a rack of old weapons crashing down, a cacophony of metal and plasteel, undoubtedly ancient and expensive, startling you both.

He pulls back from you for a moment and breathes heavily, both of you straining to hear if anyone noticed. As you relax, he presses his forehead against yours. A stray curl brushes your lashes. If someone were to find you here, like this, you’re both good as dead for the foreseeable future.

In the darkness, your labored breaths intermingling, his voice comes out as barely a whisper.

“Is this alright?”

Your head spins and you think if you don’t have him right now, immediately, you might die.

Instead of answering, you grab Paul’s face and pull him back in for a kiss. He moans into you, a deep guttural groan, rolling his hips forward, starving hands roaming against breathless skin.

Heat pools in your stomach as he continues to roll his hips against yours, his lips plush and addicting. You knot your fingers into his unruly curls, gently tugging and the groan that leaves his lips is more holy than a hymn.

(Maybe you could stay like this forever.)

He peppers desperate butterfly kisses along your lips, along your jaw, along the length of your neck. As he presses his lips to your pulse in the crook of your neck, you hear him chuckle as you feel the thud-thud thud-thud thud-thud of your racing heartbeat.

His hands fall from your waist to cup your thighs as he continues to kiss and nip at your neck, grazing his teeth along your pulse, leaving barely a mark. The heat between your legs only grows, electricity shooting upwards with every push of his hips. Even through the layers of cloth you can feel him against you and every cell in your body screams more, more, more.

Paul’s hand slides up your inner thigh, and grazes a sensitive spot through the fabric of your underwear. Instinctively, you arch into it, but he stops and pins your back harder against the wall until you can’t move an inch, trapped by his arms and his presence.

You know he’s grinning like a devil in the dark. You don’t want to wipe it away this time.

He toys with the waistband of your underwear, slipping a finger behind the fabric, teasing in lazy, languid strokes. You whine softly, unspoken begs for more of his touch that set your cheeks ablaze and your head whirling.

“What is it?” Paul asks, lips at your neck, kissing at a delicate spot right under your jaw.

“Please,” you groan.

His breathing is ragged as he continues toying with your waistband, a teasing finger occasionally traveling down between your legs.

You think you’re going to die waiting.

“Please what?” He’s toying with you, his voice laced with honey.

If you do die, you’re going to drag him to hell with you.

But in between bruising kisses, all you manage is a whimper that Paul swallows with his kiss.

“Use your words, my star.”

His lips trace the shell of your ear sending electric shivers down your spine. His teeth tug slightly at the lobe and the world echoes until the only thing left is him and his hands and his voice.

“I need you, Paul,” you breathe, the words leaving your mouth before you even think of them, pulled out by his Voice, “Please.”

A lithe finger finally slips under the fabric, pushing it aside. His thumb traces hurried circles around your clit, everything already slick from his relentless teasing.

He presses his lips to yours again, silencing his own groans. Just as the knot in your stomach starts to build, he slides a finger down your slit, and you sigh at the loss of his rhythmic movement.

But you don’t have time to voice your discontent—you feel him slide one of his long fingers inside you and you press into his touch. You don’t even have time to think before another finger slips in and you feel the slight burning stretch. Your head falls back against the cold wall as you pant, and his hands work in and out, chasing your pleasure.

You dig your nails into his back. His hand works faster and faster, and in between whispered curses and pleading prayers you find your release.

Through the haze of your high and waves of bliss, you’re vaguely aware of Paul’s belt buckle falling to the ground, somewhere. In the tangle of roaming hands, messy hair and skin plastered with a thin sheen of sweat, Paul’s shirt buttons come undone — likely by your doing — and your own soaked underwear gets lost in the dark — definitely Paul’s doing.

However, you’re very aware of every inch of Paul as he slides himself into you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer over and over again.

“You’re doing so good for me, my star,” Paul sighs into your ear, his hips flush against yours, fully inside. “You’re doing so well.”

With every thrust of his hips, you welcome the feeling of fullness as your nails rake down his back, leaving delicate red marks and half-moon indentations. Every push, he reaches a deeper part of you, his hands guiding your hips to meet him again and again, goosebumps covering your skin at his feverish touch.

Through half lidded eyes, you see his silhouette in the dark, tousled dark curls haloed by a sliver of light from the doorframe, strong shoulders and toned arms keeping you pressed against the wall even as his hips stutter in his desperate rhythm inside you.

He falters and you feel him twitch, consequences be damned, as he sinks completely inside you, hands bruising your hips and voice groaning as his own release catches up to him.

He looks almost holy this way, completely undone inside you, and whispering your name as if it can save him.

(Maybe it can.)

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loverangels · 3 months ago

Note

Paul Ateridas x reader

Paul gets sick because of his visions and the stress of it all

I apologise for the extremely late delay 😞

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

You woke up in the dim, soft light of the room on Arrakis, a quiet sense of worry settling into your chest as soon as you noticed the warmth radiating from Paul’s body. He was curled up on his side, face scrunched in discomfort, his usually calm and collected expression replaced by the faint traces of exhaustion.

“Paul?” You whispered gently, brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead, trying not to wake him too suddenly. His skin was warmer than usual, his breath shallow as he shifted restlessly. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand where it rested against your waist, and your heart ached seeing him like this.

The visions had been particularly bad lately—he’d hardly spoken about them, but you knew. You always knew when he was overwhelmed.

"Paul," you said again, a little firmer this time. "Baby, are you okay?"

His eyes fluttered open slowly, blinking against the soft light, and for a moment, he looked dazed, like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. His hand tightened around yours, pulling you closer, though he still tried to keep his voice steady, despite how worn out he sounded. "I'm fine, love. Just... just a little tired."

You raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "Tired, huh? You’re burning up, my poor sunshine," you teased softly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple, your lips lingering there for a moment, just enough to soothe him.

He groaned, but you could tell it wasn’t out of annoyance. "I don’t need you fussing over me," he muttered, but the words were weak, and you could hear the exhaustion lacing his voice.

You smiled gently, brushing your thumb across his jaw. "I don’t care if you don’t need me to fuss. You do need to rest, my love. You’re sick, and I’m not going anywhere until you let me take care of you."

Paul tried to sit up, his movements sluggish, but you softly placed a hand on his chest to keep him lying down. "Stay, please. Just for a little while." His voice had the softest plea in it, and your heart melted, knowing how hard it was for him to admit that he needed help.

"Okay, baby. You can stay in my arms all you want," you said with a smile, pressing your lips to his forehead again, this time leaving a lingering kiss there. "I’m here. Always."

He let out a soft sigh and melted back into the pillows, his face still flushed with fever, but his eyes were calmer now, more at peace. "I don’t know what I’d do without you," he whispered, his arms wrapping around you tightly as if he never wanted to let you go.

You grinned and kissed his cheek, planting little pecks all over his face, his nose, his eyelids, and finally, his lips. "You’d be a hot mess without me, Atreides," you teased, your fingers running through his hair. He hummed in contentment, his face softening at your touch.

"Stop," he murmured with a small, playful smile, even though you knew he loved it. "I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you."

"Well, you can take care of me later, my love," you said sweetly, curling up beside him, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "Right now, I’m the one taking care of you."

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his voice low and warm. "You’re the best... my sweet little nurse.

You giggled and snuggled even closer to him, feeling his arms wrap around you protectively. "Only for you, sunshine. Only for you."

His breathing slowed as he relaxed into your arms, his feverish heat still there but softened by your soothing presence. "You’re perfect," he whispered sleepily. "Just perfect."

You smiled, pressing your lips to his cheek once more, your fingers tracing circles on his chest as you both drifted into a peaceful, comfortable silence. "I love you, Paul. Rest, my love. I’ve got you."

And in that moment, the world outside—whatever visions were haunting him, whatever weight he carried—didn’t matter. Because here, in your arms, was the only place he could truly relax. And you weren’t going anywhere.

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malvoile · 2 months ago

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Me and the Devil ; iii

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴘʜᴀɴᴛᴏᴍ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀɪʙꜱ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇɢᴜɴ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀʀʙᴏʀ ᴏᴅᴅ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 14.4k warnings: canon-typical threats, violence - serious bodily harm. graphic injury, blood, light smut, allusions ish to oral (f receiving), fingering, light choking, biting, very very brief dubcon (feyd warning tbh i should just call it this), unprotected PiV, fantasies, fair pulling. food sharing & mentions of hunger, discussion of alcohol, religious/cultural trauma, familiar trauma. freaky dreams, foreshadowing. fluff and some angst too - and a fair amount of politics that i made up lol notes: hiiii guys <3 a long chapter here, there's no good way to cut it up hehe - also i am sorry i didn't edit this after rewriting it so im sorry abt any typos. feedback very much appreciated! previous series masterlist

Concerns Rise Over the Destabilization of Sabberon

In the wake of the unseating of House Bourbon and the resulting power vacuum on the House’s formerly fiefed planet Sabberon, concerns are mounting over potential destabilization within the planet's region. Situated in a crucial sector of the galactic trade route, Sabberon's turmoil could have far-reaching implications, not only for orbital stability, but for the economic prosperity of the Landsraad's main trade economy.

With no governing body to maintain order, rising insurgent groups throughout the planet threaten to plunge Sabberon into chaos. The potential for conflict and upheaval remains a significant concern for the wider galactic community – yet as of today, there has been no comment by the Emperor.

This all comes to head a month before the Imperium's Annual Referendum, wherein new negotiations on Space Trade routes will be drawn, along with the final Arraignment of the House Bourbon.

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan.

Somewhere high upon the northern continent of the planet Sabberon, there is a trail that leads through the forest.

Past the Castle Bourbon, it winds up the slope of a mountaintop – in the short springtime, when the snow thaws and the glaciers spill their icy veins through the woods and ravines, the ground grows spongy with wild grass.

It is soft below your feet now.

The highest range of mountains tower in the distance; they dominate your sight, caps bald with such reflected sharpness that you have to squint against the rays. It is warmer in these elevations, and though the path you walk now is thawed and overgrown with alpine flora, those peaks on the horizon never lose their ice – nor the bursting jeweled-veins they hide deep within.

The sun is shy and springlike; it glows upon the skin revealed beneath your dress and glistens off dripping pine needles swaying to the ground in the breeze. Bare feet; cold, toes stained with earthy soil, and the warmth of a weight tugged within your grasped hand.

Trees rustle and whisper around you as you pass slowly, a breath echoed in the woods – branches smack against your bare arms as you near the secluded clearing ahead. It is small, though venerated; embraced by tall trees, laden with chiffon ribbons of green. Laid within your vision beneath the sinking shade is a pyre lit with candles, in offering and loomed only by the Pine which grows so high that it is swallowed by the breath of clouds high above.

The breath that falls from your lips is one of peace.

The sheet laid before the safety of the Pine is welcoming – you lie upon it, strewn with the breeze and the song of birds through the trees; overhead, the sky streaks pink and orange.

An arm brushes your own – a body lies beside you, and as your eyes flutter shut, you feel the touch trail slowly up the expanse of your side, curling around your arm to soothe the goosebumps which arise.

A pair of lips find your own, and though you see merely darkness and glimpses of glistening sky high above, the heat consumes you: Slowly and kindly.

A sigh against plush lips, hands searching for the heat of your husband, a soft breath of a chuckle against your cheek. He is bare chested; and his skin burns when he presses against your yearning palms, desiring, willing, hungry.

His own fingers trace the trail of goosebumps up your thigh and under the hem of the dress; pleasure follows in his wake as your head tilts back, a long-dormant yearning awakening at the sound of his breaths. And in the small noises you emit, a smile presses to your throat, a small hum of satisfaction from your husband above you. Though the sun is warm and orange upon your eyelids, you do not open them - far too caught in the warmth of your husband’s touch.

A grasp of the plush of your thigh – a soft thing, though intent in their own right; and you turn to receive his waiting body, a line of warmth upon your own as his touch teases over your heat. A long gasp when a warm palm finds your aching desire and teases you, light as the wind in your hair and the birds chirping in the woods.

Your lips find his once more, breath hot as his fingers press, agonizingly slow, into you; a sigh that slips towards a moan in the uptick in singing birds, the rustle of wind through whistling leaves as he hums into your mouth.

Tingling with anticipation, with desire, you clutch him – and muscles lithe and warm strain underneath your nails, his touch sliding to press against you once more, slowly moving into a rhythm that brings a gasp lodged into your throat.

A phantom tickle graces across your forehead – hair, though you’re unsure if it’s yours or his – and though he leans forward and grasps the sheet beside your head, his other hand continues its ministrations, stirring arousal from the deepest pits of your being.

In the throes of passion, you throw your head back once more, inhaling deeply in an attempt to conceal any possible hitch in control; though instead of the fresh forest, instead of your husband – you choke on the suddenly tinny air that seems to leak from the sky, which presses into your lungs even as you rock in pleasure.

A hazy thought meanders through your lapsed consciousness – your husband smells different here, upon the ground of the Sacred Pine; not like the fresh scent of sea-salt soaps and wooded forests; though the the metallic scent washes away as lips trail down your throat, nipping at your heady skin when your head falls back onto the white sheet.

Following the soft moan you let out is a shush from his lips, gentle as the breeze through the needles of the trees; Ecstasy dances through you, lighting a fire of desire that has your legs squirming to close as your husband presses them back open with the palm of his hand.

His presence is warm, eager; and consuming.

Though his hands push, bunching your dress over your hips; your eyes flutter to glance at the Pine, standing tall above you. From upside-down, it sways rather curiously, licks of heat igniting from high in the branches – and the sky is streaked in a bizarre breath, a strike of unease in your gut that is swallowed by the dip of light below ridged peaks in the distance.

Though even in the evening light, it seems as though the branches of the Pine are ablaze; and before you move to sit up, perhaps observe closer, your husband’s wanting lips slot against yours once more.

You melt into the sheet below; a warmth pressed eagerly against your own heat strikes a match within you, your eyes rolling back in pleasure before shutting in bliss. The moan that slips from your lips rings warbled in the clearing, as though fallen through a lake – and your husband nips at your kiss-bitten lips slowly.

