#paul atreides self insert

[crescenthistory]

hear me out…b4 with paul <333

thanks for your request babe! this fit best as a silly drabble in my mind, enjoy<33

Prompt: B.4 “Kiss me again”

Words: 1.6k

Warnings: sparring, kissing, goofing

The blade whistles through the air, missing your cheek by a breath as you twist out of the way. You’re not fast enough to avoid the follow-up, though – Paul’s foot sweeps low, knocking you off balance. You hit the ground hard, air rushing from your lungs.

He is standing over you in an instant, poised and confident, dark curls falling over his forehead, eyes glittering with the quiet triumph he always tries to mask.

“Yield?” he asks, that edge of teasing already creeping into his voice. He extends a hand down to you, his stance relaxed, clearly feeling like he has already won. Typical.

“I’ll think about it,” you huff, reaching up as if you’re taking his hand. The second your fingers brush his, you tug, hard. He yelps in surprise as you yank him off his feet, using his own weight to pull him down.

He lands hard beside you, his expression startled for a split second before it melts into a grin. You don’t give him time to recover, rolling over to press the flat of your practice blade to his throat.

“Yield?” you echo, your smirk matching his earlier confidence.

Paul laughs, bright and unguarded, and it’s the kind of sound that makes your chest feel too tight. His shoulders shake beneath you, his amusement spilling out in waves, and for a moment, you forget about the training ground and the hours of drills. It’s just him, here, like this.

“Okay, okay, I yield.” His hands coming up in mock surrender. In his eyes, though, there is a dancing, teasing glint that should tell you he’s not done playing yet.

You lift the blade, relaxing your grip – and he strikes.

With a swift movement, Paul rolls you both over so you’re beneath him, pinning you to the ground. Before you can protest, he catches your wrists, holding them down with an infuriatingly smug look on his face. His body is warm above you, his breath still coming fast from the laughter.

“Can’t believe you fell for your own trick,” he murmurs, leaning in close, voice a low drawl meant to needle you.

Your lips twitch, torn between frustration and amusement. “Can’t believe you’re so insufferable.”

“I’ve been told.” He smirks, leaning in even closer, so close now that his breath ghosts over your skin. “But admit it. You love losing to me.”

He loves to push the limit with you, but you won't let him get away that easy.

“Oh, please.” You scoff, squirming under his grip. “I am so above that.”

You throw your hips up on the side of his, mind too focused on not losing to panic over your proximity, as you use your weight and sheer willpower to topple him over, ripping out of his grasp from the momentum.

Both opponents scramble to your feet, eyes trained on the other to catch any small movement. Despite yourself, a smile begins to tug at the corner of your mouth, relishing in the pure childish fun of it all.

Once Paul sees, he smiles himself, shaking his head slightly at your antics.

In the next moment you throw your body around and lunge, taking advantage of his slight distraction.

Your foot connects with Paul’s chest, and he stumbles back, laughing as he barely regains his balance. His grin grows lopsided, wild, as he twirls his blade in hand, trying to recover some dignity.

“Oh, don’t even think about it,” you warn as you see him shift his posture. You know him too well, his signalling, his tells – he’s about to pull one of his flashy moves, the kind that makes you roll your eyes but also secretly impresses you. 

Paul cocks his head, increasingly infuriating smirk still on his lips. “Think about what? Winning?”

You narrow your eyes. “Trying and failing to, at least.”

Ignoring you, his foot sliding forward with practised ease, body twisting in ways it shouldn’t be able to, blade arcing toward you in a sweeping strike.

You sidestep him, just out of range, letting him stumble slightly past you.

“Really?” you tease, pressing in close before he can recover, mock blade at the ready. “Is this the same Paul Atreides that’s supposed to be great?”

“Oh, I’m saving my energy,” he quips, but his breath is coming faster, his shoulders rising and falling. “Just giving you a false sense of security.”

“Right,” you say, repressing an eye roll so you can keep your focus on him. “So, in this plan, I’m supposed to get overconfident and–”

Paul surges forward before you can finish, his blade coming at you in a quick, fluid strike. You barely manage to block it, relying on your reflexes as you twist and catch his wrist in your hand, using his momentum to throw him off balance. He stumbles, wide-eyed, and you spin, finally pressing him back against the smooth stone floor of the courtyard.

His back hits the ground with a soft thud, and you’re on him in an instant, straddling his waist, pinning him down. Your practice blade presses lightly to his throat, though your grin is what’s really sharp now.

“How did that work out, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yield, or are we going to keep pretending?”

Paul’s breathing has quickened beneath you, but there’s still that mischievous glint in his eyes, even as he raises his hands in a final surrender. “Alright, alright,” he says, smiling. “You win this round.”

You can’t help the triumphant laugh that bursts from you. “Oh, don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he replies, his voice dropping an octave as he looks up at you, his eyes flicking to linger on your lips. “Not when you fight like that.”

Your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat. It’s all playful until it’s not.

Maybe if you weren’t full of endorphins from the fight and, more importantly, the win, you would have thought twice. Instead, you drop your knife in favour of his cheek and lean down to catch his lips with yours.

It’s short lived, seconds feeling like minutes when you’re this high, but when you pull back, Paul’s hands shoot up to secure you by your waist and neck so you can’t go far. 

He whispers your name with a wild look in his eyes. When you meet that gaze, you realise what you did and what it meant.

Paul tilts his head up slightly, lips still brushing yours. “Kiss me again,” he murmurs.

For a second, you’re frozen, caught in the quiet intensity of his gaze. His voice i soft but insistent, and the teasing banter from a moment ago seems to have slipped away. The challenge remains, though.

“Paul…” you start, but whatever you were going to say fades as his hands tighten on your hips, urging you closer.

“You heard me,” he says, his tone lighter this time, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re going to deny the victor their spoils?”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “Pretty sure I’m the victor.”

When Paul rolls you over this time, it’s with lazy ease as you don’t feel the need to fight it. His hand falls from your face to hold him up, most of his weight being placed on his hips on yours.

“What about now?” 

“Doesn’t change a thing, Atreides.”

Still, you give into him and tug on his hair to bring him back down into another searing kiss. What started as a playful gesture shifts into something deeper, something that makes you forget about the sparring match, about the training grounds, about everything except the feeling of Paul’s lips moving against yours. His hands slide up your sides, settling on your waist, and his fingers flex slightly, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment, to you.

When you pull back for air, your foreheads resting together, Paul is smiling –  that rare, genuine smile that you only ever see when it’s just the two of you, away from all the expectations and responsibilities.

“You know,” he says, voice breathless but still tinged with humour, “you didn’t have to knock me flat to kiss me.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you sit back slightly, still straddling him. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides,” you add, raising an eyebrow, “if you wanted to kiss me so badly, you could’ve won.”

Paul laughs, full and bright, and you feel his body shake beneath yours. “Oh, I let you win.”

“Right,” you drawl, shifting to poke him in the chest with your finger. “Sure, sure. Go on and keep telling yourself that, future Duke.”

His grin softens, and he reaches up to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d rather be here.”

The way he says it so earnestly hits you somewhere deep, making your heart stutter in your chest. You swallow, your playful bravado slipping for a moment as you meet his gaze. He’s looking at you with that same intensity, the one that makes you feel seen in a way that’s almost too much.

