I was listening to my angst playlist and taking an angsty shower angstily, like ya do and!!!!
WHEN A STAR DIES READER AND DUNCAN DO YOU HEAR ME ARE YOU FOLLOWING IT IS SPOT ON
Literally almost jumped out the shower to send this
Angel Lips
Summary: Chani comes crashing back into your life but at least she brings Duncan with her.
Warnings: Paul is back on his bullshit. He's cruel! Pregnancy and birth mentioned. BLOOD. talks of cheating and CHEATING. A smooch is shared.
Notes: Don't look at me, i don't know what this is, blame Cocoa. Im supposed to be working on other stories. This is 2.3k words, bye.
When Maia Atreides is born, she is a frighteningly silent baby.
The doctors and your ladies said they have never seen anything like it, a baby who doesn't cry after all the prodding, poking and pulling. They handed her to you after you refused to allow them to whisk her away to do more testing— a silent baby wasn't a bad baby and when she looked up at you, her brown eyes wide and curious, you smiled. You had another child with little fanfare, there was less crying and blood and Paul was—
The door opened and Oliver had darted into the room, he's arms were filled with all his little toys and trinkets he could carry and Paul is only a step behind him, his hands both guiding and urging, his voice low and reminding the boy he has to be quiet, that his sister is new and will be easily frightened. The two make it to your bed and Paul lifts his son, placing him at your covered feet and he lets all the toys drop, “He thought his sister would be bored without toys.” Paul explained when the boy is quickly distracted and trying to peer at the bundled baby in your arms. “So he brought all his favorites.”
You smiled at your son, allowing him to shuffle forward and take hold of your arm as he looked down at his sister and she looked up at him. “Oliver this is Maia,” You introduced, your voice had been soft and shaking, nearly reduced to tears at the sight of your two babies together. “And Maia, this is your big brother, Oliver.”
Oliver says hello in the smallest voice ever, he's very close to his sister's face but he's cooing and doing nothing but calling her cute.
Paul frowned. “Maia?”
Your eyes flicker to him, your smile faltering at his pinched look. “Is it– is it not a good name?”
Paul doesn't answer, he ignores you entirely to come closer to your bed. Your mouth hangs as he carefully pulls Maia from your arms, and you realize with startling embarrassment—he's inspecting her and he must see her resemblance to him because he lets her little hand wrap around his finger as he finally lets out a hum. “My mother wishes to see her.”
Oliver is curled against your side and you try to keep positive. “She’s allowed to come in–”
“She’s in her study.” Paul interrupted. “I’ll bring Maia to her while you rest here with, Oliver.”
The look you give your husband is pure bewilderment. You have just birthed him another heir, a pretty little babe who doesn't cry and he wants to whisk her away? He does thank you, he does not congratulate you. He holds his daughter with a frown and you wonder where the man who made her went because this— This is not the Paul you've known for the past year. Oliver tried to cling to you when got up but quickly backed off when a pained hiss leaves your lips as your feet touch the floor. Paul takes a step back, his voice is confused. “What are you doing?”
Your legs shook and it felt like your insides were going to fall out if you so much as move wrong but you refuse to not be there in that room when Maia is presented to Jessica. When you pulled Maia from his arms, Paul let you— he had opened his mouth to stop you but the look in your eye had been liquid fire, “Your mother calls.”
The walk to her study was the most painful thing you've ever done and Paul does not help. He does not guide your step with a helpful hand nor does he help carry your weight. You stumble through the castle barefoot and sweating, the servants and guards part when they see your form, the front of your birthing gown soaked with blood.
Maia Atreides, your darling girl, only cried when you reached the outside of Jessica's private study. The door is whisked open and Leto is pulling you into a chair, cursing his son for his idiocy— he calls for the doctors who appeared seconds later. They had shadowed your step the moment you stepped out of the medical room but they, just like everyone else, had been mystified by your journey. Paul had tried to defend himself against his father's cruel words but he was growing pink in the face and Oliver fled from his side to yours— and Maia, sweet, Maia had not stopped crying.
Though, your ears were ringing. You hear little to nothing as you keep eye contact with Jessica, Maia drawn close to your chest. The Atreides mistress had her fingers pressed to her lips and you would never forget the giddy smile she was biting back.
Maia is celebrated in a public gala four weeks later.