The ridges of his spine tense as your hands slide along – and the length presses against your aching core, his lips grazing your cheek.

Wind whistles through the trees, ashy and blown. In the quiet of the forest, you whisper softly and your voice is nearly swallowed by faint screams.

“I love you.”

Barely a breath of words against his lips – and his hands tug your hair gently, exposing your neck to his wanting teeth once more. The Pine above sways again, belying a breath of orange and a scream of heat – but you blink and soon teeth are biting sharply, pain striking you through your spine.

Chuckles into the open air around you, curling in your mind as a hand slides down your side; though your words were no such thing of humour, your gaze flutters shut and lips press on in search of the more sensitive areas of your neck.

The chill breeze flutters over your bare skin, goosebumps cascading over every curve of you; though the more your husband bites down, the stronger the foreign smell grows – and in a grunt of discomfort, you shove his mouth away from your throat.

His warmth leaves you, and in an instant, his voice curls into your mind and seeps dread through you.

“I know, pet.”

A whisper - cold and sinister; you have less than a moment to shift, to scramble away from the huffing chuckle from the shadows of your vision, before it happens.

A sharp pain punctures through you.

Blood curdling – the scream you let out tears through the woods, sending a murder of crows to the sky with screams of their own; and your eyes fly open to find your husband’s eyes–

Though it is not Paul at all.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen smiles cruelly, watching with a hunger in his eyes as he presses; The pain between your ribs is unbearable, and your hand flies in a choked gasp to cover his own, feeling the sickeningly familiar hilt protruding from you.

In terror, you look down:

A sickeningly pale hand grips your own nameday knife, the exposed part of its blade glinting in the dim light of the ceremonial candles; a lick of flames which were moments ago above you, around you, within you.

You are struck with paralyzing fear – and Feyd-Rautha’s breath is hot against you as he slowly leans down, lips cold; you feel the hilt twist just as his lips press to your forehead.

Blood seeps a slow march; over your body, it soaks into the sheet below you, tainting the ritual in crimson – and you remain in your expiring breaths, a small glowing ember carried to the hearth of forgotten gods; lied and lying, taking and taken.

“You're mine.” And his hand turns the blade deeper, glinting as you scream. “My little wife.”

Rays of sunlight pierce your vision when you jolt to life.

A haunt of touch still upon your ribs; and a face hovering before you, staring deep into your racing heartbeat. And so in your delirious panic, you lash out – a fight to get the body off of your own, your fist swings wildly in your blind haze.

Though a palm of defense catches the brunt of your offense, and you are effectively jerked aside as a gasp floats into the still dust of the room. For a moment as your heart pounds, you consider how many moves it'd take to disarm your attacker – but when you blink yourself into focus, your stomach drops.

Hestia, cheeks red as she breathes, her round eyes wide; her grip is firm, gentle around your closed fist, but her brows are knit with worry.

"My lady," Her voice is airy, eyes searching your panicked gaze, “You were only dreaming.”

It is ragged, the gasps you take – and you blink in rapid attempt to dispel the lingering tendrils of nightmare that still cling to your consciousness. Dread finds you; regret clasping your ribs in a deadly embrace.

“Void above,” You whisper, eyes pricking in regret, “I-I'm sorry,” you stammer, the weight of your actions crashing down upon you as you realize what you've done. "Are you okay? Hestia, I didn't mean to–”

Your hand is squeezed gently within her own. “It's alright,” she says, “You were frightened. I woke you while you slept. Anyone would react the same way.”

It is a lie wrapped in a gauzy layer of kindness; and guilt gnaws within you, a lump in your throat.

“I wouldn't hurt you.”

Though your tone is less than a whisper into the morning beams of light, Hestia's visage remains unwavering and calm. “I know you wouldn’t,” She promises, “And you didn't. I'm just glad you're alright.”

You are struck with relief at her words and you allow yourself a moment of breath as she takes a step away from your heaving chest to draw further the curtains across the way. The bruises and marks from your old life took several days to fade after your arrival on Caladan; though she, nor the other maids, ever said a thing, let alone stared too long when you’d slipped a tunic over the jagged scar across your ribs each morning– nor when they offered the makeup in the tone of your skin to cover the odd-shaped marks upon your neck of fading teeth – nor when they helped you pull the mourning veil over your face.

You’ve grown quite fond of them all. Particularly Hestia, in her tenderness and willful amiability; it occurs to you slowly as you watch her gather your clothing that you never found this kind of humanity on Giedi Prime.

And even after you and Hestia finish your breakfast, she doesn't ask about the dream; And you don't tell her.

It is certainly not the first of these dreams you've had – such a place has haunted you nearly every night since you begun dreaming again in the wake of the poisonous sun; Those mountains, the hills, the pathway to the open clearing: Each night, it calls to you, singing a song you cannot hear.

But never, not until now, has there been a man with you.

Never has Paul, nor Feyd-Rautha, found you in those dreams.

A sharp pain still clings to your breaths – and still lingers that phantom blade, stuck through your ribs; haunted in the shadows by the cold stare of the man you were once promised to forever.

A haunting thing, to near such a pleasant dream – only to be ripped from it by the ghost of shadows; and you reel anyways in shame from the beginning of the dream – fading at the tips of your fingers, such a warm and hungry thing it’d started out as…

Paul, your mind reminds you as you swallow the unease in your stomach, it was Paul who was with you in the beginning.

An odd ritual it’d been – one that felt faint yet familiar, as though some ghost long dead had whispered such things to you in your sleep; and you shake off the dusty robes of the past in search of the present, a more tangible and decidedly less salacious thing.

Dressing is a solemn affair this morning.

It is slow that you drape yourself in the fineries of a life far left behind; cloth made from the veins of plants alpine and far away – they smell of the ocean now, and you watch the pines in the distant western forest bristle in the breeze. It is not until Hestia brings forth the gifted necklace that you hesitate.

It glints in the morning rays – precious stone carving the hawk and sigil, a soft thing, but cut sharp with the cerulean green valleys and ridges of the jewel; and though Hestia is slow as a hunter to a startled doe, you still stiffen when he moves to lace it around your neck.

She's not unused to this; it's been half a week since it was given to you, and each day you have bared your teeth as she clasps it around your neck – though still, beneath the veil, holding the skin above your heart captive, you wear it.

She is beside you, now, and it is not hard for her to tell where your mind’s gone.

“You said he apologized?” She asks it tentatively, as though you might slit her throat at the mere mention of Paul; though instead you merely huff a humourless laugh. “He did,” You affirm, “Though only after I told his parents.”

Your agony is received; you sigh once more, “I acted like a child. Perhaps I was in the right, but nevertheless–” You glance out towards the glinting forest and moors beyond, clenching your jaw at the memory of Paul’s sharp eyes and accusatory tongue. “He must hate me more now.”

The necklace is clasped over your clavicle, and you can feel the incredulous look Hestia sends you; though you merely press your lips, admiring the pendant against your skin in the morning light of the mirror. It does well suit you, much to your chagrin; a fine piece as ever to hold above your head.

Power always seems so beautiful in the morning light.

She says your name gently, whispering into the empty bedroom, “He gifted you a family heirloom – look at it! It must be older than the two of us combined.”

And her irreproachability is as charming as it is unnatural – it is still an adjustment, to take in her joyous nature, the curve of a smile so genuine and spirited. It is still an adjustment, then, to see people so human and to try to return some semblance of that humanity in gratitude; and though she is lighthearted, it does not quell your distress.

Your teeth worry into your bottom lip as you hum gently, shrugging, though you wish to simply melt into the girlish giddiness that leaks from her and infects the corner of your smile.

“It's not so simple”

Your eyes cast down, where your bare feet stand against the floor – and for a blink, beneath them lies wild grass, a white sheet; a seep of crimson leaks through the pristine fabric and you snap away, taking a step back and staring skittishly at Hestia. “I think he’d prefer for me to remember who now holds my reins.”

And if anything, it is a relief to be able to speak so candidly with someone; a trust, knowing it will not leak from your lips through her own and into the ear of the Duke – or his son.

“Or, it's his way of trying to welcome you into House Atreides?” She suggests with a lifted brow, and the indignant part of you bristles as she continues, “He does not mean ill will, I promise. He's... slow to trust.”

You turn, figure shrouded in the morning light’s beams through your large windows. Your brow lifts, your tone teasing; A foreign thing – one that, out of rusty exercise, delivers more accusatory than intended. “You seem to know Lord Paul quite well, Hestia.”

And, as expected, she flushes red; you hide your smirk in the palm of your hand as she shakes her head, eager to dispel any perceived accusations.

“N-nothing like that, my lady –" And it is rather frantically she rushes to assure you, "My mother is Lady Jessica’s in-waiting,” She explains quickly, fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of your blouse, “And Paul is only a few years older than I - and though I am just a worker, he and I were reared very close.”

You’d figured as such; though she speaks highly of him, there indeed has been no inkling of affection held more than anything platonic in her musings. Though, if there had been, perhaps a part of you could not blame her; for visions of a youthful teen, curly hair and a sharp laugh, green eyes that swim with light and pool with the gentle fountain of dutiful intelligence. Perhaps he is someone you do not know; that odd feeling, that light when you know only a stranger’s shadow – just as you might be to him; his green ghost that haunts these halls.

You nod gently with a smile that grows in Hestia’s melting embarrassment – and she notices not a few moments after you crack.

A smile blossoms and it brings warmth into your sullen heart. “You tease me,” She observes with a small grin of her own.

You laugh only quietly, shaking your head, “I apologize, I couldn’t help it.” You admit, pacing away from the window to gather the garment from her arms.

“So you’ve known Paul for your whole life?” You wonder, unable to bite back the intrigue which laps at the shores of your mind.

And then comes a sweet kind of existence, one which lives in the early hours between the sun’s rising and the castle’s; Hestia nods, setting to work on your sheets, straightening them as you begin to dress yourself. “I've got no siblings of my own,” She muses lightly, “Though I imagine he is exactly what a brother should be.”

A memory is sharp in the bruise of your heart, and you blink back the vision of the boy falling to the sand, fingers grasping a blade too large for his palm. The numb ache crawls in an eclipse of your pleasant mood and you fight it with a blink.

There is a chip in the boudoir beside you; it glistens against the waxy shine of the sun. Hestia’s warmth, that song of unburdened amity, lulls the dull ache of your heart into a placant thrum.

“– Kind, thoughtful. He entertains the most foolish subjects and also the most serious –” A pause and a rustle, as if she’s turned to glance at you – you do not return the stare, mind too lost in the Paul that Hestia knows; the Paul you have yet to meet.

“And, if you’d believe it…” She says it almost conspiratorially, arriving to button the back of your tunic, as you turn from her, listening quietly, “he can be quite funny sometimes."

Funny. You send her a look; this time there is no fooling – she laughs gently at your doubt and nods, “Believe it or don’t,” she muses, “He is good. He will warm up to you.”

And though she says it in good nature, there is a dejection which leaks into your heart, which pools around the memories of sharp tongue and mistrusting eyes – of a short apology and a pendant wrapped around your throat, binding your wrists.

Instead you force a smile, hoping it appears more brilliant than you feel.

She is a sweet girl – a girl not familiar with the burden of family, of how it falls at your feet in a slump of black and pale and gray and death – and so you imagine her as a young girl, hand-in-hand with a young Paul, skipping down hallways and whispering conspiratorial through the doors of the worker’s quarters.

A melancholia visits you quite suddenly, and your eyes drift to the cobwebs of silk which spin small patterns across the high beams of your ceiling.

“I always seemed to fight with my siblings.” Your voice is a whisper in a breath; what a distant dream it is now, those nights curled together by the grand hearth, the days running through ornate halls, learning to hunt in the woods. Bows pulled from hair and tied into your own – a hand smaller than yours tugging you into an icy lake – screaming, crying, the thud of young limbs hitting another. Anger, that ferocious thing that is only so well known by that of your own kin; A hard thing it is to remember, when their faces have begun to slip away.

“I had four of them,” You offer to her – and though she knows just as well as each person within the Imperium knows now of your family and their end, you feel the comfort of choice; the warmth of choosing to reveal such information about your family to a lended ear. Your brows knit – there is a nest of brown twigs and dried mud just below your window. “And we would scream, and hit, and fight, – all the time, when we were young.” A gaggle of young chickadees vie for the worm in their mother’s mouth within the small nest, and you watch on with burning eyelids. Your breath is solemn, and your fingers trace over the healing scars upon your palm. “But they were my favorite people in this entire universe.”

It is still in the somber moment, though you break your shell with a cleared throat, tearing your eyes from the soft burgeoning feathers of the chicklets in the nest. And after a deep inhale, you smile wistfully, clearing your throat as you slide on the hand jewelry she offers to you; Hestia doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for it.

She lingers beside you as you slide rings over healed knuckles. Your voice comes once more, and it is stronger. “Family, blood or bond, is a precious thing,” you decide, turning to slip on your shoes and tie your trousers. “I am quite glad you and your mother have found it.”

And though there lingers some despondent hesitation, Hestia nods in agreement, her own wistful smile playing on her lips. “Indeed, my lady.”

Your hair catches the rays of sun in the mirror before you – tainted with the leaking green of your veil, you place the ferronnière above it; and you are beautiful in this light, yes – beautiful, but miserable. A dog with a collar for the Atreides leash.

Your gaze leaves yourself to find Hestia watching with a small smile.

An offer of her arm and a small nod brings forth a balm to the stinging hesitance of leaving your room.

“Now, let's get you to this War Council.”

Paul’s sigh is sharp in the empty room.

An aseptic scent pierces his nostrils, contaminating his brain – distracting him. The castle becomes very sterile, deep in the more secluded chambers; here, where he breathes and feels the world breathe too, the air has a chill to it – sharp with some kind of disinfectant.

“Concentrate, Paul.”

His mother’s voice is low, though soothing. “Project your will.”