“Paul…” you start again, but he interrupts with a playful grin, his hands slipping to your waist again.

“Don’t go all serious on me now,” he teases, though there’s a gentleness to it, a way he’s pulling you back into the easy, playful rhythm you share. “You’ve still got me pinned. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

You laugh, shaking off the sudden tension. “You mean while you let it last?” Your tone imitates his.

“Exactly.”

“Well, if we pretend I’m in charge,” you say, leaning down again, your breath mingling with his, “then I say we take a break from all this training.”

Paul hums in agreement, his lips brushing yours again as he murmurs, “You always have the best ideas.”

“Now you admit it.”

[goldenatreides]

- 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.)

[soartheheavens]

[jolenes-doppelganger]

hi! so I have this idea that won't leave my mind about a fanfic/story between lady jessica x fem! reader. basically reader is part of one of the great houses and she married duke leto because of a political alliance. jessica was already leto’s concubine and paul had already been born too.

the relationship between reader and jessica was never the best one. jessica always had this pet peeve with reader, maybe jealousy because she was married with leto, but reader never wanted to be married with him and never had romantic feelings for him too.

they relationship began to change when they come to arrakis, specifically when they are left in the desert to die (is “saved” by the harkonnen also because he is a member of one of the great houses).

jessica sees the reader as the only thing left of what she called home, then she starts to develop feelings. reader already had some “strange” feelings for jessica, like a devotion/admiration to a goddess.

– s

ps: i’m the same person who requested the jessica x fem! corrino reader.

[Hi Anon! Keeping me busy, I see :)]

Riptides

Lady Jessica x Fem! Duchess Reader

Summary: The past haunts. It puts things both bad and good into perspective. Whether it is to mend or to separate, that is entirely up to the doer.

Warnings: None, just overall angsty. (Hurt + Comfort).

A/N: This work is contrived of ‘ficlets’. Plain text moves linearly, set in Dune II after Jamis has been killed. Italicized text does not move linearly, pertaining to snapshots of the past. R is the sister of Lord Fenring, not shown in the movie. (This is not a white or perceived to be white character, it is as self-insert as possible). I also did my best to lean into realism, (less R admiration of Jessica, more conflict), as it is more my style. !!! I really, really, really, really like exploring true characterization or playing around with characters, so this is a very angsty fic !!! (Alia steals the show, again).

Word Count: 4.2k

Paul was an uneasy sleeper. Looking at Jessica as she twitched in the Fremen tent, you realized just where he had gotten it from. Jessica was coated in sweat. Paul was the furthest away from you. It was a sad truth that neither of them ever really warmed up to you. And how could you blame them? The marriage to House Atreides was nothing you’d ever asked for. It just was. But Jessica couldn’t understand that. And you wouldn’t try to make her understand that. Perhaps if things had gone differently from the start, perhaps if you’d been given the opportunity to make her acquaintance before you were dragged to the marital bed… None of it mattered.

Jessica twitched again, an unpleasant dream. The duke was dead. Your protection was gone, and by some miracle you’d made it with the other two out of the desert and into the path of the Fremen. Paul had fought for his right to live, Jessica had bested Stilgar, then killed Jamis to protect him and his mother’s right in the Fremen, but you? The best you had was the Bene Gesserit training given to all noble women of high ranking houses. A Sayyadina, like Jessica. It put you in a poor place with the Fremen.

“Hnnmm-” Jessica jerked.

You looked at her, analyzing her facial expressions. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up, lunging.

“Jessi-”

Her hands gripped your shoulder as she pushed you down, prepared to strike. The dim light of the eclipse halted her motions.

“Oh.” she gasped.

Her blue eyes were wide, and afraid. It must have been a hell of a dream.

“All this time and I still forget there’s three of us.” 

Loud voices came from inside the Duke’s chambers. He’d called you here, supposedly to meet with Jessica. Your earlier interactions were never pleasant, she was clipped with you.

“Jessica, please. She is a political ally and another route of maintaining peace upon Arrakis.” Duke Leto reasoned with his concubine.

“And a force of contention in this house! She is slow to learn the Fremen ways, slow to develop relationships with the house staff, and worse, her closest friend is a teenage boy.”

“Paul is close to her age it is reasonable-”

“Yes. They are close in age. I wonder why that is.”

Duke Leto didn’t answer, rather he opened the door, gesturing you inside. You wore thin, flowy clothing, similar to the clothing worn in House Fenring. It was far less conservative than Jessica’s, and you supposed that was a mistake in and of itself. The Duke paid no attention to your clothes. One night to seal your marriage, as was custom. The Bene Gesserit had already decided you would not bear an Atreides child. You slept with him the night after your period had ended. No child would have been conceived, no heir above Paul.

“There are three of us in this marriage.” Leto spoke. “For better or worse, we need to remain as one unit,” he made a circular gesture with his hands, “And that cannot happen without work to build the cohesion between the two of you.”

Jessica’s eyes were bright, intense, her mouth drawn into a thinly concealed scowl.

“Lady Jessica,” you began. “If it is my friendship with Paul that worries you, I will end it.”

Jessica gave one last look at her Duke, leaving before she had spoken a word to you. 

Jessica crouched in the sand, taking refuge from the heat in a cluster of boulders. You couldn’t blame her, she was nauseous. The babe produced nausea as it was, but the sight of water collection from several still living Harkonnens couldn’t have made it any better. She looked green, practically, having thrown up in the sand. Stilgar had scooped it into a bag, attaching it to a pack. No waste. But the lack of water wasn’t going to help her.

“Jessica.” you murmured, crouching beside her on the ground. “Here.”

You exposed the straw from your suit, offering it to her.

“I can’t accept it.” Jessica shook her head.

“It’s a gift for my future step-daughter. You can and you will.”

Jessica didn’t really mean it when she refused the water. She knew you’d press the issue, and she’d accept. She needed the water, and you could do without a little water for a little while. The only issue was that it required bringing her face close to you, which she did. The water was warm. The same temperature as your body, but it did the trick. She drank a few mouthfuls of water, more than she needed, but you didn’t object. She’d take what she could get from you, although her mindset was starting to change.

“The young Lady Fenring, sister of Lord Fenring.” Reverend Gauis Helen Mohiam drawled. “The Bene Gesserit have secured you a marriage…”

So that was what she was here for? A marriage was reasonable, you were of the age to be used to further the Bene Gesserit breeding program. 

“There’s a catch.” the Reverend spoke, holding her hand up to prevent you from assenting. “The union is childless.”

Your mouth snapped shut. A childless marriage? What kind of a thing was that? The Bene Gesserit was better off training you to be a junior reverend than marrying you to a man without birthing a child. What of the breeding programme? What of the needed changes to be made to the bloodlines with the Atreides resistance?

“You will be our spy. There are many eyes upon House Atreides, but we need eyes from inside.”

“What of Lady Jessica, your reverence?”

Helen Mohiam chuffed at that.

“Lady Jessica has served her own purpose since she fell in love with her Duke. One of my best pupils, one of my worst failures. You are young, unswayed by the love of men, swayed by the approval and service to your sisters of the Bene Gesserit. You will serve us well there.”