The Atreides hall is filled to the brim with people from all walks of life and every corner of the universe. People talk, sing and dance— your mother had come up to you and kissed your cheek, she looks different now, older and wealthier. The gown she wears is something she could never have afforded in your youth and her smile is genuine when she told you she wishes Maia brings you as much wealth as you brought her. The comment made something sick climb up the back of your throat and you had quickly excused yourself with a polite smile and a curtsy and your mother titters off to go get another drink.
Since then, you have stuck to the outskirts of the event. Smiling at the young bumbling girls who rush to greet you, and nursing what feels like your fifth glass of wine as you keep a close eye on Oliver who dances with his grandparents and Paul who parades Maia around the room. He's in the middle of it all, a proud smile on his face as he boasts about her to all who cares to listen and there's dozens that do. They crowd around the baby when Paul shows her, cooing and poking and joking about her potential suitor line already growing. She is only four weeks old and the comments make your blood boil. These people have more plans for your daughter than the number of days she's been alive.
You bring your glass to your lips again, taking a deep gulp of the warm wine when you see her draw closer to Paul the third time tonight. You have never seen her in person before today but you knew instantly who she was when Paul went doe eyed and speechless. Chani is just as beautiful as you feared her to be and she had greeted you with a small smile and Paul with a hug. She is a polite little thing, sweet and nice— she apparently adored kids. She had spoken to Oliver at one point, her brown eyes warm as she took him in, she let the boy ramble and bounce subject to subject and you realize with a horrible pit of annoyance, you couldn't hate her. Even as Paul greets her again with a kindness he's never shown you, you can not hate how she fawns over your daughter and how she smiles when Maia’s eyes meet hers.
But you can not bear to watch it either. Not when the two of them are so close, eyes start to slide to you to see your reaction. You down the rest of your wine and push the empty cup into the hands of some noble girl who can barely stutter out her offense as you leave the hall. You kick off your stupidly fancy shoes outside the door and your hand finds the cool stone walls as you steady yourself. The last cup of wine wasn't the best idea but who cares, it's not like you're pregnant anymore. You're all but stumbling trying to get back to your wing of the castle and it would be embarrassing if anyone else but you were in the halls.
Steps fall in line with your clumsy ones and a smile pulls on your lips.
It'd be embarrassing if it was anyone but you and him in these halls.
Chani’s sudden appearance hadn't been all bad, not when she brought Duncan with her. The man says nothing as he follows you, he's close in case you stumble and fall and he is so warm that even three paces away you can feel his heat against your back. A giggle spills from your lips and you slow to a stop, your head spinning. You look over your shoulder and smile at Duncan, your face warm, “Hi.”
His lips twitch up, his eyes gentle. “Hello, my heart.”
You giggle at the term of endearment and you turn, stumbling to him. Duncan does not move when you wrap your arms around him, he in fact relaxes, returning the hug for only a moment before he breathes a laugh. “You are incredibly drunk.”
“‘m not.” You deny, still close to him. You breathe in his scent and he smells like the sunlit clearings back on your home planet. When the flowers are beginning to bud in the coming spring. “I just missed you.”
“I missed you too.” He replies smiling and he pulls from the hug. “But I know you'll be mortified if you remember this in the morning, let's get you to your room.”
You perk up at that. “Will you be joining me?”
Duncan's eyes slide to you in soft confusion as he spurs you forward, you grab his hand in your drunkenness, your fingers linking with his as he pulls you to your room. Seeing the look, you elaborate; “I’m sure Chani will be joining Paul tonight so my bed will be empty. Join me.”
Duncan's hand squeezes yours. “Don’t say that.”
“It is the truth.” You shrug, smiling. “He could hardly keep his eyes off of her and the same could be said for her. She denied him but the sight of a babe in his arms must have changed her mind.” Duncan silently listens, a frown on his face. He just squeezes your hand and you realize you are outside of your old room and not your new marriage room. You blink up at him, your lips in an easy smile as you shake your hand free from his and wrap your arms around his neck. Duncan breathes your name in warning when you wobble, his hands flying to your hips to steady you and you push yourself closer to his warm body. “Join me, Duncan. I'll be good.”