But he can’t bring himself to look up – his mother stands just a few paces away, her eyes boring into him; Focus. He needs to focus.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hums gently, a twitch of focus in the crook of his neck; but then, flames flicker up the sides of his vision – a large tree, smoke leaking from somewhere above where it pierces through the clouds. His name, sighed gentle as the breeze through the trees, trickling into his mind; hands, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. His nostrils flare as he shakes his head, letting out a small groan of irritation. Focus.

Within him, an energy builds; something comes, and he knows he must not lose it – but as he begins to speak, a strange sense of trepidation washes over his mind; a nagging suspicion of unease, some dripping chill down the bumps of his spine. He falters in his words for a moment, confidence waning as doubts creep through the cracks in the shadows.

It's silent for a moment, before she sighs from across the room.

“You’re distracted this morning, Paul.”

He bites back a sharp I know – and instead sighs, a sagging weight in his shoulders as he pushes his hair back with the heel of a palm. “I didn’t sleep well.” He excuses, pacing towards the water pitcher; his mother follows, reaching for the glass he offers. She hums, sipping on the water as he stares into the reflection of his own.

“Dreams?”

She reads him so well.

Paul wills his spine not to tense at her words. With a half a breath, Paul takes another sip of his water – a purchase of time, perhaps. There is a giving degree to which he understands the Bene Gesserit’s plans, and how perhaps he might fall into them; this alone is cause for hesitation. Those years ago – almost two, now – the searing, bone-gnawing pain of that box; the whispers around closed doors, the breath that plumed when the Reverend Mother told his own lady mother that there were two candidates.

Two candidates – for what, he still doesn't know – and yet Paul may one day be one of them. It is an instinct, perhaps some method of survival written into his very DNA; he accepts the churning sick in his stomach at the thought of what his onslaught of dreams mean.

“Yes,” he acquiesces – any possible lie he could have thought to fabricate would have been sheared by the blades of her mind, anyway – and he turns to her, guarded but concerned. She is his mother, after all.

“I've been having dreams,” his voice is slow to regain traction – there is a small scuff on the floor and he traces it with his toe. “Vivid dreams…” He murmurs, chewing upon the skin of his lip, “of Sabberon.”

And perhaps to an untrained eye, there would be no change; But Paul's eyes are indeed quite trained.

A flicker of concern passes through her and it serves nothing but to feed the pit of anxiety that grows in Paul’s stomach.

“Sabberon?” She echoes with a wary tilt of the head, “And what do you see in these dreams?”

The hesitation comes once more, although the memory is still fresh in his mind: For in the beginning, it is that spongy earth, toes imbued with dirt. Soft whispers of his name from voices he cannot see, a caress of the wind in his hair, the glistening mountain peaks that glitter like jewels in the distance, the ribbons tied to trunks and candles lit unyielding even when the sky falls.

And then there is you; a soft thing, an inevitable one – with the soft skin of your thighs trembling in the wake of his wanting lips. There’s the sigh, hitched and breathy, as his hands hold your hips to the pristine sheet below you; the bunching of a dress, the glint of a blade's silvered and black hilt almost golden in the reddening sun.

Your gown, thin and blowing in the breeze, the same color as the veil which still hides your face from his wanting gaze; even in the dying light, the streaks of orange and pink in the sky, snow falling weightless from dark clouds above. That fabric, woven from the skin of alpine hemp which grows in clusters around your planet – bunching by your hips, your chest tremoring in the flickering light of ceremonial candles; breath, warm and willing upon his neck – palms teasing and eager alike, crawling in descent towards his own waistband. A soft moan, the smell of ash –

Paul is drawn back from the glimpses of skin and the flashes of metal, the smell of smoke; he swallows thickly, staring at his mother with the glance of a lamb before the jaws of a wolf – though he shifts, clearing his throat, and the veil lifts.

“I always…” He chooses carefully the truths he can forgive, “I always see a white blanket on the ground. Above, there’s a… the Great Pine of Sabberon. Visions of…” His brows furrow, swallowing the thick of concern, “of knives, and streaks through the sky; I think they’re… missiles. And we’re there together…she and I.”

Barely a blink from his mother as she murmurs, “Lady Bourbon?”

He barely nods, blinking away visions of shining hands and whispers threading through pine needles in the wind.

“I don’t know why it’s always the same dream,” He pleads to his mother – tell me it’s fine – and though his voice is barely audible, he cannot shake the calling for him, that odd feeling that something importing awaits him on Sabberon. “Maybe I've been reading about Sabberon too much,” He half-shrugs.

And it is a relief to admit it finally to someone – since your arrival, perhaps even in the days leading up to it, he’s unsure; but his dreams have ebbed and flowed in the brook of consciousness, always floating back to that place. Always there, and now, with you – and after the lessons the other day, he is sure: it's Sabberon.

He dreams of it burning; he sees it up in flames, and sometimes, you with it.

His mother does little to quell the concern that brims in his gaze – though she sets down her glass and kisses his brow. “Be cautious with your dreams, Paul,” She chides, “Listen to them, learn from them.”

Her gaze brings no such comfort to him as he watches her gaze flick from the cliffs through the casement and back to him.

“Dreams are messages from the deep.”

Though it is only late morning, the Strategy Council finds you quite weary.

You sit, toying with your fingers as you drown in a sea of House Atreides; and once again, the only solace in the room is your blade, laid in front of you on the table for all to see. Certainly a warning, this time.

Nearly everybody you've met of importance during your sojourn is in attendance – the table is large and long, so much so that you know you will have to project your voice to be heard by the dredges of your periphery; and around you sit war masters, strategists, women and men with intense stares and the symbol of house Atreides upon their clothing.

It is a fight, after Duke Leto sets a brief introduction, to not sound too sharp nor calculating; your gaze skitters over the listeners as you speak, their eyes interested, respectful – it is a shock to your body as you trail off, aware of the respect that brims in the quiet of the room.

But worse still is the fight to stifle your yawn as the Duke reviews intelligence reports; Gritting your teeth, you sit up straighter – through no hitch of boredom but instead the dreadful absence of rest, now is perhaps the worst time for your body to punish your mind for your lack of sleep.

And beside the Duke this time rests a chilling gaze, one you’ve yet to meet in such a scenario – Paul rests with a straight spine and a stare hooked upon the pendant hanging from your neck, and you fight not to stir with the heat of the green boring through your veil.

Until now, there's lived a cold silence between the two of you that has not been broken since it befell; that night when you were gifted the necklace – and besides the stiff apology he issued you the morning after, assuring you he was out of line for treating you with disrespect in his father’s study that morning – all that’s grown between you and your betrothed are cordial nods or a tight-lipped smile from him in passing, whenever a house member is around. Nothing more would dare be said between you, lest you pull a blade to his throat.

If you'd been less indulged in your studies and training – or perhaps he, less prideful – maybe it would not have gone on this long; a stalemate as stubborn as its proprietors.

But seeing as you've barely been in the same room once since that dreadful dinner several days ago, it's no different. You aren’t to be wed until the end of this year, but you know sometime soon, you will have to learn to live with him.

Paul does not notice your attention on him for some time as the strategy council rolls on; He is seemingly in his own world, gazing intently at the necklace in a way that gives you a rush of unease – and you, drawn into the world of dreamlike memory: Of hands smooth against skin, of soft breath upon your cheek, of curls tickling your forehead.

But it’s as if a shock hits him – and suddenly, a green stare finds your own; and though it is near impossible to discern your face unless mere inches away, Paul never fails to find your eyes behind the veil.

In his stare, your mind convulses; brought forth unbidden and unsolicited, you see them: Curls that kiss your forehead, lips plush and pressed to your neck – a hand snaking up the bareness of your thigh.

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat; you’ve grown quite used to the demons which sleep in your mind – of Feyd-Rautha’s shadows curling to grasp your mind when your eyes shut – yet this strange thing, this new thing?

Now, you're flushing each time you catch your husband-to-be's eyes – like some innocent girl, lovestruck and awake to be put in a corner; catching those very same eyes which regard you as a pawn on the chessboard of his House, no less.

And yes – there is not a part of you so vain as to lie and say Paul is not extremely attractive. A creature made of dark curls, sharp angles, plush lips, that cooled, smooth voice; anybody worth their wits could see his allure – but even just this innocent observation rings forth a violent urge of resistance. An urge, to rip off the necklace; to scream at him, at the Imperium – I am not yours to keep.

Though, before you can do much of anything, his gaze is gone from you; Paul breaks the turmoil in your mind with a simple turn of his head.

Begrudgingly, you try to do the same.

Though it yields nothing but more trouble: Your eyelids droop as you fight to stare at the Duke, who speaks in what you can only perceive as background noise as your mind soldiers on against your own will.

“Lady Bourbon?”

And with that, your eyes snap up, heart suddenly beating hard under the alarmingly paternal gaze of Duke Leto; In fact, through the silence, you observe that every eye is on you expectantly, including Paul’s.

It is with ignorance of the concerned look etched upon his countenance that you snap out of your reverie, embarrassment flooding you; Paul's green eyes bore into you even when you turn to address the Duke.

“Apologies, Duke Leto,” you clear your throat, willing your cheeks to stop flushing from the attention, “I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I've been having some…” You reluctantly admit the burdens of your mind, “…odd dreams. They've been keeping me awake at night.”

After a beat, you stir, “Could you please repeat yourself?” You wonder with a flushed face and twisting fingers – but there is a quick glance sent from Lady Jessica to her son and your attention is stolen.

Paul’s own gaze meets his mothers and then casts suddenly downwards, as if deep within his own mind; and it is clear – whatever she delivers within her gaze, he is clearly avoiding – though there is little pause from the rest of the council, and you soon forget the look shared between mother and son.��

From down the table, Thufir Hawat denotes a remedy in the form of an elixir you can take before sleep that should help you; the Duke orders a worker to have it brought to your quarters this evening, and in the expiring embarrassment of your slip-up, your mind rocks from its pulling descent to slumber.

You’re painfully alert after this, and when you are finally called upon to share your thoughts, it is by Gurney Halleck: “My lady, you’ve before mentioned certain endeavors during your time on Giedi Prime.”

You nod and he takes the affirmation with a nod of his own, “What do you know of their Spice exploits?”

And eyes once again fall to you from across the room; in a ticking of your jaw, you wish once more to rid yourself of the cursed veil that constricts your vision. Your spine straightens at the question and you choose your words quite carefully. “I do not know much of their spice harvesting,” you begin, “and it must be said that what I know is mostly second-hand; I learned most of what I know through the na-baron Feyd-Rautha.”

A murmur from the end of the table, one you are quick to squash with a withering look behind the veil: “He is vicious,” You affirm, folding your hands, “but he has his own weaknesses, ones which the other Harkonnens lack.” And though the implications of your words settle in unease around the room – the Lady Jessica’s head turns to you just slightly – you do not drop the Duke’s stare. “I might remind you all that Spice is not their only source of power.”

And in the wash of a renewed power – eyes are hooked upon your cloaked figure, on how the words drip from a mouth so concealed. “They have large petroleum reserves – from refineries around the planet, stored in the bowels of Barony; I've seen them, they're never-ending."

This makes the duke shift in his seat; likewise, Paul's brows furrow in thought.

Your voice is a beam through a forested canopy of pine and spruce, bursting forth into the sterile room; A perk of interest that bristles through the icy surface of a sleeping scape. “It is true, I was not an agent for my family; though from what I’ve been able to piece together, my family was recording Harkonnen reserves, and monitoring their activity with the Spacing Guild.” Your voice hangs, words heavy with implication. You swallow down the worry that gnaws in you before you continue. “Not just for spice, but petroleum. I was none the wiser until after they were caught.” You spare a glance to Paul, meeting his stare with your own. “–But of course, who is to believe me?”

Paul’s gaze is promptly cast away, written with some flash of guilt; and you continue once more. “I assumed it is is why the Great Houses likely allowed for me to be brought to Caladan – in hopes that I know something of my family’s findings.”

Your eyes fall to Duke Leto. “Am I right, my Lord?” You wonder; the room is quiet as your words are absorbed, a rainbow of faces all varying degrees of surprise.

Duke Leto is an honest man. “Yes,” he affirms, “It is one of the reasons I believe the Landraad passed the ordinance for your betrothal to be transitioned.”

The knowledge does not do much to ease your worry – indeed, just some figure of strategy in a game above your head.

His words are not unkind, though: “We've been concerned with any acts of retaliation to our house after this ruling, and though it hasn't come yet, we need to be prepared. We must know what you know, my lady.”

You press your fingers along the blade before you as you nod. “When the betrothal was annulled, they were distraught,” you admit with an open air, catching the guarded surprise of several glances. It is mirthful, the small smirk that sneaks onto your lips as you take in their expressions. “Not for some attachment to me, mind you,” You ease them, “Feyd-Rautha was the worst of them when it came to the dissolution of our engagement – but the truth is…” you offer a half-shrug, shaking your head in some bitter mirth. “Harkonnens don’t like when their toys are taken away from them.”

It is just as uncomfortable as ever; Paul’s stare is focused down, upon the grain of wood below your fingers, and you do not flinch at the set in his jaw. In the silence, you push forward, “Thufir has been tutoring me on local economics,” You nod to the man down the table, “I understand that the majority of the trading exports from Caladan are agriculture – fine wine and rice?”

Paul’s voice comes from the depths. “Yes,” he confirms; and you nod, the chain of your headdress chiming slightly as you hold his stare. You wet your lips, “The Baron could easily flood the galactic market with cheap petroleum, garnering almost no externalities for himself.” You tilt your head, “An influx of cheap fuel like that could disrupt the transportation networks – the market for space transport and exportation would be saturated by the Harkonnens within days.”

Sparse glances of thought and furrowed brows across the table – and after a moment, you hear the thought that has lingered in your mind since the moment you saw the refineries’ stock at Barony.

“An action like this would highly disrupt our direct trade access from this system to most others without use of the Spacing Guild.” Thufir adds – the Duke still looks at you, urging you to continue. You do.