Taking a breath in, you nodded once.

“I assume Lady Jessica is not to be made aware of this?”

“Lady Jessica should never know of the master you serve. Your duty is to play the role of a jealous wife. Distance between Jessica and you is the only way our intel can be confirmed. Do not get close. Never, ever, give her reason to suspect you are anything but madly in love with the Duke Atreides.”

“You never cried over my father.” Paul murmured to you, sitting on a dune during nightfall.

It was peaceful tonight. The dunes of Arrakis were calm, without wind whipping over the sand, without the whirr of Harkonnen machinery.

“The Fremen don’t waste water. We are Fremen.”

“No. Before. In the tent we slept in before Duncan found us, you did not cry. You were scared, and upset, but you…”

“I never loved your father. I was his wife in name and rank. But I never loved him.” you admitted, not looking at him.

Paul went quiet. He was a deep thinker, like his father. An inner monologue that only they were privy to playing in their head at all moments, a monologue that very rarely came to the surface.

“I knew your father for six months. We were married in a time of great uncertainty for your house, a time of great uncertainty for the Bene Gesserit and Landsraad. There was no time to love him. But I respected him.”

Paul gave a bob of his head. There was sand in his hair. You reached over, shaking it clean. His hair was getting long.

“You need a haircut.” 

“The Fremen don’t all have short hair.”

“Long hair on the warmest part of your head, the head that is most directly exposed to the sun, is a poor idea. Give me your crysknife.”

“It’s ceremonial.” Paul corrected, offended. “And Jessica has long hair, as does Chani.”

You sighed. That it was. They were only drawn when someone was to die, or when handed down from one individual to another. It would be borderline sacrilegious to use it for a haircut. Chani had thick hair, like the Fremen, and Paul had thick hair too, but he was complaining of headaches, from adjustment to the desert climate, you assumed.

“I’m cutting it off.” you decided.

One of the fremen had an iron knife, generally used for cooking. You cut Paul’s hair, leaving the top of his head longer and the sides short. You bagged the hair.

“Do you want to keep it?” you asked the boy.

“Hair doesn’t hold water.”

“It’s said to hold memory.” you murmured. “Do you want to keep it?”

Paul shook his head. He had enough memories in his head to remain unbothered with those from a scrap of hair.

“I’ll keep it.” Jessica murmured, reaching forward for the bag of hair.

She tucked it away in a pouch on her stillsuit. She seemed equally sentimental as she was a bit sad.

“I had a trimming of his baby hair.” Jessica murmured, brow furrowed. “It would have been burned with the rest of Arrakeen.”

You looked up at her, and then nodded once. A box of sentimental items was something you and Jessica seemed to share. Both went up in flames with the Arrakis city. The only thing left of your lives before being the both of you and Paul. Jessica settled beside you, sitting on the dune with you. She was deep in thought, and for good reason. The past was a territory she chartered regularly, for better or worse. 

“Were we ever competing for Leto?” Jessica asked, voice soft, and yet tinged with a scratchiness caused by water retention.

The thought itself was a sad one, and a bit difficult to answer. The Bene Gesserit order had dictated that you play the role of the devoted spouse. It was under their orders that you’d romance Leto, vying for his attention, for his trust, for his innermost thoughts; those that were not as secret as he may have believed. Perhaps you’d played a role in the downfall of House Atreides? No. Not perhaps. The information you’d provided the Reverend Mother had led to the Emperor’s decision to exterminate House Atreides. Of course you had never known it was the plan of the order, but… How much of the fall of House Atreides were you responsible for.

“I…”

Tears sprung in your eyes. Tears you couldn’t cry, a waste of a body’s water. And yet your chest ached. The muscles in your throat contracted painfully, and you blinked rapidly to dispel the tears. Tension grew in your lungs as your body fought against sobs.

“Oh.” Jessica said.

Oh.

Oh? That was all?

Leto rolled in his sleep, wet breath ghosting over your bare shoulder. You’d assumed he’d leave after the marital act, returning to his bed with Jessica, but he hadn’t. Rather, the man had slumped over into the bed, closing his eyes and letting out a weary sigh, as if to say ‘it’s done’. There was wetness between your thighs; wetness that you weren’t responsible for. Sure, you’d forced your body into being wet enough to take the Duke of House Atreides, but this particular remnant was not yours. It disturbed you.

The cool of the washroom felt heavenly, and you were grateful for the stone walls and the shades over the windows. Castle Atreides was wet, the rain of the ocean planet keeping a humidity in the air that would corrode traditional drywall. Not that the staff didn’t keep things spotless, but in most other circumstances, one could have fretted over black mold.

“What are you doing?” a deep baritone voice ghosted in the bathroom.

You were in the middle of scrubbing your skin clean, trying to rid yourself of the act.

“... Bathing.” you answered the Duke Leto.

He stared down at you for sometime.

“I shared the post-coital bath with Lady Jessica on our first night.” he mused.

“I am not her.” you replied, voice taut with a bit of discomfort.

Leto nodded, and without waiting for permission, he stepped inside the bath with you. It was a show of equality, giving you what he had given her. But it was wrong, in a lot of ways. You didn’t deserve his equality, even though the Bene Gesserit tasked you with taking more than equal share of his love.

“Does my age bother you?” Leto finally broke the silence.

“No.” you answered quickly. “It’s not about age, it’s about-”

“-Duty?” Leto cut you off.

You nodded once. The Duke of Caladan was attractive. No question about it. A chiseled jaw, a firm, strong build and commanding manner, he looked good for his age. Better than some men your age. There was appeal in his maturity, but appeal was besides the point.

“Should I expect this again?” he asked. “Should I expect to begin… Conception efforts?

The very words made you want to crawl out of your skin, and it was apparent on your face. So apparent was your discomfort that Leto let out a raspy laugh, shaking his head.

“So that’s a no.” Leto answered his own question.

“The Bene Gesserit wish that Paul remain the sole heir to your house.”

“They won’t have you bear even a daughter?” Leto asked in confusion.

You took a breath. Discussing the aims of your Sisterhood was not something you were allowed to do, but something Leto was confident enough in doing. It was because of Jessica. She had given him too much power, too much knowledge. Hence why he questioned you with such brazen authority.

“The aims of my Sisterhood are not to be discussed with my husband.”

“Well then I expect the same.” Leto darkly murmured.

The same? The concept baffled you. To speak about the Bene Gesserit to your husband was, by nature, against your orders. And to speak of your husband to the Bene Gesserit was your duty. 

“I… Cannot give you that.” you murmured.

“I will annul the marriage.”

The thought frightened you. For you to lose the marriage to House Atreides was of the highest failure. You would lose so much. Political rank, status in the Bene Gesserit… It could mean exile.

“Please, this is my duty we are discussing. I wouldn’t even be married to you without the Bene Gesserit.” you tried to explain.

“No, no you would not. And I wouldn’t even need the political stability from this marriage if it wasn’t for the Bene Gesserit. If you damn me with your meddling, I have no choice but to damn you.” Leto spoke, authoritarian commands reverberating off of the wall.

He was your husband, yes. But this was the Duke of Caladan and House Atreides you were talking to. He was a powerhouse, a force that could do just short of bending wind to his aims.