“You’re drunk.” He breathes, his eyes are darting across your face before he licks his lips. Your eyes follow the movement and you lean closer. “You are drunk.” When he says it again it's like he is reminding himself rather than telling you and you giggle pressing closer.
“I’m wet.” You say, and your lips meet his chin. Duncan lets out a tortured groan and he backs you against the door and you continue to press kisses to his chin and neck, everytime you get close to his lips he turns his head and you whine in frustration. “I am aching for you, Duncan. I've always thought of you–”
“I know–”
“Even when I touched myself, I– I imagined they were your fingers, I imagined your touch–”
Duncan opens the door and you stumble backwards, tugging him in. You squeal when the door shuts and Duncan lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist. “I know.” He hisses, his voice rugged. He carries you to your bed as you kiss all the skin that you can see, still missing his lips because he denies them from you. You gasp when he drops you against your mattress, your legs are spread and he is between them but he does not move. He's panting, his eyes burning, “If I was a crueler man–”
You whine his name and he flinches like it hurts him. He takes a breath and continues, “If I was a crueler man I'd fuck you into this mattress. I'd make you forget his name.”
You whine, squirming in the bed “Please-?”
“But you are drunk.” He hisses, “I will not do that to you when you can not remember, I want you to remember how I touch you. I want you to remember how it feels to be loved properly.”
He goes to turn but you are pushing yourself up from the bed, it is a mess of fabric and sheets and you grab for him before he can get too far. “Please, Duncan, please–”
He silences you with a bruising kiss. It is hot, wanting and hungry. You moan wantonly in the kiss, grabbing desperately at the fronts of his coat to keep him close. His nose crushes against yours as he kisses you, he licks into your mouth and swallows your moans and as quickly as he kisses you, he stops panting. His pupils are so wide it makes his eyes look black, “When the time comes, I hope you beg for me as sweetly as you did tonight.”
Then he leaves your room, the door clicking shut behind him and you are forced to go to sleep wanting and warm.
The next morning, you barely hear Paul as he rants about you embarrassing him. How you didn't tell anyone and he had to find out from Duncan in front of a crowd full of people that you had gone to bed early and drunk because he heard the whispers of other nobles of how you took to your cups. You could barely bring yourself to care, to point out how Paul barely noticed you leaving because he was so focused on Chani. No, you could only ghost a thumb over your lip and hide a dizzy smile. Paul doesn't notice but from his place behind him, Duncan does.
Summary: Your arranged marriage to the na-Baron is something that you look upon with a sense of dread and reluctance. His violence, brutality and cunning are something that haunts you. You should fear him. You do. But for some reason, you can't seem to stay away.
Warnings: 18+ content. MDI. AFAB, she/her pronouns. Reader is a virgin but not entirely inexperienced, virginity loss. Hints of morally gray reader. Oral (F!Receiving), biting and blood, PinV, non-protected sex, Canon typical violence (blood, death, gladiator fights). Feyd. Not proofread.
Notes: 20.4k words. The essence of enemies to lovers. The reader is an Atreides but not a daughter of Jessica. IDK ya'll, something about seeing Austin Butler bald and deranged has altered me.
𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer.
Your heart is in your throat. It feels as though it's lodged itself in place between the cartilage and flesh to choke your windpipe, making each breath snag and tremble. You can practically feel it pulsing along your pharynx. You try to focus, steeling yourself by lacing your fingers together until you fear you might break them. Not even the litany that has been engrained in you since childhood serves to center your thoughts, but still you try. Chanting lowly in your head and quietly under your breath as not to be heard. As not to reveal your anxiety, but you know that the evidence of your distress must be more than obvious. And it had been very apparent since this morning, as you prepared for your travel to Giedi Prime where you will be married.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
The looks that Lady Jessica had given you were harsh and piercing. The eyes of a teacher. You had found no forgiveness in her arms even though she has done her best to take the place of your mother. But she is a Bene Gesserit first. Always. Just as you must be. But you must also be an Atreides. Duty is your purpose. It runs in your blood. It's the very reason why you pull air into your lungs. It's why you were even born. You have to honor that. Even if it requires sacrifice. Even if fear trembles down each and every notch of your spine; even when your thoughts are scattered and wild; even with the entire trajectory of your life being placed into the palms of some of the most ruthless beings in the universe. You will survive.