“What I fear,” You crack your knuckles gently, knee bouncing just slightly under the table, “Is the vacuum that’s been left on Sabberon. There is no governing body now that my family has been eliminated.” It is a blunt, unemotional statement, and you move past it before the ghosts which linger in the corners of your heart come out of the shadows. “If Harkonnen boots hit the ground there, they could rather easily take control of the planet's resources and exports. Their battalions could easily squash the insurgent groups in the North and South.”

A nod, a sparse murmur – and then, a woman a few seats down from you leans forward to catch your gaze. “Sabberon's industries are commercial fishing, fir, logging.”

Hardly much to worry about, you know – and you turn, nodding. “Yes, they are – but I more mean the glacial deposits within our mountain ranges.” You purse your lips, a secret kept in the confines of Castle Bourbon tilting from your lips. “The highest ranges contain precious minerals and ores whose compounds are quite valuable for industrial applications. It’s how we industrialized so quick in the Turning Age.” You wish to avoid any history lessons – but it is important; and you clear your throat as you set down the pneumatic tubes you'd prepared before the council.

“I've documented, to the best of my ability, everything that I remember here. Feyd-Rautha knows about the deposits on Sabberon; I believe it is fair to assume the Baron does, too.”

It is in the lull of the moment, heavy and steeping with thought, that his face comes to you – and a sickly hand around your neck, a black smile: You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve.

In a blink, you’re back to the grain of the table, tracing along it with your nail. Paul leans forward, brows furrowed. “If the region of Sabberon is destabilized – controlled by Harkonnens or in civil conflict – we could lose almost all of our exports. It’s a crucial line of trade in the system for us.” He echoes your concern, “Giving them access to the resources is dangerous enough, but a near-monopoly on petroleum, Spice, and the Space Trade Route?”

There is a spark of intrigue at the sharp point of his intelligence – but nonetheless, you merely nod in agreement, pushing away any such girlish thoughts in sacrifice of the matter at hand.

Gurney Halleck’s voice cuts through your observation of Paul’s hair against the light: “We need to consider this carefully. If the Harkonnens make a move to Sabberon, we must be ready to respond. But acting first could have larger consequences.”

Duke Leto nods; with a glance to the War Master and back to the others. “Halleck's right. The Referendum is soon – the Landsraad will be redrawing the Trade negotiations then,” His gaze flickers to you, “–and your arraignment is set for the same congress. It seems the best option is to wait.”

Dread fills you; stuck between a rock and a hard place, you’re left with nothing to do but wait – wait for the impending trade drawings, for the impending arraignment. You’re no fool – the arraignment might leave you with no inheritance, no claim to Sabberon. Your gut coils in anxiety, and it is not soothed by the urgent sense that curbs the meeting: plans are drawn out to set more strategy meetings before the Referendum; you are requested to attend them.

Fear clubs up the ridges of your spine with each nod you give to passersby – and a panic pulls your eyelids to droop, your brain aching for rest.

By the time you return to your chambers, you are much too exhausted to seek lunch.

Instead, you are asleep within minutes.

Your name calls to you.

A hum in response as you thread your fingers through locks of curls; in the distance, birds sing. The sun drags streaks flying across the sky in its descent, and flakes flutter gently around you – though it smells not of snowfall. A bonfire crackles somewhere, you can smell the heady cedar embers, see the flames in your blinks.

Your hair is tugged; in a huff of laughter, you tug the tresses laced between your own fingers – but in another surprising jolt, you’re tugged again and you gasp, catching the flicker in green eyes. “That hurt,” Your floating voice chides, though there is no malice – your words are faint and dancing around the falling flakes – a warm palm grasps your jaw to tilt your head up.

“I'm very sorry,” he does not even trying to cover the lie, smiling against the dying sun. “Let me ease the pain,” He whispers, gentle and teasing against your jaw. A faint chuckle when he nips down your exposed neck and you breathe out; His hands are quite daring, slipping your dress over your head until you're bare against the sheet, blinking up warmly at the forest. The breeze of springtime is chill and disarming against your flesh; birds sing. His fingers trace you slowly.

And there is nothing but arousal snaking through you as he sinks lower, lips painting a path back up your thighs, nipping gently at your soft skin; A swat to the top of his head, and a short noise of protest from him in response as you bite back a smile.

“Paul,” you whisper, and it disappears through the trees as if off to find some other world. He hums in a teasing lilt, vibrations rippling from his lips to your warm skin, sending a cascade of goosebumps through you.

“Come back to me,” you whisper – and he listens, though he usually doesn't; His lips are replaced by his hips and soon, after a small roll, a gentle moan leaks from your lips. It is still slightly cold in the death of spring, but his skin is warm; His lips are warm.

“I'm here, aren't I?" His eyes are upon yours, and your stomach flutters, “I'm always here.”

And when he slides into you slowly, his lashes tangle in a kiss of deep brown – and your head tilts back against the sheet, his hand hitting the trunk of the Pine above your head, grasping with a thud; a long whimper is swallowed by his lips, consumed by his warmth, by the deep sensation that sends your back to arch.

And any semblance of chivalry dissipates as Paul begins to move; A palm gliding up from your hip, sliding over your breasts, pinching a pert nipple before rising – and you with a clutch upon his shoulders, grasping the warm skin and revelling in the sweet relief of pleasure. Fingers glide over your heaving chest as hips slide into your own – you’re pushed down against the earthy floor in ecstasy, and his grasp finds it suddenly–

A finger traces over the emblem clasped around your throat: A hawk, cerulean and shining, over your sweat-sheened, thundering chest.

And before any such disdain can leak from lips so wanting of affection, he’s pulling with a startling force – the necklace breaks under Paul’s grasp and falls apart, stones and pearls rolling over your bare chest and pooling onto the sheet below you.

And it’s a thing of pleasure, the way your hand snakes to press his grasp to your thundering heart; the pendant is thrown far behind you as Paul’s desperation leaks through.

A groan from his lips as his hand squeezes over your neck just lightly, your own grasping it in a shocking pleasure – it is unlike any sensation you’ve yet experienced, and soon pours his breaths and groans like a river of desire broken for you. A whispered phrase, over and over, spilling from your lips and his alike – lulling you into a state of euphoria as his body rocks with yours, breathing to the earth and feeling it breathe back.

Hands grasp skin tight and desperate – your nails find the line of his smooth back, clutching to the lithe muscles that move with his hips; and he, tracing each curve of your face and neck with his lips, gasping as the flakes that fall around you begin to burn as embers. Smoke lingers somewhere far off; though you are with your husband and you cling to him, whispering that same phrase over, and over – a jolted gasp of pleasure – and once more; over, and over, and over –

“I'm yours.”

Something rouses you from sleep, much quicker this time, and you wake with a start.

Broad daylight streams through your chamber windows when your eyes open, your heart thundering as you shift on the sheets; A blurry form comes into view, fluffing the untouched pillow beside you on the bed. You do not strike this time, instead swarmed with shame and embarrassment in the wake of such tangible dreams.

“Bad dream again?” Hestia she sets down a fresh set of clothing; you swallow and wince at your dry throat, heart thudding. Bad dream... You can feel your face flood with embarrassment – you'd rather be caught dead than admit what you'd just dreamt, so instead you push your hair from your face, fanning your cheeks.

“Yes.” You croak, accepting the glass of water she offers you, “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

The sheets are warm and your spine is lined with sweat; you slide out of your bed with the elegance of a newborn mare, eyes flicking around.

The sky is sunny, not a single rain cloud; and your chambers are heavy, tight.

“I need some fresh air.”

Paul’s shadow dances across the wild grass as the midday sun follows his steps.

The breeze is much more permanent down by the shore; he brushes stray curls from his eyes, tracing the shoreline below with a lingering absence; It's only a few hours until he should be back in the strategy chambers with his father, helping draw plans for the upcoming Referendum – but the castle has grown stuffy and sterile at the same time, and his stomach growls in hunger. He needs some fresh air.

Though the sea mists his cheeks, his mind is stuck high above him, spinning in the memory of the Strategy Council meeting. Paul would be struck dead a liar if he were to say you were not one of the most intelligent women he’s met; and after this morning, there is truly nothing much else he has been able to think of – and despite himself, the growing bud of admiration sprouts within his mind, even despite your predisposition to violence and solitude.

Paul almost feels foolish for how blinded he was – if war is really on the horizon, he supposes it’s very lucky that House Atreides took you in; If not for your capabilities and sharp intellect, then for your claim to Sabberon, for your connections with the Ginaz and their Swordsmen; for your intimate knowledge of Harkonnen power.

It’s now as important as ever that Paul ensures you remain on the Atreides’ side, should this war come – a burden to hold you should you somehow wish to return to the black embrace of Giedi Prime, but one he will have to keep. Because you are too valuable to his House to let you go over trivial things; Politics is all two way streets; you will help them with your insights and they will protect you. And with this, perhaps, comes the truth – that Paul has begun to learn of you, of the you that shines through any small cracks in the armor.

And over the meadow he walks, he sees that lush green forest again; a woodpecker against bark, your hands sliding into his own as you lean him back against the trunk of a tree – the smell of smoke, an explosion on the horizon; laughter swallowed by the wind, lips pressed to parted lips.

Paul sighs harshly.

He's not sure if it was the correct decision to tell his mother about these dreams, instead of his father; skepticism is a biting friend as his feet trudge over the cliff and down, closer to the beach.

Paul loves his mother, but he is indeed not naive to the manipulative nature of the Bene Gesserit; in some dreadful way, he wonders once more which silent partners in the Imperium influenced the decision for the Houses to order his betrothal to you.

A small whisper in the back of his mind, that sickly voice of the Reverend Mother those years ago: Two candidates... Paul may one day be one of them–

The skittering of a rabbit through the grass calls his attention to the path, his jaw clenched tight.

The wind is swallowed by the structure under which he ducks; It is a small alcove – one of many below the cliffs which hold a cluster of tidepools, small and large. And this particular one catches his eye, just on the left – a soft smile grows upon weary lips.

When he was younger, he often played in these very alcoves with the few other children his age in the castle; swimming, playing hide-and-seek, sparring with wooden daggers.

His feet take him into the alcove without any hesitation – the rock grows slick with seawater and the scent of the brackish pools; it isn't until he's into the shade that he sees the figure seated among the pools.

You wear the same clothing you'd donned at the Strategy Council, your feet bare and dipped into the shallow waters.

For a moment, he considers turning back to his path towards the beach; but your back grows rigid as you turn to him, and he’s struck with a breath of beauty blowing in the breeze of your veil.

A thick silence; a silence lived between you, lodged like an unwanted burden – it has been some time since you were last alone. A memory of his shaking hands, the bite in your words as you’d clasped that pendant to your chest - of that sheer veil, of your glistening gaze across the table.

It is time to leave such hesitancy behind; and so with a tentative swallow, Paul takes a few steps closer.

“I hadn't expected to find you here,” An honest and neutral observation.

Somewhere beyond that gauzy veil, you stare back at him; and your fingers twitch towards the blade upon your hip before curling once more into a soft fist, cradled in a palm. “Nor I you,” you reply coolly – and in the uneasy silence, Paul sacrifices his pride and endures the agony of discontent.

He does not ask if you mind if he joins you – he knows that you would; so instead he sits gently, leaving a wide berth of space between you.

And while you bristle at his arrival, stiffening as he sits across from you and drops the bag from his back beside him, he cannot bring himself to blame you.

It is a peculiar posture you give; a cradling of your hand as you watch the ripples in the tide pool that he slowly dips his feet into – it is soon that he recognizes the gives of pain from your figure. And that very agony it is almost palpable in your silence as he looks down at where you rub the skin of your hand, swollen and red.

“I assume you met the crabs.”

And the headdress of metal jewelry that adorns the crown of your forehead chimes when you turn to watch him, surprise laced into your posture.

“I did.”

Your affirmation is punctuated by an unfurling of your palm, revealing blistered, irritated skin; He winces more for your own sake than in true surprise before letting his eyes roam gently over the near landscape – moss grows in clumps throughout the rocky pools, though he searches for that short, stalky root which grows just outside the reach of the water.

And after spotting one beside you, he reaches; you flinch, though he pays no mind to the hitch in your breath as he gives the stalk a quick tug – and the plant is ripped out, roots and all.

He hands you the root of the stalk, gesturing for you to take it: “You can use this plant.”

And in your evergreen poise, you grasp the root hesitantly, as if sensing a trap. It dangles limp from your grasp, earthy as the gems upon your jewelry – and you return to your statued posture, watching him, faceless and green as the moss around you.

He nods after a moment of awkward breath, gesturing to the stalk. “Chew it.”

You do nothing but breathe at him for a moment – and perhaps if he could see your eyes, he’s sure he would find disbelief; Skepticism. And perhaps if it were any other time, any other person, he’d laugh at the silent incredulity that leaks between you.

He shifts, feet circling in the pool of water. “It soothes the itch and the pain. You chew it, and spit it onto your palm.” Patience is lost when you do not respond – and perhaps out of the growing blush on his cheeks in your refusal to act, he sighs sharply, “It's not poisonous.”

I'm not trying to kill you, he almost says; but something in him stops the words before they leave his mouth and he instead tilts his head in a short mock of your own.

And he swears in the breeze carries a huff from beneath that gauzy fabric – and then the root disappears rather awkwardly under your veil.

In the glinting light of the cave, he can just nearly make the shape of your lips, hear the small snap of the stalk between your teeth. And in the quiet lap of waves against the shore in the distance, Paul watches expectantly – from years of habit, he is used to the milky taste; but he remembers how unpleasant it can be the first time.

And those eyes catch his own, some phantom force from behind shades of green – slowly, you spit it out onto your palm, as if questioning if you were doing it right. Paul’s face feels suddenly warm – a trail of saliva falls from lips glistening in the spare ray of sun, alight with a forested green and the milky blood of the root. It is a harsh reminder of the dream he'd woken up from this very morning; and with a sudden sense of panic – as if you might somehow reach into his mind and see such salacious thoughts – he forces the visions away.