“I have a people to protect, a son.” Leto continued, eyes ablaze with ruthless determination. “You are new to this house. If it comes between choosing my son and my family’s protection over political stability, I will make that choice. Now promise me that you will not speak of me to the Bene Gesserit.”

“Duke Leto...”

“Promise me!”

His voice echoed off of the stone walls, crashing into you again and again. Your lower lip trembled. Duke Leto Atreides was not a bully, but he was a father. And sometimes those lines could blur.

“I promise.” you whispered, eyes wide and afraid.

Duke Leto visibly slackened in the tub, taking a deep breath in and releasing it. 

“I’ve scared you. I will take my leave of you, if that is what you wish.”

You gave one small nod, and Leto stood, leaving the tub and exiting the washroom. Perhaps if he’d maintained that iron grasp over you from the first night, perhaps if he’d inspired love, devotion, trust in him that Jessica had been privy too for over a decade… Perhaps if you had kept your promise, none of this would have happened.

The sietch was quiet. Unnaturally so. Jessica could feel the humidity with every breath she took. She hated it, for a myriad of reasons. Namely because it was like some perverted, hellish imitation of the humidity of her home Caladan. Not one breath she took had the cool taste of salt, all of it stank of bodies. Her stillsuit was a natural filter, and it sucked the moisture off of her skin, mostly. The residual moisture to cool the body made her feel itchy. All the time.

Paul was sleeping. He was an unusually light sleeper, always had been. But in the Fremen ranks, he slept deeply. It meant something, his relaxation, but Jessica was too bereaved to care on this particular night. Bereaved by the loss of Leto, the loss of her home world and safety, but also by the second body that lay beside her. Jessica was disturbed by the Duchess Atreides, former Lady Fenring, not to be confused with Margot Fenring. Paul had brought up a point, about her crying. The Duchess had never cried, not once. The despair of the burning city of Arakeen, the death of Duke Leto, the confusion and panic; none of it had brought a tear to her eye. But that simple question over competition had brought out an almost haunted reaction from her, and fostered a sadistic fascination inside Jessica. Jessica knew the language of the body. She knew the cues and the faces one might make in different emotions, she’d been taught this. The duchess had been ashamed. Guilty, crippled with some unseen burden. Perhaps it was time that Jessica dug into that.

“I can hear you’re awake.” Jessica murmured, reaching up to stroke a hand through her companion’s hair.

The gesture itself was false. Jessica wasn’t intending to be kind, or comforting at this moment. She wanted answers.

“I can’t sleep.” came the response.

Jessica hummed at this, turning her body to rest against [Reader]’s, spooning the young woman from behind.

“Why?”

You could feel Jessica’s breath on your neck. It was fainter than Leto’s had been. Everything she did, every movement or question the woman asked, it was dissected by you. A game of analysis, the both of you brushing hands in tender show of affection while each sheathed a knife under their sleeve. It was an exhausting and all too familiar game. And perhaps one worth burying, along with the dead.

“It’s my fault that Leto is dead.”

Jessica stiffened, and you could hear the audible slowing of her breath. 

“Explain.” 

There was no time to gather your thoughts. Not these thoughts, anyways.

“The Bene Gesserit tasked me with reporting information regarding House Atreides and their affairs. I told them everything about the Duke, about Paul and about you. For six months.” you admitted, voice growing progressively unsteady as you continued.

It was so difficult not to cry, and you were consumed by grief, guilt, shame. Too consumed to pay attention to the cues Jessica gave as she processed your statement.

“Do you think we didn’t know?”

The sentence was so soft spoken, you almost didn’t catch it.

“What?” you whimpered.

A hand cupped your face. Tenderly, without an ulterior motive.

“Did you think that Leto and I did not guess that you were reporting information back to the Bene Gesserit?” Jessica repeated, voice gentle.

“But I promised him I wouldn’t.” 

Jessica smiled, a soft, achingly sad smile.

“Yes. You promised him, a false promise given under coercion through fear and threat of political exile and potential deposition. I was a Bene Gesserit first, you must remember this. Your loyalty to the Sisterhood was something we factored in, everything we did under your eyes was, in essence, filtered.”

Filtered? They’d been showing you a reality that hadn’t been true? Your breath caught as you processed, hardly breathing as further thoughts raced through your head, memories crowding outward. Did this mean that you never knew them, for all this time? That you never knew your Duke? The man you were wedded to, the man you could’ve loved… You’d never even gotten a fair chance at love with him. Jessica had stacked the odds in her favor before you’d even begun playing the game. Not one moment of affection from him could be trusted, some of the memories you were just now learning to cherish, it had all been a lie.

“No, no, don’t waste your water!” Jessica whispered, desperately trying to prevent you from crying.

It was too late. Tears streamed down your cheeks, salty and concentrated with all kinds of neurotransmitters and other various compounds. Jessica, for her credit, thought fast. Her lips pressed over your cheeks, working quickly to collect the moisture.

“No…” you sobbed.

Jessica cradled your head with one hand, holding your body to her with the other. This was the grief she’d been searching for, the pain. And it wasn’t as satisfying as she wished it could have been. Sure, the games she’d played against you had been for the good of her family, for the good of Atreides, but it wasn’t easy hurting people. It wasn’t easy throwing them under, like a riptide ghosting over the shores of Caladan. But for better or worse, the outcome was the same. You’d both lost things in the feud, in the deceit. Jessica had lost her husband, a husband outside of traditional binds, a husband of the soul. You’d lost your livelihood, your innocence, your… 

As Jessica held you in her arms, she realized just how alike the two of you were. How different things could have been if you met under different circumstances. Jessica didn’t have many allies now. No political connections, no ties to the desert planet and peoples. She had a son, fifteen and burdened with a peculiar, tortured purpose. Jessica had a fetal daughter, stirring and swimming about as she developed, too young to know the danger that awaited. And finally, Jessica had this woman in her arms. A Bene Gesserit, a powerful young woman whom Jessica could work with. An ally, perhaps. A companion, most certainly. A reason to move forward with haste.

“Jessica.” she heard you whimper.

Leaning down, Jessica smiled softly, cupping your face. There was a tear on your upper lip. 

“Yes?”

Another tear fell, but Jessica would wait to collect it, wait for you to speak.

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

She leaned down, collecting the freshly fallen tear on your cheek, and then lower. A soft kiss, the brush of her tongue over the wet upper lip concealed with the plush of her mouth.

“I’m sorry too.”

Her head dipped to yours, and for the first time, Jessica could feel a twin heartbeat, low and rapid. Alia’s tiny, six week heart had begun to beat.

Epilogue

“Alia!” you shouted, chasing after the toddler.

Even with Alia’s higher consciousness, she was young, rambunctious, and as fond as her mother is of games.

“Can’t get me!” Alia squealed, darting through the sietch, moving so fast you could hardly keep up.

The little tot was small, blonde haired as Jessica would have been at her age, and fast. But the robes she wore, the robes of the Sayyadina, were a bit too long for her, meant to grow with the little warrior child. She tripped, and went sprawling over the stone floor of the sietch. Alia cried out, breath immediately speeding up in her body’s attempt to formulate a reactionary cry.

“Oh, honey.” you spoke, wrapping the toddler up in your arms.