I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
You swallow harshly, trying to force down your nerves with it but the way that the craft shudders and trembles with the strain of breaking through the foreign planet's atmosphere doesn't help. It only serves to make your inner turmoil worse. Your gaze sweeps around the cabin, a hollow thing meant for military, not comfort, and the presence of a small squad clad in their combat armor reminds you of the strained relationship that your family has nurtured with this house for several millennia. A reminder that you aren't supposed to be here on your own. Nearly clawing at your own hands and struggling to center yourself as the cold, dark walls of the ship tremble and shake like the stomach of starved animal. Your wedding was supposed to take place on Richese, a neutral planet that no longer governs political alliances with neither Caladan nor Giedi Prime. That is what had been negotiated long before you were even born, with both Houses having been too paranoid to allow both products of their lineage onto enemy territory. But a month before the wedding, the Baron had sent word. An invitation of sorts, that he wished to encourage the House of Atreides to allow the union to commence on his soil as a token of good faith. As a signal that all of the bad blood and the violence shared between each party could finally be laid to rest.
But as with most houses, it was more than just an invitation. It strengthened the Harkonnen image to place forth the olive branch and if Duke Leto refused it could be seen in bad light. A sign of weakness or distaste. The summoning could not be refused lest it smear the Atreides name in the eye of the Emperor, always a fickle and superficial man. Even with that logic, you can't help the spike of anger that rouses in your chest and threatens to burn. It's because of that sense, no matter how correct it may be, that you're sitting in this damned ship, breaking into the polluted atmosphere of a dead planet when you could have had just one more day on soil that wasn't obscured and marred by heavy cities and volcanic rock.
Selfish. You're just being selfish.
Even though she is not here to guide you, the image of Lady Jessica's eyes flash within your mind, sharp and exacting despite their light shade; amplified by the delicate, embroidered fabric that framed her head just this morning. School your face, her expression tells you. And she - or at least the mental image of her, is right. You can't let yourself fall to your emotions, no matter how strongly they want to eat you alive. You've prepared for this moment since your first breath. You've spent nearly every waking moment practicing in the ways of the Bene Gesserit under the guidance of Lady Jessica. You'vee spent countless hours poring over the history and politics of both houses in preparation for your future role; what must have amounted to months of studying the culture and customs of the Harkonnen. All of them seem to be rooted in violence and savagery in some way or another. Aggression and cunning are prized traits. Bloodshed is coveted. The people according to old texts and educational filmbooks are just as severe as their environment. An environment that they had cultivated from their brutal and avaricious nature, tearing up all of its resources until nothing was left.
You can't help but wonder if you will suffer the same fate.
But if you are going to be honest with yourself, it isn't the toxic hellscape or even the idea of marriage that puts you on edge. It is him. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is someone who is notorious for his violence. Stories of his conquests and cruelty echo out across the houses, Minor and Major; there is not a soul who hasn't heard of his reputation. And despite having been promised to him since before your birth, you haven't met the na-Baron once in your life. Both houses had been too stubborn to schedule an interaction between the two of you. Most likely due to mistrust. Plus, a meeting isn't necessarily required for a marriage to commence, not one amongst houses, at least. But the fact that you haven't so much as seen the na-Baron's face has always left you feeling horribly vulnerable. Like you have been left to navigate you footing in the dark and the slightest misstep might leave you to tumble into the void. It had been another reason why you have always been so adamant on learning of the Harkonnen people; some desperate venture to discover as much about your soon to be husband as possible. You've tried to paint some sort of image of him in your head with the information provided by word of mouth and old filmbooks. Gurney had been one of the first people to warn you of Harkonnen ruthlessness. Their proclivity towards greed and violence. A violence that they don't even spare their own people from.
"You will have to be strong," he told you just before you had boarded onto the star craft, eager to speak to you before you left forever. It was his worry you knew. He was panicked inside despite being the picture of composure. The look in his eyes had kept you frozen in place, locked onto him even with the mild thrum of chaos and bodies clamoring around you, servants and soldiers alike working to prep the ship for your flight, loading trunks and chests full of your personal belongings onto the carrier. It was firm; the type of resolution that is brought from experience. From a personal sort of pain and the glint of it left you feeling empty; gutted. The only thing that kept you centered was the grip of his hand on your forearm, firm and warm in its hold like it may help to drill his words better into your skull. "Every moment will be a fight for you. Harkonnen sniff out weakness like dogs. You cannot yield. Ever."