The waves lap idly against his feet; you rub the mixture into your palm quietly.

“How did you know to do that?”

Your voice is curious, and the fingers not matted with the root-paste press against the spongy moss beside your pants. You’re a vision of that first day, when you’d whispered words of interest at the very plant nor beneath your touch; a vision of green and poise, of stoic quiet and twitching fingers. Despite himself, Paul’s lips curl up in a small grin.

Squinting against the sunshine, the beach in the distance is a warbly thing, foamed and bubbled by the current – and his left shoulder shrugs. “I played here when I was young. I got pinched a lot.”

You don't necessarily laugh, but there’s an exhalation from your nose that curves his own lips; and when, after a few more minutes, you reach to rinse your hand in the pool before you, the angry skin has returned to its glowing health.

Waves crash quietly within the cove and Paul warily watches one of the bluecrabs meander across a rock beside you – just when he parts his lips to warn you, your fingers move away, head tracking its path across and towards the smaller pool behind you.

And in the moment of silence, he hears the unmistakable rumble of your stomach.

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, clearing his throat; Your hand has taken to drawing idle circles in the tidepool, and you hardly cease the hypnotizing movements as you shrug with a small nod. “I slept through lunch today.”

A moment of hesitation before he looks over his shoulder at you – unassuming, running your nails across the patch of bare skin awarded by the cuffing of your trouser legs; and slowly, from the bag beside him, he pulls out the food that he'd taken from the kitchen.

Apples, crackers, some imported cheese; sparkling juice from the vineyards south of Cala City, and a foil filled with bits of chocolate.

But through his focus on unwrapping the pack, your voice cracks into the cove, incredulous – almost amused. “This was all for you?”

Paul bristles defensively, giving you a wide glance, cheeks warm. “I was hungry,” He defends; and with a hard blink, he’s brought back to the week previous, when all that he saw when you were around was red – anger, trepidation, mistrust.

And though thoughts whirl in his mind quicker than he can catch – of you, your family, your time on Giedi Prime – he finds himself mildly pleased with the stalemate that has come about; a hand reached across an abyss, and a hesitant grasp in return.

Your voice is light when you speak again. “If I can confess,” your head trails down sheepishly – Paul’s attention follows you. “The veils have never made it easy to enjoy a long supper. They tangle in my hair no matter how it's styled, anyways.”

And despite himself, he huffs a short laugh; was that a hint of a joke, from you?

It is not so abnormal, veils – he has known many women in his life to wear them – but never in a custom such as yours; to not remove it in front of anybody for months and months of mourning – He cannot fathom how bizarre a change it must be, even if it is how you were raised.

So when your hands raise, he does not expect them to go towards the hem of the fabric.

And he does not expect you to slide it from the crown of your head.

It is sharply that he whips his head away; in a skipped heartbeat, the glimpse of your hair unfettered by the green gauze haunts his mind – what in the hell are you doing?

Paul’s heart thunders against his chest, though he cannot find any words to string into a meaningful sentence – he watches a bluecrab crawl into the pool across the way.

“I don't mean to shock you,” your voice is so very close, now; he swallows down the flutter in his throat at its lilt, “Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I'm supposed to wear these still.”

Confusion laces through his mind – the rock you sit upon is wetted and dark, clumped with bright emerald moss; and you, as if unknowingly, throw kindle into the fire of nerves in his chest.

A mirthful tone you bring with your words: “You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.”

And he does look, after that.

Paul cannot help himself: he stares at you – really you – no fabric to cover the slope of your nose, the curve of your chin, the round of your cheeks; the way your brows gather, a canopy above the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen in his life.

And your hair is loose – let wild and uncovered, swayed gently by the sea breeze; glossy in the glint of sun off the sea in the distance. Paul wonders absently, in some foul derivative of jealousy or hatred, if Feyd-Rautha enjoyed your hair; unique as it surely was on a planet full of hairless beings.

Paul quickly schools himself – perhaps in another life, he’d be rather ecstatic to see that he has such a beautiful bride-to-be; yet it just serves to wash over another pang in his stomach. Your words of moments ago haunt over his mind as he once more meets your eyes, waiting for him. I'm still the same beast as before.

There is some inevitability to your gaze – disfavored to him, yes – but perceptive, knowing.

The pull of the tide must be answered by the shore, Dr. Yueh once told him; Perhaps that is true, and perhaps that is why Paul stares at you, the sense of mistrust breaking way to a new sense of dread, of regret.

You are no beast to me, he should say. But he doesn't; not when he’s unsure if it would be a lie coming from his lips.

Instead, he can only voice the astonishment in his mind at the sight of your veil held between your hands. “Why did you take it off?”

You blink; heavens, your lashes are long – they kiss your cheeks against the soft light from the grotto. He swallows thickly, busying himself with the apple and a knife.

Your voice comes as matter-of-fact as you’d been in the meeting that very morning. “Well, I'm quite hungry.”

You lean over – your tunic rustles in the movement, and Paul averts his gaze from the glinting necklace upon your chest, the slide of your hair upon the fabric of your back. Slowly, you take to slicing the cheese for you both with your very own blade – and Paul’s confusion has not quelled, but instead grown in the breeze of your nearly casual movements.

It’s as if the veil took with it the cold, calculating dissidence; you sit in front of him a young woman, plain. Pretty, sharp, cunning; but, simpler than that: Hungry.

A simple thing indeed – one that, as his own stomach rumbles, he knows he relates to. And so he offers you a slice of apple warily, watching you with some lingering shame, as if he's stumbled upon on a shrine long since sacred and wanting.

“I thought you wore them for nine months,” He states, tilting his head, "The anthropologists in the video said–”

But you’ve reared to stare at him, blinking in some odd vision of shock: “–Nine months?" You interrupt, voice more animated than he's ever heard; it nearly startles him, the youth in your voice, the life. You nearly bemoan, furrowing your brows as if hoping to recall a long lost memory. “It’s hardly been three weeks and I’ve already begun to fantasize burning them.”

Confusion must paint his expression, for your face changes sheepishly, falling into a solemn line. “Forgive me,” You clear your throat, “It's grown apparent to me as of late that am not well-versed in my own customs.”

And it is a stony, quick change from your previous cadence; Paul’s brows furrow, though you seem to offer him further elaboration as you take in his countenance.

“My family did not often uphold many of the old religion's traditions once I got old,” You sigh as you chew on an apple, tilting your head, “I was educated by the Bene Gesserit as my mother wished when I was young - and in many ways, our family adopted their customs in replacement of our heritage culture.”

It is a stone dropped into his stomach at your words, though he lets no emotion betray him – your voice licks with the lilt of trepidation in the mention of the Bene Gesserit; and your eyes, wide and expressive, only pull him in despite the foreboding churn of his stomach.

This is certainly not what Paul expected – why, then, have you been wearing the veil so devotedly?

“I have a book,” He says dumbly – and with a cleared throat, he ignores the sudden flush that crawls from the collar of his tunic. “If you– if you want to read more about it.”

You fix him with a look, and he’s struck by the rawness of your features. “A book?” you echo, and he shifts upon his seat awkwardly.

“About your family's customs. I j–” he stops himself, combing a stray curl back, “We thought it would be pertinent to know what your courting traditions are, what your customs are. To make you… comfortable,” he reasons gently, guilty that it was not so apparent from the beginning, “If… if we are to marry, it should be honorable. For both of us.”

It's as if his words have seeped into the spongy spin of your mind; your eyes have grown distant as they course over the shoreline across the way, brows settling in a line across the smooth skin of your forehead. Moments pass and the words he left hanging in the air stay; Waves kiss the sand of the cove and Paul toys with the knife in his hands quietly. He’s unsure how he might pull you from those cold depths of your thoughts, and so he sits, watching your lips purse and catch between your pearled teeth gently.

And after a moment, you come back to him. “Thank you,” You say – and your voice is once again that blank, cold tone – as if a wall had been snapped up suddenly, “I only remember wearing the veils when I was–” You break off for a moment, ripping the skin from a slice of apple. “When my sister died. I wasn’t quite old enough to remember much from it, and… I was eighteen when I left Sabberon. As I got older, our castle was so often full of visitors that we would regularly forgo most customs of my father’s family.”

It is a melancholy thing when you look back up at him. “If I can be honest, I… suppose I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Involuntary as it is, Paul cannot help his gaze from darting to the necklace you wear around your neck; and just as quickly he moves to search your visage – looking perhaps for any emotion. He finds none.

I shall wear it like a dog.

The breeze catches your hair. Paul’s brows furrow, “The veil wasn’t your choice,” he realizes. Guilt, that drooping, wilting guest, slumps upon the stoop of his heart.

And you shrug, glancing at your lap, “True, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to make choices for myself,” you admit – and it’s an admission far too heavy for the air in the cove, as you swirl your toes in the pool, as his own press to the rock beneath the water, his heart heavy. A hand flickers to the veil that lies with its adorning metal headpiece to your left. “I guess taking it off is one of them.” You clear your throat, nails digging into the earth exposed from where Paul had ripped the root – and your other hand rises, almost as if you endure a sharp pain in your ribs – and you cradle the spot, fingers lingering in a haunting line before falling to the rock below. “Feyd-Rautha would not have let me wear the veil even if I had wanted to. But at least I am making the choice for myself now.”

And it is a jolting reminder, one of horror – when you had arrived on Caladan, Duncan's arm still bleeding with the result of your fight, Paul had seen a Harkonnen. A dagger wrapped in layers of silk and velvet.

And perhaps the Caladan air has changed you; but more likely, you have begun to heal yourself – and although you do not look well-rested, there are indeed healing wounds upon your arms; wounds that churn Paul’s stomach, that strike his heart in acrimony, in wrath. A nightmare, you’ve come from – and he knows now that whatever you’ve endured is something that would break many.

Still, you’ve changed in a gradual shift: You are not so fervent or distrusting as you were those first few days – though you remain that ghost haunting the halls, you walk with less wrath, more credence; He knows you speak with your chambermaids freely – you take sparring lessons with Duncan after Paul each day, and tutor in the mornings before he does. Your voice in council this morning: Grown and defrosting, confident; born to take on such a role.

You sit perched upon the dark rock – the light hits your hair and the slope of your nose, bathing your eyelashes in an ethereal glow. You’re a sharp woman, keen and astute; He watches your straight spine, the slow breaths which grow from a proud chest.

You will make a good duchess.

And in a moment, Paul notices – a wide gaze, searching his face; it occurs to him that perhaps this is also the first time you have seen him unobstructed. And so, with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, he lets you stare; a secret relish in the silence and its change in demeanor.

A once excruciating thing, leaking with the sentiment of shared disdain, of mutual mistrust – though now grows a respect, or maybe the roots to it; a slow thing, plotten in frozen soil and hoped to grow despite harsh weathers.

You finish your half of the apple, and he watches the glint of your necklace as you lean back upon your palms. “Can I…” His voice breaks through as an ocean does a cliff; “Can I ask you something?”

It is a beautiful collar. I shall wear it like a dog.

And Paul is so very suddenly tired – fatigued from his lessons, the council, the marriage, the prospect of war with the Harkonnens, of his dreams; his head feels as though it swims, light above the clouds and yet tethered to the ground below.

Your brows dip slightly, as if your hackles rise. “Yes,” you murmur warily, eyes roving over his figure.

He swallows thickly, willing himself to spit it out. “Do you choose to wear that?”

He need not gesture to the necklace that hangs around your neck; and you, stilling in the cold wind of truth. When it comes, it is not through words: Your eyes are wide and, if Paul did not know better, they reveal the sting of fear.

You say nothing, but in time, you shake your head slightly.

And this does not ease his conscience.

It is an echo of words bitten through clenched teeth and the onslaught of rain; it is in the weeping willows of that ceremonial dress, in the sliding of shade over your veil that first time he ever met you.

He’s not sure why he says it, but it comes as a whisper, as wind snuffs out a flame, as fog creeps across the shoreline in the early hours:

“Threats demand evolution.”

His murmur is swallowed by the breeze in the cove, by the rustle of the veil beside you.

His words bristle your spine, though you say nothing; and for a long minute, he avoids the burning stare of your gaze against his profile.

It is only after the food is prepared and spread over the moss between you that you speak; and in the time it takes for Paul to lay out the food, it occurs to Paul that this is the most you and him have spoken without being plagued by tense silences or passive-aggression – or at least without enduring the childish embarrassment of being mediated by his parents as they ask you both questions at the supper table.

A nail, trimmed and coated in a deep paint, traces the glass bottle that lies half in the bag – the soft clink of your tap brings his gaze from the pools below. “Did you intend on drinking yourself drunk this afternoon?” You wonder – a warmer tone, that inkling of amiability returning so suddenly.

He hands you a piece of bread and his knife, shaking his head wryly – though the lingering hesitance of unfamiliarity restricts him from jesting in return.

Having intended to be alone, Paul had not grabbed a glass, let alone two; and so he grasps the bottle by its neck, twisting on the cage atop it to begin to open it. An irritating curl lies across his forehead – and so he flicks his head to jolt it out of the way; your gaze tracks the motion.

“It's sparkling tea.”

At his words you hum slowly, glancing at the bottle in his hands.

“That’s a shame.” You muse, hand brushing one of your own strands away, “I've never tried wine.”

Paul's eyes flicker to you in surprise; Had you not been offered wine at supper here? Had you never had it in your youth, as a highborn?

“Not even when you were young?”

And you shake your head, a wistful smile gracing your lips; your hair is silken, even in the shade – Paul hadn't expected it to be such a shade, but suits you.

“Never,” you confirm, “Where I come from, our preferred drinks are mead or ale, usually served warm. And…” You trail off, shrugging, “On Giedi Prime they favor liquor that is made from anise – you know, the spice?” You inquire, and continue when he nods, “It's much too bitter for my taste,” you continue, your voice tinged with a similar bitterness that you describe, “And even if I did enjoy it, I… tried not to drink there, when I could.”