Her brown eyes were wide and teary, and she did her best not to sniffle. Alia was, after all, an adult in the body of a child. But that child’s body was filled with child emotions and feelings. Falls hurt a lot, and this fall was probably the worst Alia had experienced so far.

“Hurts.” Alia whimpered. “Can’t… ‘M gonna cry.”

You chuckled, kissing her soft cheeks as the child tried not to cry. You found the scraped knee, gently kissing that too. Soft footsteps came behind you, and two hands encircled your shoulders as Jessica crouched down.

“Did someone fall?” Jessica asked, tone sincere and non-patronizing.

“Yes.” Alia stuck out her bottom lip.

Jessica chuckled, gently taking Alia from your arms. Both you and your companion gently worked to bring Alia down from the pinnacle of tears, soothing her sore knee with kisses. Alia was adorable like this. It was the only time she ever let the two of you baby her.

“Mommies?” Alia asked. “Love you.”

You both smiled, taking terms kissing over her face as she squealed in delight. It was a soft moment during tense times. 

“Alia, should we attack Momma with kisses?” Jessica fake-whispered to Alia.

“YES!” Alia screeched, little hands grabbing at your face as she kissed all over your face and hair. 

Jessica was right with her, holding you in place and kissing over the bridge of your nose, your cheeks, your chin, your neck. And as Alia pulled away to giggle, she snagged your jaw in her hands, pressing a firm kiss to your lips.

“Eww!!!” Alia whined.

Jessica chuckled, and you both doubled down, kissing each other more passionately to mollify the little toddler beneath you. But as you pulled away, you both felt Alia’s hands on your faces, and a wry grin on her tiny cheeks.

“Mommy’s turn!”

Both you and Alia pounced on Jessica, covering the usually stoic woman with kisses until she shrieked with laughter. Time healed a lot of wounds. And the past was something you cherished, almost as much as you cherished the present. Alia made sure of that.

Tags: @ilovehotactresses, @marvelwomenrule, @coffee-is-my-oxygen, @bjoerkumlaut, @lovelyy-moonlight

[Send a message/ Ask/ Comment on taglist found on pinned page to be added!]

[sepublic]

Finally got around to watching Dune Part 2 and that was a wonderfully haunting ending. Everyone just going along in a way almost oblivious, from Stilgar who pushed for Paul mainly for his people’s sake, only to become a fanatic; Or Gurney, who was so caught up in his own revenge plot against Rabban that in his high of triumph, he doesn't realize what he's doing to the kid he was meant to train and protect.

And Chani, especially! The way the film ends with her, it's almost as if... The entire movie is re-contextualized as being from her perspective. It's a story about someone helplessly watching as she sees the monster she unwittingly created, watches everything she knew and loved become perverted. She's the only sane person essentially, so it makes sense to approach the movie with Chani as the audience surrogate.

She represents the Fremen, who they really are, and the horror at what they've become, the death of who they used to be until the colonizers came in. I'm reminded of that scene from Star Wars: The Clone Wars, where Maul is screeching desperately that they'll all burn and die, and nobody knows what they're doing; Despairing cries falling on deaf ears. The final shot reminds us of who was the first forsaken by the Lisan Al-Gaib; Chani, AKA the Fremen.

I wonder what happens to Chani; I'm not familiar with the books, but I wouldn't be surprised if Chani just disappears from the narrative after Paul deposes the Emperor. I've heard through cultural osmosis that Dune Part 2 changes the original book to have more involvement and perspective from its female characters. So I wonder if the book ended with Chani in mind as well, or if that was an addition made by Denis Villeneuve.

Because as it stands, I think there's a lot of beauty if that's the last we see and hear of Chani; The ambiguity. The name and face lost to history; People will remember Paul and Princess Arulan, but they won't know about Chani. Maybe she lives the rest of her life out in self-imposed exile, because at first she could support this for the sake of her people, but now? What has she done??!!?

Maybe she'll be haunted for the rest of her life, thinking about what could've gone differently. How Chani could've prevented things, if only she'd said this. Maybe she considers it was out of her hands entirely given how easily Jessica controlled her, it could've been anyone else; In the end Chani didn't matter. Is this a relief? Or is this just despair, that the Fremen were destined for doom? It's a final note inserted by the adaptation to re-contextualize the source material itself; I've heard people discuss that the films are essentially more feminist than the book, so it's like the underrepresented perspective has been given a voice, be it women and/or Fremen.

And if Part 2 is Chani's story, then conversely, Part 1 is Paul's; Obviously, Chani had a minimal role in the first film. And I think that makes a lot of sense, because we get the background for Paul, the set up, the destruction of House Atreides that motivates him for revenge, and the rest... The rest is the natural conclusion to all that. The first part is us entering Arrakis as outsiders like Paul, while the second part is from the more experienced perspective of the Fremen Chani, who shows us the other angle; Her people being usurped by a white savior. Both films, one about Paul, the other about Chani, and how they helplessly see their clans 'destroyed' in a sense.

I think I recall hearing that Villeneuve intends for there to be a trilogy? So the first two films are about the first Dune novel, and the third and final will cover the next book, which I believe has Leto II; So essentially, a follow up that skips forward into the future to explore what new world order Paul has made. Because if Part 1 is about the outsider's perspective, and Part 2 is the insider's, then Part 3 is how the future generation looks back and sees the past; It's about how the legacy of Paul Atreides lingers on in their historical narrative.

...Everything I just said could all be completely wrong. But in the end, it's quite simple; Chani good.

[alexagirlie]

We Daren't Go A-Hunting for Fear of Little Men Masterlist

Fandom: Dune

Ship: Paul Atreides x OMC, Paul Atreides x Duncan Idaho

Rating: E

Summary: The Great Magik AU. Caladan is one of the greatest kingdoms in the land and it is under attack by a dark foe. The warriors of Caladan must train and be ready to face the evil threatening their homes. Magik and the favour of the Gods at their back.

Warnings: Magic au. Fantasy au. Battle. Injury. Blood. Near death experience(s). Old Gods. Slow burn. Mutual Pining. Dark magic. Love confessions. Original male character. Character death.

Chapter 1: Down Along the Rocky Shore

Chapter 2: All Night Awake

Chapter 3: High on the Hill-Top

Chapter 4: With a Bridge of White Mist

Chapter 5: TBA

Chapter 6: TBA

Chapter 7: TBA

Chapter 8 (finale): TBA

I started this back in early 2022 and April will be 2 years since it was last updated 🤣 I'm reworking chapters 1-3 a lil then working on getting chapter 4 finished in the next month or so around other projects. I'm hoping to get the rest finished by the end of this year. 😁

Entirely self-indulgent, oc insert, world building magik au no one asked for.

Cover art is by Alexagirlie (me!)

Dividers used by firefly-graphics

Series and Chapter titles from The Faeries by William Allingham.

[andrewologist]

sometimes i like to imagine telling Frank Herbert about Paul Atreides self insert fanfic. i think it would make him blue screen like a computer

[toweroftickles]

DUNE: The Skin We Shed

(Paul x F! Reader Tickle Fic)

Requested by @scentedkittenperfection and far too late.