You've heard words like that about them all your life. Horror stories from Atreides soldiers who had encounters with opposing Harkonnen forces. Tales of stark, pale skin and the glint of snarling blackened teeth before they deliver a killing blow. Features that a younger version of yourself never would have imagined for her intended. But those naive, wistful fantasies that you used to entertain as a child are long gone now. Replaced by the harsh realities of war and bloodshed. When you were a girl, still ignorant to the true depth of your duties, you had imagined someone with kind, intelligent eyes as your future husband. Someone patient and understanding; even with the whispers of the Harkonnen's true nature lurking over you like leaping shadows. But back then you were young enough to have hope. Back then, you would dream of him too in the flashes of deep, piercing eyes; you'd hear the low rumble of a voice while blades flashed and carved through pale air.
And on some nights visions still torment you. But now they taunt with the sensation of phantom touches and the mirage of balmy skin that sears against you own so intently that sometimes it tears you from your slumber with ragged breaths and a humiliating heat between your thighs.
You can feel the pressure in the cabin shift around you, weighing over your head and bearing down on your shoulders as the ship continues its descent. Your ears pop, and the sound has the awful, paranoid visual of snapping bones and tendons projecting across your mind. You pull a heavy breath into your lungs, holding it there while you try to shift your thoughts onto something less violent. Escaping to fond memories to try and soothe yourself. For a just a moment you pretend that you are not here at all, but back home on Caladan. You can see the ocean. The long stretch of crystalline water, glittering underneath the cast of the balmy sunlight as trawlers coast along the current to capture netfuls of fish, looking like dots along the distant horizon. But it's always the wind that you love the most. Even when the skies are clear, unmarred from the blot of heavy rainclouds, you can always smell the presence of a storm in the air, perfuming the breeze with the earthy musk of petrichor and the fresh salt of the ocean. You can practically feel the brush of lush grass sweeping along your palms, prickling along the sensitive skin with the damp hint of the dew that seeps from the rich ground.
Your reverie is shattered to a million pieces when the metallic hum of the craft's engine reverberates across the walls and floor of the cabin, signaling that it is approaching the ground; preparing to land. Each pulse of the sharp groan sounds like the pound of a nail in a casket. You can just barely focus around the wild patter of your heartbeat in your ears and for a moment you think that you might become ill. You could still feel the warmth of your brother's arms around your body. The way that he had clung to you. Like he was afraid to let go; to watch you slip from his life. In turn you had latched onto him, hesitant to unwind your arms from him, trying to claim the feel and scent of him to memory. But you couldn't have remained that way forever, and when you had pulled away from each other, the corners of his mouth were perked up into a smile. But it was too dull, too forced to be truly happy. You saw something mournful peeking through it, even while he tried to appear composed for your sake. You know how much he opposes of your intended matrimony. You have eavesdropped on the arguments he has shared with your father behind closed doors, attempting to fight for your sake even though it was a lost cause. His fear that you might not survive the ruthlessness of the Harkonnen, his misguided guilt for you taking his intended place. It had made you sorry for him the first time he had confessed that remorse to you. That he felt as though he was the one to blame for your marriage because it was his initial future to wed into the Harkonnen House had he not been born a male. Even with your near constant insistence that it was not his burden to bear, he refused to shed the weight of his self-imposed guilt. Always so damn stubborn.
You had done your best to return his smile, softly squeezing his hand to comfort him and center your mind while the briny Caladan wind swept across the landing pad. But the memory cannot keep your heart from plummeting down to your gut when the craft finally touches the ground, shuddering lightly as it lands with a deep whir.
You're here. You are actually on Giedi Prime now.
There is officially no turning back.
You feel like a ghost when you are drawn to rise, and you hardly register the fact that you haven't moved from your place on the seating to stand on your feet once the ship is still. You feel like an empty vessel, seeing but not registering as everyone moves about the empty space with practiced ease to stand before the hatch. The small unit of four soldiers have all built a formation around you and your own handmaidens, who stand diligently behind you. On any other occasion, they would have lined themselves in front of you all as well. Especially during affairs with the Harkonnen. But this is not a regular affair, and as trivial as it may seem, something as simple as guards posed in front of the Duke's daughter could be viewed as an act of distrust. A blight on your wedding and the union of the houses.