Paul looks out to the sea – clouds crawl in an ominous roll towards the shore, the air thick – it’ll rain this evening.

There is nothing to say; and so, he begins to ease his thumb over the cork, pressure pushing against him.

“In the South, all that grows are fields and fields of vines,” he explains after the moment passesa dn clouds swallow the sunlight. Dripping sun, wide-reaching hands of vines, drooping with heavy clusters of sweetgrapes in the South. “They make all kinds of fine wine there. Sweet, sparkling, aged.”

You hum at this, your gaze tracking his own to the sea, tracing the crash of waves against the stark cliffs in the distance.

Your small lunch passes by in intermediate silence after this: Both you and Paul are insatiably hungry, and in minutes the food is nearly gone – you’re not particularly warm, and neither is he; and it matters not. He is well consumed with his own thoughts to give himself the company you do not provide.

Though as the sun continues its peak in the sky and you continue to eat quietly – clearly attempting to remain amiable with him – a sense of regret bubbles in his chest.

“I owe you an apology.”

And it startles you – his throat is dry, and your jump goes unaddressed, your nails digging into the moss beneath as he refuses to meet your gaze. “I've…” He pushes away the pride that burns at his throat, “I’ve treated you poorly. Acted like a child,” he admits.

In his peripheral, you turn to him.

His sigh is weary. “I didn't expect for it to happen like this,” and the corner of his mouth lifts mirthlessly – emotionless, as he gazes to the coast. An understatement on his part, and surely yours, too – but it is indeed the truth.

And perhaps it is not polite to admit to your betrothed that you loathe the idea of marrying them, but he knows the feeling is more than mutual. And he does not blame you for it.

Paul is admittedly not usually one for so many words with a stranger – but they come forth very easily in the quiet of the cove. “I was… displeased with how this worked out. Shocked. But–” He shakes his head, unwilling to lose his thought, “But that doesn't excuse how I've treated you.”

You don't say anything, but he can feel how tense you've grown – a statue once more in the dying afternoon sunshine. You have every reason to hate the Harkonnens just as much as his family – if not much more; and with a clammy palm, Paul runs his hand over his forehead.

The thunderclouds loom in the horizon; the salt carries thick in the growing wind.

And with the absence of your words – perhaps in a moment of resignation, he says your first name; Never having said it out loud, it comes out as a murmur on his lips, a small hymn that coaxes your gaze to his own.

“This path was set for us.” He admits, swallowing thickly, “Though we can–” He turns to watch your eyes, how they swirl with unbridled emotion. “Maybe we can navigate it together.”

And in the afterbreath of his words, your breathing is heavy with emotion. Paul is not naive enough to believe it is tears, though he averts his gaze all the same.

“Yeah,” you finally whisper – and though it is dispassionate, withdrawn, it is laced with some small drip of desperation. “Yes.” You mend – though your eyes are far away, tracing the violence in the crashing waves, watching the foamy white caps break in their wake.

“I won't disrespect you again,” he insists, “I swear.”

You lift your feet from the water, curling them under you as you stir, nodding slowly. “Thank you,” Your eyes are sullen. “But don't make promises you can't keep, Paul.” And though he expected as much, the emptiness of your tone churns his heart and spins his head. “I've had my fill of broken vows.”

You aren't hostile in your words; instead they are melancholy, a dreary wind whistling through an empty ravine – beneath Paul, another small bluecrab treks across the terrain, rocking in the gentle water tides.

You’re right – and he's soon filled with the same sense of dread that he's felt after each dream that has haunted him since they began; that same melancholy which envelopes you as you rise, gathering your belongings, preparing to walk back to the castle.

And Paul walks beside you, little more than a few words escaping either of you as you go; a brush of your shoulder against the crook of his elbow, the hitch of a breath concealed with a glance to the shoreline.

By the time you enter the main gates, fat raindrops have begun to fall on Paul’s face, sticking heavy to his lashes.

You, likewise, shield slightly from the rain, your hair kissed with teardrops from the skies, sliding over your cheeks like the tears you’ll never give.

The halls are slick with intracked rainfall – workers offer towels, scold him, tease him; and yet they stare, though they try not to – eyes warm his neck, and pierce through the girl who walks at his side.

But still you walk with your head high, spine straight. Your eyes are guarded, almost insecure at the prying faces who watch your visage as you pass – but even as Paul walks you to your chambers, you don't give in.

And you don't put the veil back on.

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#paul atreides fanfic #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides x you #paul atredies x reader #dune 2021 #dune fanfiction #dune movie #dune part one #paul x reader #paul atreides smut #dune smut #dune fic

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seresinhangmanjake · 9 months ago

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Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader on her period

Summary: Feyd doesn’t like anyone keeping him from his wife’s side, especially when she’s in pain.

*Based on an anon ask. Whoever that was, I hope this makes it to you :)*

Notes/Warnings: the subject is reader’s period; period pain; naive Feyd; threatening and aggressive Feyd; soft Feyd; Feyd hates everyone but his wife; allusion to period sex but no actual smut, mention of pregnancy.

Words: 1150

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist

“Get out of my way!” he snaps from the other side of the bedroom door, and you swell with guilt as you imagine your handmaid shivering like an unprotected baby critter. Which, in Giedi Prime, is exactly what she is.

She’s your critter that, at your request three weeks ago, Feyd agreed to have accompany you from your home planet following the wedding. You wanted something familiar and comfortable within reach and told him her presence would support you in adapting to your new life as his wife.

At the time, you took his compliance as a promising sign. He didn’t particularly care for the people of Caladan, but he cared for you enough to set aside his distaste for an additional outsider in his palace. But that distaste never fails to return tenfold whenever the Caladanian traditions and practices that your handmaid refuses to let go of get in Feyd’s way.

“Move!” you hear in that menacing tone.

You want to rush to her defense before things get out of hand, but you can’t so much as shift on the bed without your body aching.

“M-My Lord,” Nadya stutters. “It’s not proper to see my Lady in her condition.”

A groan rips from your throat from more than just the pain in your abdomen. You’ve tried to explain to her that the Harkonnens do not abide by the same parameters of modesty that your people do, but she’s not nearly as open-minded when it comes to accepting a different lifestyle. However, she needs to shut her mouth and let him pass. There are much worse things than your husband witnessing you in the throes of monthly bleeding.

Feyd practically growls, and then you hear the scrape of a metal knife unsheathing and a light feminine gasp.

“I have not killed you solely because she requested it of me,” he says. “But if you refuse to let me see my wife, then I have no reason to continue my generosity and you will be offered to my harpies for their nighttime meal.”

Fuck. You know he’ll do it. Your husband is an ‘ask for forgiveness, not permission’ kind of man, and the fact that his harpies have been eyeing your handmaid for a while only encourages his mind’s reasoning.

Reaching toward your nightstand, your fingers wrap around the handle of the little service bell you were given and give it a shake. A moment later, the door opens a crack.

“My Lady,” your handmaid says in response to your call. She attempts to slip her body through a narrow opening between the door and its frame to prevent your husband’s entry, but Feyd shoves her aside at the first opportunity and rushes inside the room.

His brow furrows at the sight of your body curled into a ball. “My love…” he mutters, racing to your side and kneeling by the bed. He takes your hand and weaves your fingers together, his worried gaze raking over your form. “What happened? What is this?”

“My Lady, I tried to stop–”

“Quiet!” Feyd snaps, shooting your handmaid a glare. “I’ll still gut you!”

Your fingers squeeze his to draw his attention back to you. “Go, Nadya. It’s ok,” you tell her. “My husband can take care of me.”

Feyd lips curl upward slightly, but his anxiety over your current state blocks a full-fledged smile from forming. His other hand raises to cup your cheek and you hum under his soft touch.

In the corner of your eye, you can see Nadya hesitate. The frown on her face is prominent enough to be detected without your gaze directly upon her. But her agitation must cease. She has to learn and conform if she values her life. There is only so much you can do to protect her, and if Feyd reaches the breaking point of his willingness to allow opposition within his own marriage—especially due to someone who is neither you nor him—it’s unlikely you’ll be able to sneak her onto a ship and transport her back to Caladan before she is executed.

You’ll have another discussion with her—the fourth, you think—once your body decides to end its self-punishment; assuming she survives that long. For the moment, at least, she has accepted your instruction and left you alone with your husband.

“You’re hurting,” Feyd says once Nadya is gone. “How do I stop it?”

“It’ll stop in a couple of days.”

“Days?” he echoes, offended at the information. “I want it to stop now!”

You sigh, placing your hand atop the one holding your cheek. “That would be nice, but that's not how it works,” you tell him. A pang of pain stabs your stomach and you moan.

“How what works?” he rushes out.

“My monthly–”

You pause at the curious expression on his face, and you realize he has no idea what you're talking about. You thought it was obvious what was wrong with you. You thought he understood. But then you remember he has lived a life with no mother, no sisters, no female relatives. There was no one to explain to him the unfair complexities of being a woman. And the Baron certainly wouldn’t have bothered. The way that man-beast mentally operates teaches that women are good for producing heirs, and in that respect, all Feyd would have needed to learn is how to stick his hard cock between a woman’s legs. To your appreciation, he does that quite well, but still, it’s surprising as much as unsurprising that your husband is so naive.

Before you can expand your answer, Feyd says, “I’m not letting this happen ever again.”

You chuckle. “It’s monthly, my love, and I’m afraid it only doesn’t happen if I’m pregnant.”

“Then I’ll make you pregnant,” he responds with an air of great determination. “And I’ll keep you that way.”

You’re instantly obsessed with the thought; perhaps too much considering you’ve known the man for two months and have been married to him for significantly less, but you do love him. And being filled with his baby creates an image that swirls a fire in your belly to combat some of the deep ache.

You grin but it lasts only a second before your teeth are forced to clench, eyelids pinching shut at another wave of agony.

“I hate this,” Feyd says, brushing your hair back from your face.

Once you ride out the wave, your eyes open to meet his. “You know,” you start, your breath heavy. “I’ve heard rumors from other women back home about something that helps with the pain.” Feyd’s features eagerly come to life. “It’s a bit messy, though.”

“Whatever it is, my love, I’ll do it.”

“Ok,” you say, a lazy smile curving your lips. “Take off your clothes.”

Feyd’s eyes widen at the request. And then he smirks.

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha #austin butler #dune part 2 #dune fic #feyd rautha harkonnen

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foreverdolly · 11 months ago

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ೃ࿔ FOREVERDOLLY'S "DUNE" MASTERLIST

"𝙞 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚. 𝙞 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚. . ."

【FEYD RAUTHA】

SAVAGE BONDS SERIES MASTERLIST (FEYD RAUTHA X ATREIDES!READER)

destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

total word count: 18.5k

【PAUL ATREIDES】

DENOUEMENT (PAUL ATREIDES X READER)

coming soon!

my taglist for feyd and paul are current! wanna be notified any time i post “dune” content? go ahead and shoot me a message or comment on this masterlist to stay connected!

← go back to the masterlist guide

"𝙞 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧. . . 𝙞 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧. . ."

#masterlist #dune #dune part two #feyd x reader #feyd rautha x reader #paul atreides #paul atredies x reader #dune x reader #dune fic #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha fic #foreverdolly

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gladiatorcunt · 1 year ago

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summary: leto atreides x afab concubine!reader

cw: daddy kink, pregnancy, power imbalance, dark fic coded, implication that the other concubines “disappeared”, overstimulation, body worship, i would do anything to be in reader’s position here i’m being so real, not included but got reader pregnant in the full nelson position, the smut is in a flashback, mention of the reader having hip dips, mention of leto with others but he realizes you’re the one after lmao, probably dune world/lore inaccuracies, reader’s a member of the duke’s breeding program, mention of choking, intended age gap but you can read it as otherwise

wc: 1k+

block & move on if uncomfortable !!!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

kinktober masterlist

“It’s to wake up, my love.”

Your eyes flutter open to see Duke Leto Atreides standing over your bed, one of his hands brushing back some of your hair away from your face. He smiles warmly when you tiredly meet his gaze, and holds out an open palm. You take it and let him help you sit up, though that’s as far as he’s willing to let you go. Leto hovers his hands over your baby bump, borderline paranoid about you doing anything that could jeopardize the health of the baby.

“I thought my appointment with the doctor wasn’t until next week, my lord…” You yawn, resting your hands on your belly as you fight off sleep. Being heavily pregnant was no easy task, and most days it feels like you have as much energy as a corpse.

“It is, I simply wanted to see you.” Leto answers, petting your hair and curling one arm around your lower back to support it. “When we’re alone, get rid of the ‘my lord’, what we have is more than the results of an obligation.”

You sigh, leaning into his touch as you consider his words. Months ago, you were just another member of the Duke’s harem. One of many meant to produce heirs until your body shriveled up. Your family was noteworthy but not noble enough to stay afloat, you heard that the Duke was looking for breeders and you left without looking back. Though you will admit that Leto Atreides is not the worst man you could’ve taken inside you. He was gentle and the way he kissed you suggested that he felt more than just gratitude.

You pretended to not mind the sounds and stories you heard from the other concubines in the beginning. You knew perfectly well what you were signing up for, the feelings came from nowhere, you swear.

Leto’s mannerisms during sex were impossibly adoring and intimate, and he would tell you were special every time in the midst of the afterglow. You stopped hearing heart dropping noises and nauseating stories, and the day after you found out you were pregnant you heard nothing at all. The Duke took longer than usual to meet with you that night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Leto calls out, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you get ready for bed.

You finish tying the strings of your nightgown and turn around to face him. There are strange little flecks of red in the wrinkles on his face, but they could be a trick of the light so you brush the curiosity off.

“I am always waiting for you, my lord.” You repeat the same thing you say everyday, noting the way the corners of his smile flatten in displeasure.

He cups your face and walks the both of you backwards towards the bed, shooting his hands out to keep himself from crushing you when you inevitably fall on it.