So, I’ve never done an xReader fic before. Or anything POV, for that matter. I’m a little concerned that it’s too over-the-top and comes across as silly. Sorry. Gave it my best shot.

Arrakis' sky is on fire. When the sun touches the horizon, everything is scorched a deep, haunting orange glow.

The great and heavy slab doorway of the Arrakeen palace groans as it slides open, scattering dust and sand to the floor below. Crystalline flecks of spice stab at the corners of your eyes, and the howling evening wind tears at your stillsuit until the antechamber door crashes down behind you, the rest of your guard troop...and Paul.

Paul Atreides. Son of the empire. You'd been casual friends with him for a while, since you started working in the house on Caladan, but he never noticed you as much as you noticed him.

Every time...every single time you travel together and head back to the guard dormitories, you end up staring at him, and it makes you want to smack yourself. Ugh....It's that stupid, dumb, hot (no! stop it!) thing he does where he pushes that wavy dark hair out of his eyes. Two weeks spent in his personal guard haven't made it better. If you don't stop, he's gonna notice you!

You're all packed together in the narrow stone halls among the sweat and the chatter and the leftover adrenaline cloud of a spice contact high. Takes forever for everyone to clear out of the common area and head to the suit containment lockers. Finally, you're all alone.

It's a circular room with a central sitting area, furnished with few brutalist chairs whose sharp right angles are barely helped by their fabric outer layers. The walls seemingly stretch to the interstellar roads high above, where the shadows swallow the ceiling and the glowglobes' skittish warmth can't reach them.

You unhook the moisture regulator from your nostrils and cough out the few drops of vapor left in the back of your throat. You hear the clicking of polished shoes behind you, and suddenly, there in the doorway is Paul, dressed for the evening and eating an apple.

"Oh, hey. I'm sorry, am I interrupting?" he asks. You're surprised, but remain stone-facedly blasé.

"Good evening, my lord. You're looking well. Spice harvesting is finally on track for the season."

"How many times do I have to ask you to call me Paul?" As he says it, you smirk back, knowingly.

For someone of regal stature, he's always been surprisingly personable. Aloof, certainly, but not rude or dismissive. If you lived on Earth in the 21st century and understood what exactly a "movie" was, you'd have thought he was like an old film star.

"Who knows; after a few more tries I might get a handle on it."

Oh, come on...not again. The damn stillsuit is always so hard to take off. And now he’s watching you…of course. The primary water reservoir, encased in a leathery pouch over the stomach, strains as you yank on the harness around your waist.

Paul chuckles. "Do you need some help?"

“No, it’s…it’s fine,” you blurt out. Is he making fun of you? Does he just think it's kind of funny? No, stop thinking so hard about it. You keep yanking harder and harder but it just seems like the suit is getting tighter.

Wait...he's beside you. What's he doing?

“Here. Create some space…between your skin and the suit. You have to form a pocket that you can move a part of you around in,” Paul mutters. His hand glides into a slit between your waist and your hip…and your heart stops.

The Atreides heir’s fingers are spindly and pale…those of a cloistered rich kid who’s never felt an axe or saw wear down his hands. Mere seconds before, the water rushing down the tubes inside your second skin, from your neck to your feet, had felt cool and refreshing. But now that sensation is being drowned out in the rushing of your own blood, pumping at full speed up into your throbbing ears, staining your cheeks a bright red. Your face is hotter than the desert air outside.

No…no no no, he’s touching you…oh my god he’s touching you…

It's not just embarrassment. Every millisecond of grazing along your abdomen is killing you.

Fingers gliding across your skin...

You're shivering and squeaking...

All you want to do is beg him, plead with him not to touch you there...anything but that...

"D'AAAAAHH Haha!"

A loud shriek rockets its way up through your throat and bursts out of you. Your whole body contracts like an accordion and leaps away, beyond your control, from the gorgeous young prince.

Time is frozen. So are you. You can feel your heartbeat in your eyeballs. But just as you're considering stealing a bagful of spice, hopping a flight out to Geidi Prime and changing your identity to a mustachioed lobster farmer named Stephanie, Paul runs his fingers through the hair on the back of his head and laughs awkwardly. His eyes are averting yours.

"Heh. I didn't know you were that ticklish," Paul breaks the tension. Without another thought he plops himself down on a nearby couch, his off-white shirt melting into its identical fabric.

How can he be so casual during all this?!

"It's, um...it...I've gotta...go. Excuse me, my lord..." The sentence sprays out of your mouth before you can stop it.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you...here...let me make it up to you..." A wave of his hand. Beckoning you.

"No, that's...fine. Thank you."

"What, are you afraid I'm gonna tickle you again? Ha ha..." (That’s exactly what he’s gonna do, isn’t it?)

"Really my lord thank-you-for-your-assistance-butIcanhandlethismyself…” (Which staring eye makes you feel more queasy...Paul's, or the floating glowglobe nearby?)

"Hey come on, come back." // “I really need to - ” // “Please - ” // “It’s getting la- ”

Suddenly, Paul's voice rings out again...but it's different. The House heir speaks softly, yet the sound still thunders like the roar of a tiger.

"Come back."

Vvvvvmmmmmm.

Something is wrong. His voice reverberates in your temples long after the words have passed. Everything is dizzy and clouded. You feel a thumping tremor in your legs...they can't move. Why can't they move?!

Wait...there they go........back….toward him.

…What the…?!

It doesn't even feel like you're walking. It's more like strings are hooked into your thigh muscles and pulling you forward, puppeteering an uncomfortable shell that you're trapped inside.

Paul's eyebrow arches upward...he looks bemused...like he's surprised by your movement. He touches the corner of his mouth, uncertain. What did he do?! Was it on purpose?! Before you have time to think, you're already on the couch beside him, leaning back, as if in anticipation. Every tick of the clock, you can feel your chest heaving in and out as your breath gets heavier. Your lungs are full of water.

And then he reaches into your suit again.

Finding another pocket and pressing it outward, Paul yanks at your shoulders, and it’s punctuated with a low zipping noise. The ruffling leathery layers of the stillsuit scrape against your arms, dropping away like the skin of a snake. To your slight embarrassment, beneath the armor you’re clad only in a form-fitting tank top, tightly knitted for modesty only. Hanging down around your waist, the flayed-off suit torso forms a kind of morbid skirt. You feel like a half-peeled banana with blazing cheeks.

The twinkling eye of a desert rogue dissolves onto Paul's face. His mocking smirk teases you with coming calamity.

"N-no...no!" you squeal, grabbing defensively at a woven Bene Gesserit throw blanket nearby. But you know already it's too late.

Black silken netting smothers you. You're wrapped up in the sofa, pinned like a matador underneath a bull, with terrible fingers prodding and poking and squeezing every inch of your belly. No matter how much you struggle, or squirm, or scream with laughter, you can't escape...it's like each of your most deathly ticklish spots is bounding with eager joy right into this boy’s spidery hands.

Shit, he's smiling that stupid cocky smile at you - !

"HA-HA HA-Ha Haha! *heave* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! St-st-ha...sta...pleahee...!!" you wail. The words are stuck inside your throat...they won't come out. Your stomach hurts too much from how hard you're laughing…

…and then it stops.