Despite the way that everyone holds themselves; the images of discipline with perfect posture and heads held high, the apprehension that taints the atmosphere could be mistaken for a tangible thing. You could still see glimpses of tension set in the soldiers' shoulders; you could see the rigidity in their necks, anticipation and worry hidden underneath their armor.
Your father should be here too. Your family. But you know that they can't. A matter of ill, convenient timing that required them to board their own ship to leave for Arrakis. The Emperor had passed the fief to the House of Atreides, calling them to abandon their position on Caladan - to abandon your ancestorial home - in favor for the desert and the production of spice. It was an unexpected development, but one that your father would not turn down. As angry as you would like to be, you know how difficult this is for him. You have wanted to blame him for so long. And for a while you did. He's your father. He is supposed to protect you. To keep your happiness and security in mind. But because of the perspective, it is also easy to forget that he is more than just your father, he is also a Duke, with countless lives to defend and shelter. He is an Atreides.
You are an Atreides, and there is no call you do not answer.
You had shared one final look with him on Caladan, underneath the golden rays of the morning sun. You didn't flinch or waver underneath his gaze. You remained firm, and some sort of understanding passed between the both of you, melting away the hatred and betrayal that ran thick in your blood stream. In that split second, you saw so much pass through his eyes: determination, acceptance and something like a bare shred of loss before it was quickly masked by unwavering resolve. A resolve that you too had to master.
A dull jolt sounds out across the dark, metallic space and with it the large hatch of the ship begins to open, exposing a sliver of pale light. Butterflies erupt inside of your gut at the sight of the glow, brushing along your stomach and threatening to overcome you with a rush of nausea. But you hold yourself still, attempting to swallow down the unease but suddenly your throat is bone dry and stuffed with cotton. Perhaps the only thing that keeps you in place is the promise the Feyd-Rautha will not be present at your arrival. A small respite that your father had been able to secure you in the form of a Caladan wedding custom; that your husband should not be able to see you before your ceremony, lest the matrimony fall to bad luck. And in truth it is a tradition. One that has trickled down through the ages from Old Earth, so it was not necessarily done by means of deceit. Even so, the Baron had apparently been less than thrilled by the prospect of keeping you and his nephew separated once on the same soil, though it seems that your father still had managed to persuade him regardless. A small victory for you at least.
Now all you can do is hope that the Baron has stuck to his word.
You watch with ice in your veins and frozen lungs as the ramp continues to lower, yawning open akin to the jaws of an animal that threatens to discard you at the feet of starving beasts like scraps. More of that harsh light flows into the dark of the cabin, spilling over the heads of the soldiers, eating up the floor until it slips over your body, rising up over you until it reaches your eyes like a blaze; threatening to blind you with its intensity. You wince from the brightness of it, blinking rapidly until your eyes adjust to the absence of shadows. The surprised, low hiss that erupts from behind you, tells you that one of your handmaidens has also been taken off guard and blinded.
With the continuation of its descent, it begins to reveal a blackened skyline of buildings that rise like slopping monoliths. Massive structures eat up the ground and cast stretching shadows across the dark platform. It strikes you that the little bit of the visible sky is a pale, as though a flat storm cloud had consumed the heavens. It isn't blue like the skies back home, or even orange or anything. It is simply a white void. It's all monochrome. Devoid of color and life. Everywhere that you look is either a piercing black or a violent white that almost burns to behold, and it is with a quick, almost hesitant inspection downward that you discover that the emerald hue of your silk dress has turned a shade of a deep smoky black from the strange illumination.
But you don't get time to dwell on the discovery for long before the ramp meets the ground with a dull groan. It might as well as be a death sentence. You just barely catch sight of the of the figures that are lined along the platform, silently waiting for you to step out into the light. In your stupor, you have noticed that the number of Harkonnen that wait for your exit is a rather small group. It is not a massive procession with banners or celebration; there is no intrigued crowd of citizens awaiting to evaluate you. No more than five Harkonnen stand out on the platform, focusing on you with the distance the separates your parties with clasped hands and heads held high. The Baron it seems, holds no excitement for your arrival and has made no effort to welcome you on Giedi Prime. The message has been made clear of what he thinks of this union. Of you.