Time passes by in a blur, every moment filled with cries of “Daddy” and overzealous movement from him that punches the breath of your lungs. He’s not incredibly rough, just passionate enough to have tears dot your lashes and his thumb buried in your mouth. Every kiss is a hot swirling mess of saliva and tongues colliding that gets you so wet, you really believe it could kill you.

“Mm, your tongue feels amazing, clumsily chasing after mine.” Leto grunts at some point, rutting and slamming his balls against your ass with no rhyme or reason. “The tightest cunt i’ve ever had, fuck-“

You hum around his thumb, suckling on it like he’s your god and his thick fingers in your mouth are your only reason to live. He grinds his teeth together when you make eye contact, and you struggle to keep it up as you hollow out your cheeks around his coarse digits.

“Wanna make you proud, Daddy, gonna be so good for you.” The words are muffled past the point of comprehension, but your eyes allow him to get the gist.

If you were not already pregnant, the flood of fresh cum in your pussy would’ve done the trick. You clench around your lord’s fat cock and let yourself break, squirting all over yourself.

When you come to, Leto’s busying himself with latching onto your tits like a leech and bullying your battered pussy.

“These are already so sensitive, aren’t they? And to think that I made them that way…” Leto trails off, licking a broad stripe over your nipple and pinching your clit.

You jolt and throw your head back, “Yes, Daddy, you did.”

He groans at the frequently used name, pinching your clit harder and digging his fingers in deeper. You’ve had more orgasms than you ever thought possible in the last hour alone, but your lord was insatiable like this. His head is too high in the clouds with visions of his future family to calm down.

Your legs shake but he takes his hand away from your clit and smooths his palm over your thigh to steady you.

“It’s alright, you know i won’t be too rough honey, you can take it. You’ve already taken my seed beautifully, growing my son in your womb.”

You know there’s no chance of stopping until Leto’s sure that he’s kissed and lavished every inch of your delectable body in Daddy’s attention. He gives each of your buds a ‘Goodbye for now’ kiss and wipes down the dips in your hips with his tongue, soothing the love bites and caressing the necklace of bruises around your neck he left when he lost control.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The bed sinks with Leto’s added weight, and your cheeks warm as you come back to the present. You look down at your joined hands to see a box clenched tightly in his free one. Like he’s scared of dropping it. You gaze up at him questioningly and he smiles once again before softly kissing the skin between your eyes.

Next thing you know, Duke Leto Atreides is kneeling before you and opening the box to reveal a large ring. It’s magnificently crafted and all the details align with your taste perfectly.

“Will you marry me?”

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jointherebellion215 · 1 year ago

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If It's True

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x female!reader

Summary: When an unexpected guest crashes your House's welcome feast for the Harkonnens, your life unknowingly becomes the start of a sad, sad song.

Word Count: 872

TW: Manipulation, Dark!Feyd-Rautha (so Regular Feyd-Rautha), she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, songfic

A/N: Hi, it's your friendly neighborhood shitposter. I'm taking a huge leap of faith with this fic, because I truly haven't written anything in YEARS. This idea has been bouncing around in my head for days, thus "the trilogy was born". This is meant to be Part One of a three part series, based on different songs from the musical Hadestown. I've obviously written this with very very dark interpretations of the songs and the themes. If enough people like it, I'll post parts two and three. Please let me know if it's any good, I'd love some feedback :)

AO3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dune properties, characters, or storylines-- nor do I own anything related to Hadestown. The images used in this are not my own, and any similarities to stories other than what I derive inspiration from are strictly coincidence.

What’s the use of his backbone

If he never stands upright?

“We welcome you to Kolhar, my lords Baron and na-Baron. Our House humbly offers our services and facilities to your use. I toast to our continued cooperation and to the strength of our Houses.”

As your father raised his cup, others of our House followed suit. The official welcome feast was well underway, though House Harkonnen had been planetside for at least a week already. The past few days had been for inspecting our mines and factories, ensuring that our production of their ships and swords were up to standard.

Now? Pure pageantry. You found it a bit redundant, but it was necessary to ensure your good standing among the Houses of the Imperium. It was a grand occasion, in which the leaders of your father’s council were present, as well as the highest ranked mine workers.

The doors to the large hall slam open, a familiar figure storming in. Your heart flutters at the sight of your beloved parting the crowds before him. The man who you had met by complete coincidence, one of the workers in a local steel mine, who you had spent the better part of a year meeting in secret—had crashed the court. You noticed a bruise growing on his cheek and blood trickling down his temple, indicating that his journey to enter through the doors was easier said than done. His voice soon bellowed throughout the hall.

“My Lord Duke, I refuse to let your daughter’s hand be taken by the na-Baron. She cannot marry him.”

The crowd gasps, as do you. You had spent the past week showing the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha around the grounds, the training of your most fierce warriors, and the best of your planet’s culture. You had shared a laugh or two and shown your prowess as a leader. Yes, you’d spent quite a bit of time with him, but marriage? This was news to you.

You turn to your father, who gives you an apologetic grimace. Several Harkonnen guards step forward to seize the love of your life. You quickly stand to protest, but the na-Baron stops the guards in their track with a single snap of his fingers. He offers a hand to calm the crowd, an eerie stillness in his form.

“It is true, I have offered my hand to the Lady.”

I believe that with each other,

we are stronger than we know.

“There must be a way around this. Even if this is in defiance of the court, they can’t punish all of us! We work their mines; they couldn’t truly function without us. We are the ones who truly hold the power! I implore you to stand with me, show them our strength!”

Your love stands strong, chin raised in the crowd, voice pleading with his brothers and sisters to stand beside him. He was convinced that this moment could provide a great revelation, that somehow your situation was different. That the consensus of a crowd could make the na-Baron stand down. Surely, your story could convince even the coldest of hearts that love can conquer all. He must have some sentimentality that resonates within him.

That's one of the main reasons why you fell in love with him. He's always so full of hope. Always willing to see the world as it could be, in spite of the way that it actually is.

But you knew better.

“This is treason.” Someone whispers in the room. Murmurs of assent soon follow, and your heart drops. The crowd around him quickly dissipates, as if the mere act of touching him promises death.

And the ones who deal the cards

Are the ones who take the tricks

With their hands over their hearts

While we play the game they fix

You start to plead with your father to spare your lover. He doesn’t know any better, he wasn’t raised in the ways of politics or court. It’s purely out of his love and devotion to you, so please—

Feyd-Rautha stands up and the room is immediately devoid of sound. He cranes his neck to look at you.

“You love him?”

You swallow harshly, lifting your chin. “I do.” You went to your lover, making a bold statement in linking your fingers together. Presenting a united front. Hoping that somehow, your kind attitude the past week towards the na-Baron would allow this leniency.

A gleam flashes through his eyes, almost imperceptible. He gives a blackened smile, making show of placing his hand over his heart. Confusion fills you. He slithers down the steps towards the pair of you, boots echoing in the Feasting Hall, each step making your lover’s hand give a slight tremor. Your mind stands strong in its conviction, in the thought that you’ll have to fight for what you want. But a small tendril in the back of your mind gives the slightest hesitation. The smallest indication of hope. Maybe…

Piter leans towards his Baron, whispering concerns in his ears, but is quickly paused by the Baron’s hand. Vladimir gives a slow, menacing grin. He responds to his Mentat in a low voice,

“Don’t bother. You know that my nephew loves to play with his food.”

Is this how the world is?

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aviawrites · 1 year ago

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the rage of a harkonnen (dune: part two)

pairings: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Fem!Reader

summary: The Emperor’s second born daughter, Harauna, has never been truly seen by her father; Her light always being dimmed by the shine of her older sister, Irulan. As Maud’Dib continues fighting on Arrakis and her father’s spot falls farther into jeopardy, Princess Harauna sees an opportunity to finally find her place in the Imperium…Wife of the possible Emperor, ruling alongside Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. (3.9k)

a/n: i’ve already seen this movie twice and i’m going again😛 austin’s performance is so compelling, i couldn’t take my eyes off of him whenever he was on screen. i hope you all liked feyd-rautha as much as i do…otherwise i may be crazy. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3

warnings: blood, death, abuse

in this story, yn is: Harauna Corrino (Harkonnen)

10191 // month 1 // 📍kaitan

“Paul Atreides is not our only prospect.” Reverend Mother Mohiam reveals, standing before you and your sister. “The Baron’s youngest nephew, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, will inherit Arrakis. He may be the answer.”

Your eyes open wide, the name itself sending shivers down your spine. You, along with all of your family, knew of Feyd-Rautha - Knew of the Sadistic Harkonnen, known for slaughtering anyone who challenges him, even his own people.

“Feyd-Rautha?” Irulan furrows her brows, “He’s psychotic.”

“That’s irrelevant. The question is…can we control him?”

You stare up at the Reverend Mother’s black veil, an idea striking you.

Since a child, it’s always been Princess Irulan - The Emperor’s daughter. Irulan will inherit the thrones, Irulan will marry Paul Atreides, Irulan will rule the empire. Never once has your father taken the time to look at you. Never once has he asked the Reverend Mother how you are as a Bene Gesserit. If he did, he’d come to learn that you’re just as equipped to take on the role of Empress as your sister.

You know what you know - You know how impossible it is to ever be worthy of attention in your father’s eyes. The sound of marrying the prince, possibly the future Emperor, doesn’t seem distasteful. Is he a terrible man, yes. May he turn out to be a worse husband, yes. But God forgive you if you choose being the possible ruler of the empire over being second best.

“I will marry Feyd-Rautha…” You suggest, coming out as more of a squeak.

Their eyes dart to yours, Irulan’s gaze feeling more like knives piercing your head.

“Young Harauna-“

“No.” Your sister interjects, turning your body toward hers. “Are you crazy? Feyd-Rautha is the last man you need to marry.”

“Irulan, I want to.” You push back, your voice low. “He may be Emperor one day, we need to secure that opportunity. Do we not, Reverend Mother?”

“We absolutely do, Harauna.”

Irulan’s jaw hangs open, looking between the two of you.

“Are you serious? Reverend Mother, you know Feyd-Rautha. You’ve seen him with your own eyes - You want Hara anywhere near that?”

“She’s thinking of the Imperium, Irulan. Should Paul Atreides be alive, he will want the throne.”

“Feyd-Rautha won’t go down without a fight…” You finish for her.

“Precisely. If he loses, Paul will have a bride awaiting him.” She gestures to your sister. “But if he reigns supreme, he’ll have a Corrino by his side.”

Irulan only shakes her head, disbelief glossing in her eyes.

“Hara…”

“Sister, I need to do this.” You whisper, softly squeezing her hands. “I can’t make decisions like you…I’m not you.”

“W- What does that mean, Hara? I don’t understand-“

“If I get in line for the throne…” You begin. “If I secure a spot for myself in the Empire, I will be nearly equal to you in father’s eyes. I’ll mean something to someone.”

A tear threatens to fall as she struggles to find words.

“You mean something to me.” She shrugs, now wondering if that holds any value to you. “If I lose you to the Harkonnens…If I have to stay here alone while you’re on Giedi Prime I don’t know how I’ll-“ She quickly wipes her eyes, taking a breath. “I don’t know how I’ll survive this impending war without you, Hara.”

You tilt your head, bringing your hand to Irulan’s cheek.

“Write to me, Irulan.” You smile, forcing back your own tears as you solidify this departure in your head. “Send messages to Giedi Prime, will you? Write them like you do your entries and I swear to you I’ll read each one. No matter what happens with the Harkonnen’s, I’ll always have my sister back home on my side, right?”

A thick silence falls upon the three of you, Irulan fighting between perplex and terror as her hands began to quiver in yours.

“I’ll alert the Emperor.” Reverend Mother says, leaving the two of you.

Alone, your sister pulls you into an embrace, one of the tighter ones. She allows her tears to land on your garments, her shoulders trembling as small whimpers escape her lips.

“Don’t do this, Hara.”

10191 // month 3 // 📍giedi prime

“On your birthday of all days. The Baron should know better than to jeopardize his soon to be Planetary Governor in such a public manner. You could’ve died.”

“I would not have died.” Your husband fiddles with his blade.

“All slaves should be drugged, should they not?” You remind him. “It’d have taken only one swift slash of the Atreides’ blade and The Baron would’ve lost his heir. He’s insane.”

“Careful, wife.” He warns, “The Baron is flawed but his promises are rich.”

“What could he possibly promise you that’s more important than the entirety of this planet?”

He stares, his eyes scanning you up and down as a small smirk grows on his face.

“The entirety of Arrakis.”

Creases form on your forehead, your words coming out as stammers.

“…He promises you…Arrakis?”

“If I manage to control spice production.” He explains, reveling in your dumbfounded expression.

Your mind immediately imagines your life on Arrakis, a fate you’ve never considered. The plan was to marry Feyd-Rautha, be by his side when he defeats his opponents, have your father kneel to him, and rule the Imperium from the planet of the Harkonnens. But now, thoughts of working from the dune covered planet makes the hair on the back of your neck rise.

“But-“ You clear your throat, “Um - Is that not Rabban’s job?”

“Rabban failed.” He seethes. “He humiliates house Harkonnen with each Fremen attack he allows. With me ruling the mission, there will be no more.”

“What’s the plan? Once you’re on Arrakis who’s to say my father won’t order you out? What if he doesn’t like how you handle-“

“The Emperor has a set fate too, Harauna. If we were to expose what he did to the Atreides’, the houses would explode. A rise against the Emperor would ensue.” He nears you, looking down at your wide eyes as he bares his blackened mouth. “The throne would be ours to take.”

You don’t know if he meant to admit to what he’s admitted to. Though, you have no doubt he’d tell you his plans to kill your father to your face, indifferent to what you might think. But even Feyd-Rautha should have some sort of limit, shouldn’t he?

“Feyd…” You murmur, “What will happen to him? What will happen to my house? My Reverend Mother, my sisters? They’re innocent they don’t deserve-“

He rolls his eyes, turning away in the midst of your oration. “Princess Harauna asks too many questions.” He returns to his spot across the room. “If you want to sit next to me as Empress, I suggest you straighten out a bit, hm?”