"Heh-Heh Heh...you really need to relax. You keep your guard up on the job, not when you’re with friends, right?" You can't see through your tightly-clenched eyelids, but he teasingly pats your shoulder and you can hear him stand to leave, abandoning you there with your limbs retreated and both hands covering your face.

You chat for a few more moments, but the words just fade into vacant humming. You might as well be deaf for all it matters. All you can do is squeak and nod in affirmation, until Paul wishes you a good evening and steps out of the soldier barracks. It all happens so fast...but maybe you’re just counting every second until he finally gets out.

Your colleagues gradually file back into the room, completely ignorant as to what's just happened. Whatever stupid subject these meatheaded guards are droning about, it doesn't register with you.

Why would Paul do that?! Does he just like messing with people? What if he knows how his presence twists up your insides? Oh, you knew this was going to happen; why can't you hide your glances from him?! Or, more terrifyingly...was he flirting? Exactly how much are you overthinking this?

Whew. Oh god…Relax...relax.

The thoughts rattle around in your skull long after you retreat into your room. Your pulse still hasn't slowed down. Even spice itself can't create this kind of nervous tingle in you.

....damn it, you're going to bed.

[crescenthistory]

welcome to carina's corner

my name is carina | twenty years old | she/they | i study history in london

requests are open to marauders era characters<3

.・。.・゜✭・.・ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆.・。.・゜✭・.・ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ゜✭・.・ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡

☾ marauders masterlist ☾ films masterlist

✭ request guidelines ✭ prompt list

[sandsofoneiros]

Could you write Leto x Jessica instead of Leto x reader?

Leto is devoted strictly Jessica. You would know that if you read the books.

Hey friendo! I was so stoked to think of this as a request until that bottom part! I actually did write a little bit of Leto x Jessica with some baby Paul. That can be read here. Not overly amazing but it’s cute!

I ADORE Jessica and Leto as a couple so damn much and I could ramble for days about them!

However, I’m very self indulgent and have been trying my hand at reader inserts.

Also, I am reading the books to the best of my ability. I’m currently on the second part of Dune. I’ve started the Duke of Caladan recently purchased Dune: House Atreides, which I believes talks about teenage Leto.

If you want to recommend more books or speak with me about this verse, please do! I just don’t wanna be told that I’m not doing something when I’m trying my hardest…

I’m willing to learn if you wanna tell me more!

[kanly]

sorry. can’t get w the paul atreides x reader fics where paul is so strong and manly and rescuing the self insert and shit., he’s my little wife. magic boy., male bene gesserit. he ain’t rescuin me IM savin his ass thank u. that boy needs to be dommed is all

[crescenthistory]

Paul Atreides gets a freman childhood illness and reader or Chani takes care of him.

thanks for the request darling, i made this just a little drabble to distract me from my essay on the kantian answer to war lol<33 i love him, he's so sweet

Pairing: Paul Atreides x Reader

Words: 1.1k

Warnings: illness, anxious!paul, established relationship (can be read as the one from in the silence, or as fremen!reader)

“You’re burning up.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Paul’s voice is barely a rasp, but the stubbornness beneath it is all too familiar. Even now, he is trying to fight it. He is propped up on the small cot, wrapped in layers of blankets, his skin flushed and slick with sweat. The fever has been clawing at him for days, and still, Paul refuses to rest.

“Paul…” You sigh, exasperation and affection mixing together as you press the cool cloth to his forehead. He flinches but doesn’t pull away, eventually leaning into your touch. You doubt he is aware he is doing it. “You don’t get to decide whether or not you’re sick. It’s happening, regardless of how you feel about it.”

“I can’t–” He coughs, wincing, before taking a shaky breath and trying again. “I can’t afford to be sick right now.”

“You can’t afford to get worse,” you counter, your voice soft but firm. “Which is what will happen if you don’t rest.” 

Despite your efforts to calm him, it pains you to see him like this. Most Fremen catch this illness as children, the earlier the better, so their bodies are accustomed to and prepared for when it slams down harsher on them as adults. Paul with his Caladan bones has no such luck.

You dip the cloth in water again, wringing it out before bringing it back to his flushed skin. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, but there is a frustration there that you know all too well. Paul Atreides doesn’t get sick. Or at least, that is what he repeats to himself over and over, in an effort to make it true – his birthright a heavy mantle he’s always trying to bear alone.

His hand fumbles for yours, finding it with surprising accuracy given his fever. His fingers curl around your wrist, concerningly warm but gentle. “Love, I can’t stay like this. They’re waiting for me, looking to me. I can’t just–”

“They’ll have to wait longer, then.” You hold his hand, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “Because right now your only duty is to yourself, and I’ll make sure you fulfil it.”

Paul’s lips press together, frustration flaring in his eyes for a second. “You don’t understand,” he murmurs, his voice more strained than before. He cannot stand how vulnerable he feels in this state. 

“I do understand,” you say softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “I know you want to be strong. I know you think you need to be, all the time. But you don’t have to prove anything to me, Paul. Not to the Fremen either. You’re allowed to rest.”

He closes his eyes, the tension in his brow easing slightly at your words. You lean forward to kiss the final remains of the furrow away.

“Careful, or I might infect you,” he mumbles, a half-hearted teasing tone evident in his voice.

You playfully swat his arm with your free hand, as gentle as possible, before you reach over to wetten the cloth once more. “Unlike you, I’ve had this illness before. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. One of us has to be.” 

There’s a beat of silence, the only sound the faint howl of the desert wind outside the stilltent. The world feels small for once, in here with just the two of you, and it feels right. You revel in it, but it is overshadowed by the ache of his haunted expression.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admits, his voice so low it’s almost lost in the stillness. His grip on your hand tightens, just a little, like he is anchoring himself to you.

You smile, leaning closer, your forehead nearly touching his. “I know you don’t. That’s why I’m here. To remind you.”

His eyes open, meeting yours with a softness that makes your heart swell. For a moment, the mask of the Muad’dib slips away, and he is just Paul – the boy you know him to be, beneath all the worries he shoulders. The boy from Caladan. The boy you love. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice rough with fatigue. “I don’t mean to push you away. You’re helping.”

“You’re not pushing me away.” You keep your voice gentle, your thumb tracing small circles on the back of his hand. “You’re just stubborn. But I’m used to that.”

He huffs a weak laugh, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it warms something deep inside you. Even now, sick and feverish, Paul still finds a way to tease you. “I’m not that bad.”

“You are,” you counter, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Lucky for you, I’m well-equipped to handle your stubbornness. Quite enjoy it even.”

He chuckles again, softer this time, the sound turning into a cough. Instinctively, you reach for the cup of water by the bedside, bringing it to his lips. “Here,” you say gently. “Drink.”

He takes a few small sips, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans back against the pillows. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper now. His eyes flutter, the fever pulling him deeper into exhaustion, but there’s a quiet relief in his features that wasn’t there before.

You set the cup down, brushing your hand over his glistening forehead again, the fever still too high, but at least he is resting now. That’s progress.

“I don’t like you seeing me like this.” You’re almost surprised he is still conscious enough to speak, his eyes still closed. You should’ve known the fight wasn’t out of him entirely.

“I know,” you sigh softly, running your fingers through his hair, untangling the damp strands with gentle care. “But it’s just me. You don’t have to pretend.”