10191 // month 3 // 📍giedi prime

14 hours later

Feyd-Rautha’s room reeks of deceased Harkonnen bodies and dried blood as you storm in, a scowl on your face.

Inside, you see your husband squatted by a dead servant, one that if you look too close you may realize is an acquaintance of yours.

‘FEYD-RAUTHA RABBA HARKO-‘ He’s carved into her pale white skin, his letters bleeding into each other.

The Princess Harauna 3 months ago would scream at the sight. She’d turn and run, alerting her Reverend Mother and father that a cold blooded murderer has gotten into your home. Only…this is home. The man carving names into bodies isn’t a stranger, not an intruder, but the man you married.

Though you’re not sure he knows it, seeing as you can practically taste the Bene Gesserit on him.

You shove, hard, knocking Feyd-Rautha off balance and onto the concrete floor.

“What the-“

“Seriously!?” You shout, watching his bewildered expression looking back at you. “You’ve not been of age for one whole day and you’ve already betrayed me!”

“You watch yourself, woman.” He warns you, spite in his eyes.

“I can smell her on you.” You say, knowing all of the signs of a Bene Gesserit’s work, and a sexually vulnerable Feyd-Rautha. “She could be carrying your child!”

Your husband quickly calms himself, seemingly deciding not to waste energy on someone like you. On someone like his wife.

“Would you stop that yelling?” He mumbles, turning and beginning to smear the blood across the mutilated arm.

“How dare you.” You scoff. “I’m meant to be your princess. I’m meant to be your queen Feyd-Rautha! Not some girl who was on a mission. A Bene Gesserit who was here to test you and didn’t want you for more than one night-“

“You’re not any better!” He rises, his demeanor changing like night and day in a split second.

The minute he gets angry, his energy dominates the room. “Don’t you ever think you’re a better woman for being a power hungry leech who called dibs on the heir before anyone else.” He jabs, lowering until he’s in your face.

Your jaw hangs open, offense quickly overpowering the fear that you often feel in the presence of an angry Feyd-Rautha. Or any Feyd-Rautha, at that.

“I don’t need you.” Your eyes pierce his, flames igniting in yours. “I’m the Emperor’s daughter, I was second in line for the throne. If anything, you needed me to get to where you-“

The wind is knocked out of you as your husband grabs your neck, instantly cutting off your words. He grins, nearly frothing at the mouth as he always does at the slightest hint of violence. He feeds off of violence, in the face of which most people quiver he greets it with a big smile, he yearns for violence, he is violence.

“I needed you, huh?” His face about brushes yours, his saliva dripping onto you. “I wasn’t at home being neglected by daddy, Harauna. I wasn’t the second choice. I didn’t need to marry to get power. I wasn’t worthless.”

He’s entranced, his hand on your throat tightening with each sentence until you’re sure it’ll snap. You claw at his stained hands, collecting the blood of his servants under your nails.

“Husband-“ You croak, feeling the pressure in your head increase.

Feyd-Rautha only smiles, adrenaline rushing throughout him as he contemplates letting this be the end of you. Maybe he should rid himself of this royal burden before she sits with him at the top.

“Know your place, princess.” He whispers before letting you go with a shove.

You drop to the floor, crashing into the bloody bodies on the ground and fighting for your pipes to reopen. You frantically heave as he looks down at you once more, evil in his eyes, before he leaves you where you are.

Weeps escape you, feeling selfish as you cry in the presence of women who got it much worse.

But you don’t dare complain. For you asked for this. Your sister warned you, your logic warned you. Nevertheless, in times like this, the possibility of being ruler of the Imperium outweighs the possibility of dying due to your attempts.

“Be the worst position in the highest room.” Your father used to tell you, “For some never make it to the room.”

10191 // month 4 // 📍starship

The low hum of the frigate gives the cold ambience some character. Rabban lounges across the kitchen table, his feet up on the marble. Your husband sits a few chairs down from you, sheathing and unsheathing his blade, creating a repetitive sound for the two of you to suffer through.

“Princess Harauna.” You hear as the grand doors within the starship open. A servant enters, seemingly a younger version of the Baron, with a thin metal tube in his hand.

The big man hands it to you, bowing slightly before shuffling away.

“Say thanks to the piggy.” Feyd-Rautha teases, a devilish grin on his face.

Rabban slightly chuckles as you eye your husband, sighing before opening the letter.

“To my sister, Hara.”

Your eyes gleam, seeming to scan faster and faster the more and more you read. The two men in the room with you don’t seem to notice, mindlessly engaging in their own boredom as the ship heats up in the weather of Arrakis.

You shut the tube with a click, looking down at it as you weakly attempt to process what you’ve just read.

“Paul Atreides…is coming.” You reveal, catching the attention of Rabban and Feyd-Rautha. “He makes his way from the south.”

“Paul Atreides is dead.” Rabban corrects you.

“He didn’t die in the attack-“

“I know that, woman!” He abruptly shouts, banging the table. “I saw to it myself, him and his mother died in the-“

“Sandstorm.” You finish, much quieter than he began. “But he didn’t.”

Your husband has turned his body toward you, now intently listening.

“They live - And they challenge my father now.” You look up at the two of them, “Him. He must be this Maud’Dib, this Lisan-Al-Gaib. Who else would it be?”

“Wait,” Feyd speaks up, “Challenge your father for what, exactly?”

You meet his gaze before reopening the letter, searching for the Irulan’s line on the challenge:

Paul Atreides will arrive unannounced when we land in Arrakis in a challenge for the throne.

Rabban shakes his head. “There’s no longer a need for the Emperor on Arrakis.” He misses the point, “We’ve got the spice production under control. The old bastard can stay home.”

Feyd-Rautha leans his elbows in his knees, looking up at you with that same evil look he gets whenever a dangerous plan arises.

“Atreides’,” He thinks aloud, “They’re little rats. Insects that keep popping up no matter how many times you exterminate.”

“Should I alert the Baron?” Rabban asks, speaking quicker than his acute brain can think.

“You will do no such thing.” Feyd demands, conjuring up his plan in his much more suitable brain. “Since the Emperor is deciding to pay us a visit despite the work l've done here…Maybe the Atreides' will do the bloody work for us. Keep us in the good graces of the Great Houses."

Bloody work, he says. The exposure and diminishing of your father’s name he means.

“Brother.” Rabban counters, “The Atreides’ - The Fremen - They’ll have us outnumbered. Uncle should be aware-“

“You will do no such thing.” His brother orders, now loosely pointing his blade toward Rabban. “The throne is mine therefore the throne is yours. The Baron won’t make Harkonnen the greatest house, brother. I will.” He leers.

“Husband,” You voice reason, seeing all of the ways you could lose your promised spot to this scheme. “If it comes to a fight and Paul beats you-“

“He won’t beat me.”

“But if this challenge doesn’t go our way,” You hypothesize, “We could lose everything. Paul Atreides won’t let my father live, not after what he’s done. My family will hold no power, my sister will be-“

"I will remain unharmed, will I not? As will my brother.” He redirects. “Are we not your biggest concern anymore? Are we not your family, Harauna?"

…

The ship gets hotter and hotter as you near Arrakeen. Feyd-Rautha meddles with his torso buttons on the opposite side of the room as you stare at the screen in your bedroom, broadcasting the sandy terrain of the new planet.

“What would your plans be as Emperor, Feyd-Rautha?” You query, eyes locked on the family owned land.

He sighs as he always does when you open your mouth, as if nothing his wife says is worthwhile.

“Princess Harauna asks too many questions.” He repeats.

“Just answer me…Please.” You urge, the question having appeared in your mind minutes ago and hasn’t stopped nagging since.

“What do you think my plans are, princess?” He turns toward you, his dark and threatening eyes seeming to dim the entire room. “I’m going to make the entire Imperium Harkonnen. Our family will be the most powerful spice harvesters anyone’s ever seen.” He begins, “I’ll give my Empress a child, grow our empire, and teach my princeling how to rule.”

You listen intently, trying your hardest to envision your life going from Princess of Kaitan, to wife of the heir, to Empress of the Imperium beside Feyd-Rautha, of all men.

Be the worst position in the highest room.

Your husband goes on. “Caladan will be a thing of the past. Atreides will be a thing of the past. Harkonnen will be the great house and any others will just be…Maud’Dib.” He chuckles.

“‘Your Empress’...” You point out, never having heard your name. You only wish to hear where you and your family stand in his master plan. “Would it be me?”

He gives you his undivided attention, letting go of his leather vest. “Why must you talk so much about things that don’t matter?” He asks, true indifference and apathy in his tone.

For some never make it to the room.

“…Is it me or no one?” You speak up, your voice frantically running before your mind can catch up. “Is it me or death, Feyd-Rautha?”

Your attitude shifts in the middle of your sentence as you realize where you’ve heard these exact words before.

“You or no one, Irulan.” Your father would say, stroking your sister’s hair while the rest of you sat and waited for nothing.

Never in your life did you plan to sit in a Harkonnen’s bedroom and beg for his approval. For his confirmation that you were his.

But here you are, begging the worst of men to love you the way The Emperor never did. The way he never will.

“In two moons I will be Emperor.” Feyd-Rautha strides toward you, holding your hands in his as he bores. “Harauna Harkonnen will be next to me.”

A smile grows wide on your face; An odd, yet full, feeling of acceptance spiraling throughout you.

His eyes suddenly seem to get even darker as his grip on your hands morphs into a crushing clutch. “For as long as she knows her place, she will remain.”

Ice replaces the once warm feeling in your veins. Your smile fades as his grows, watching the fear in you rise with each squeeze of your fingers. Tears form in your eyes as the reality of your situation sets in once more as it has over and over since you step foot on Giedi Prime.

But you don’t dare complain. For you asked for this. Your sister warned you, your logic warned you.

10191 // month 4 // 📍arrakeen

two days later

You all stand completely still, your heartbeat seeming to be louder than the atomics outside of the Emperor’s structure. Inside the ring of Sardukaur lies your family; Irulan hiding behind your father as Maud’Dib, in front of your eyes, holds a blade over the Baron.

You and Feyd-Rautha stand alone across the walkway, your husband seemingly hypnotized by Paul Atreides as he plunges it into his uncles neck. Your hand resting on Feyd’s lower back vibrates as his breathing heavies, being just as amazed by Paul as you are.

The both of your mouths hang open, and for once, you and your husband seem to be on the same page. Paul begins barking orders at your father as you bring your lips to Feyd’s ear, speaking in a hushed whisper to not interfere with the daring Paul Maud’Dib.

“In the event of your death…” You begin. He slightly cocks his head toward you, listening. “Would you have me marry him?”

Paul gives one last daring look at the sea of people standing against him, though, he seems as fearless as your husband as his expression never wavers from stone.

“Is he worthy?”

Feyd-Rautha doesn’t so much as flinch at your comment, new, for a man like him. You can’t help but believe it’s because you’re right. The na-Baron recognizes that the viciousness that is Paul Atreides, no matter how unexpected, is a perfect match for him. A perfect match for his wife.

Is he wrong to admit that if not him, Paul may be the closest thing to fit to be Emperor of the universe?

…

You’ve never laid eyes on a fight so glorious. The two most powerful and ferocious men on Arrakis clinking their blades again and again in a battle for the throne.

The room falls silent as your husband lodges his sword into Paul, holding him close as one of the two release an animalistic roar. His mother stands, his Fremen’s mouths hang agape, your husband just hardly smiles at you over his shoulder.

You can’t help but feel a sense of dread boiling in your stomach. Yes - You want Feyd-Rautha to reign supreme. Yes, you want to be Empress. But as you watch the devilish sneer on his face fill out as Paul’s blood stains his pasty hand, your heart seems to be pulling you in another direction. You’ve always been quite talented at telling good from bad; But Maud’Dib, you can’t seem to figure out. He lays in the gray area in between the two, you determine.

Your reflection is quickly halted as the squelching sound of an edge piercing skin fills the room. You sway to the side, eyes wide as you see Paul’s hand gripping the handle, the rest buried into your husband’s heart.

A gasp escapes many in the room, you included as a hand flies to your mouth. You and your father very well may be the only people in the room who are rooting for Feyd-Rautha. Knowing this, the smiles that sprinkle themselves on attendants throughout the room quickly after the inhale isn’t unanticipated.

“You…” His raspy voice is almost too quiet for you to catch as he fights for each breath. “You fought well…Atreides.”

He slowly turns his head just far enough to have you in his sight. Even in death, Feyd-Rautha remains as menacing as the day you first met him.

He has no words for you. He only bares that stupid, prideful, blackened smile that got him stabbed in the first place.

You seem in a trance as you watch his body thud to the floor, looking as lifeless as the women on his bedroom floor back home.

“Lisan-Al-Gaib!” A Fremen leader calls, breaking the silence as his people repeat after him.

Paul Atreides, Feyd-Rautha’s murderer, rises. He limps toward you and your family, prompting your sister to swiftly grab your free hand as the other slowly lowers from your lips.

You had no love for Feyd-Rautha, nothing real. For him you experienced nothing that you should feel for a husband. Nevertheless, the tears flow all the same.

"The life debt has been paid.” Irulan blurts, squeezing your hand as Paul nears you. “Spare my father and I will be your willing bride. The throne will be yours."

Her words snap you out of your haze, throwing you into the face of reality as it strikes you in the heart.

"I'll take the hand of your daughter. She will remain safe and we will rule together over the empire." Paul declared.

In the span of seconds you imagine the moment a trillion different ways. If only he had nodded toward you, not Irulan.

‘Where is integrity?’ You wonder.

Where is honor in sacrifice when you've given all you know to give and you still don't win. You can never seem to come out on top. You can never seem to be first…But your sister can, as she always does.

You snatch your hand away from your Irulan’s; Your eyes glued to your father, now kneeling, as rage grows within you. The rage of all of the rejection you've faced, the rage of all you have given to get to where you are, the rage of now wishing Feyd-Rautha had stuck Paul Atreides' head on a spike for all of Arrakis to see.

The rage of a Harkonnen.

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