He remains quiet for a moment, his breathing slow and uneven. “You’re the only one I’d let do this.”

A small, vulnerable truth, slipping through the cracks in his armour. You feel your chest tighten at his words, the weight of his trust is one you accept gladly.

“I know,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “And I’m not going anywhere. Sleep now, my love.”

He doesn’t respond, but you can see the way his body relaxes, his hand still holding yours as if to remind himself that you’re here, that you’re not leaving. You watch as his breathing evens out, sleep finally pulling him under. 

As Paul’s breathing steadies, you settle in beside him, your hand still holding his. The wind outside howls, but inside the tent, it’s quiet – just you and Paul. You smile softly, leaning your head against his shoulder, content to stay here as long as he needs.

[crescenthistory]

…….e1 with Paul? 🙈 you write him so beautifully !!!

thank you lovely, i find paul so endearing to write<33 this is just a little drabble lol

Prompt: E.1 "Loosen up a little"

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: light smut (mdni), more suggestive and spicy than directly smutty, no on-screen sex, gn!reader, not proofread, paul is Stressed Out, established relationship, pre-arrakis

Caladan, the home that was once Paul’s sanctuary, feels tighter around him these days. The salt-scented air that used to bring him solace now feels like a weight pressing down on his shoulders. Endless preparations, the constant shadow of responsibility, and the looming presence of Arrakis in the distance have carved a tension into his posture that has become impossible to ignore.

You notice it before he speaks, of course. You always do. The slight tremor in his fingers as they press into the edge of the table, the way his jaw sets just a little too tightly, as if words he doesn’t dare speak are fighting to get out.

It’s late, the room dim with the light of Caladan’s moons spilling through the windows, casting soft shadows over Paul’s face. He sits at his desk, a mess of reports and holoscreens spread in front of him. It’s been hours. You’ve watched him from across the room, hoping he would come to bed, but the space between you feels insurmountable tonight. The distance isn't in the few metres separating you – it’s the weight of everything that rests on his shoulders.

“Paul,” you murmur softly from your spot, the sound of your voice gently slicing through the quiet hum of the room. He doesn’t turn, but you see the way his fingers curl, gripping the table harder. That alone is answer enough.

You stand, the quiet rustle of your movement barely registering in the large room, and cross the floor towards him. Your footsteps are soft, deliberate, but each step seems to echo louder in the space between you. When you finally reach him, you place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tightness of his muscles beneath your touch. You ache to massage out the knots that torment him.

“Maybe it’s time to call it a night, love,” you say gently, your voice warm, like an offering.

He doesn’t move for a moment, but you can feel the tension in him, like he’s on the edge of something, holding himself too tightly. His eyes stay fixed on the reports, but you know he isn’t really seeing them. He is somewhere far away – in Arrakis, in the halls of responsibility he’s already learning to walk, in a future he can’t quite yet control. It would be too much for anyone, let alone someone still so young, though sometimes it feels like Paul has always carried the weight of someone older. As if the universe has never really given him the chance to just be. You want to.

“I can’t,” he finally says, voice rough with weariness. “There’s too much–”

You press a little harder against his shoulder, grounding him. “Paul,” you repeat, your tone firmer now. He exhales, his breath coming out in a shudder that he tries to mask, but you hear it. “You can’t carry it all tonight,” you whisper, hand sliding from his shoulder down to his forearm, fingers brushing the cool metal of the ring he wears – a symbol of everything waiting for him. “You need to rest.”

He finally looks up at you then, his eyes dark, filled with something like frustration, but it’s not with you, you can see as much in the fondness crinkling around his mouth. “I have to finish here.”

“You won’t finish before morning, Paulie. And then the same thing will happen tomorrow. You need to rest between the punches. Relax.”

Paul's jaw tightens again, and you can see him struggling with the need to take a break and the part of him that has had no rests drilled into him..

You move in front of him, pulling the reports gently from his fingers, letting them scatter back across the desk in a forgotten mess. He doesn’t resist, just watches you with those sharp, intense eyes of his, always calculating, always thinking. Right now, you don’t want him to think. You want him to feel. To let go, even just for a moment.

You slide onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, and his hands instinctively come to rest on your waist, though his touch is hesitant, careful.

“You’re allowed to need this,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the tension there. “You’re allowed to want this.”

Paul’s gaze flickers to yours, a storm brewing in the depths of his intense eyes. For a moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable, like the boy he still is under the weight of the expectations placed on him. His hands tighten on your hips, and you feel the tension in him, like he is teetering on the edge.

“I don’t know how,” he admits quietly, his voice rougher now, thick with something unspoken. His eyes drop from yours, looking down at where your fingers trace idle patterns on his chest. “How to let go.”

Your heart aches for him, for the weight he carries alone even when you’re here beside him. You cup his face gently, forcing his gaze back to yours. “Then let me help you,” you whisper. “Loosen up a little.” 

Paul’s breath shudders out again, but this time it’s softer, like a crack in the wall he’s built around himself. Slowly, tentatively, you turn his head to the side and lean down to kiss his neck. You begin at the small part of shoulder you can see beneath his white linen shirt, and press open-mouthed kisses up towards his ear and jaw, fingers undoing the top buttons of his shirt as you go, splaying your hands out over his chest. Pressing down, you hope to ground him with your presence, your love.

When you reach his face, you lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing his, but you don’t kiss him just yet. You wait, letting him close the distance. Paul’s eyes are closed and his features seem to be relaxing.

Without opening his eyes, he knows you are waiting, and with a squeeze to your hips he kisses you. It’s slower than usual, almost unsure, as if he hasn’t decided to fully let go with you yet. But as his lips move against yours, the tension in him begins to melt away, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of the world slips away, leaving you with your Paul.

Through your fumbles, you have fully unbuttoned Paul’s shirt and let your hands explore his familiar chest unabashedly. He sighs into your mouth at your touch, and you take the opportunity to slip his bottom lip in between yours, sucking lightly with enough bite to satisfy and entice him. One of his hands moves from your side to your hair, grasping at it.

You break the kiss to drag your lips further over his jaw, grinding your hips into his, revelling in the soft sound he makes. It’s like he has given himself to you, allowing you to work out his tension with your attentive care. Every part of Paul is in your possession as you roll your hips against his, night slip rolling up with each move, your fingers trail across his bare flesh, scratching as you please, and your lips move feverishly down the other side of his neck. 

When you kiss his neck this time, there are no restraints. You nibble on his earlobe, bite his pulsepoint and lick over it soothingly, leaving as many marks as you please. He whispers your name into your hair and you come undone for him.

Your hand travels down to hook into the waistband of Paul’s pants, and he gasps. You depart from his neck to look at his expression. His breathing is heavy, but the tightness in his shoulders has eased and he looks at you with absolute reverence.

You smile softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Better?” you ask.

Paul closes his eyes, resting his head against your chest, letting out a long, slow breath. His arms wrap around you, holding you close.

“Yes,” he murmurs, voice softer now, almost reverent. “Better.”

“Convinced to come to bed to let me help you relax yet?” There is a teasing tone in your voice that you are sure he doesn’t miss.

He kisses your chest, pretending to nip a bite at you, before looking up to smile at you. 

“You win, my love.”