The bastard.
The world has gone hush. Dead silent as everyone awaits your move. And it is with that thought suddenly that you realize that everyone is waiting for you to take action. You are no longer expected to follow. You aren't allowed the crutch of following after your father or Lady Jessica's footsteps. They aren't here to guide you anymore. You steel yourself with a deep breath, drawing up your shoulders as you will yourself to step forward. Your legs are suddenly heavy like they have been strapped down with boulders and iron, but you force them into a stride regardless. Even when each move forward feels like a motion closer to your demise.
You can hear the gentle clink of your Handmaidens heels as they dutifully trail after you. It gives you some comfort, no matter how small, that you have some familiar faces amongst you. That you aren't completely alone here.
Still, you try to distract yourself. And in some mad scramble, your mind latches onto some old passage that you had read back on Caladan during one of your distant studies. It has you daring to sneak a few glances upward to the pale sky in between your focus forward, squinting through the glare, ignoring the way that the delicate chained veil draped across your face nudges against your eyelashes in your search for the sun. You had heard of its description countless times, seen holograms of it before, but none of them had managed to do the true thing honesty. In its blaze, it is claimed to cast an infrared shine which explains the bleak, washout coloration of the planet. But seeing the source of said lighting was entirely different. You do your best not to openly gawk at. To not stare at it for too long. The last thing that you want is to go blind; your fortune is terrible enough as is. But you're unable to stop yourself from stealing fleeting peeks at the star. If you didn't know any better, you could have mistaken it for a sort of eclipse. It looks like a black hole has torn through the heavens, gaping like an open wound, and you would have no idea that it was burning if not for the streams of light radiating from its rounded edges like a halo.
Even with the remnants of your hatred smoldering through your body and turning your muscles rigid, you can't deny that there is a kind of odd beauty about the star. It's strange to see something that you had learned about so many years ago, and there is some detached part of you that has not fully accepted that you are even truly here. That small piece is still safely tucked away on Caladan, admiring as the sea meets the cliffside in a rolling crest of foam and froth.
But that still is not enough to keep you from your reality.
You all come to a unanimous halt, standing to leave a decent breadth between you and the Harkonnen. You have heard many things of the Baron of Giedi Prime. His guile. His hedonism. Whispers among the houses claimed him to be a gargantuan man. Someone whose intensity and mannerisms alone command attention and make men cower. The Baron, you quickly deduce, is not here. It seems that he has sent his advisors and servants in his stead. Whether that be from arrogance or indolence, or hatred, you are not sure.
The man who stands at the in the center of the greeting committee holds himself with an air of importance. Back straight and hands clasped as he analyzes your small party. He is awfully pallid, just as his other companions are, a product of being denied ultraviolet rays that could be found in your planets own sun. The hulking black star cradled in the sky above you is hardly able to provide a proper tan it seems. The stark, unforgiving light casted from the solar body bathes you all in a layer of an achromatic hue, and it glints across the rounded skin of his bare scalp. They are all bald, you have easily observed, and you can just faintly recall reading a chapter in regard to Harkonnen beauty standards. Their proclivity to remove every ounce of hair from their bodies as a sign of cleanliness and purity; the means to extract themselves from their meek beginnings and perhaps, to a degree, a way to separate themselves from humanity. But the dark vertical strip that stretches across the expanse of his bottom lip signifies his position as a Mentat.
"Lady Atreides," the Harkonnen advisor greets, voice deceptively placid and monotone. "We are grateful for your arrival. I trust that the trip was respectable." His words are kind, but the expression on his face is decidedly neutral. There is something about him that instantly unnerves you. Be it the unrushed nature of his mannerisms or the sly look in his eyes, you are not sure, but he sets you on edge.
You force yourself to speak, calming your features into something just as blank and fixed as his own. "It was fair," you answer truthfully, before pointedly scanning the surrounding area. "It is a beautiful planet." A lie is you have ever said one, and the Mentat does not appear to be ignorant to your sad attempt at charm. Even with the unmoved aura that radiates from him, you are sure that you spotted a small glimmer of amusement pass through the dark of his eyes.
"I am pleased you think so," he replies easily. "In any case, I have my orders to deliver you to the Baron as soon as possible. An event is being held in the honor of your union to the na-Baron. You shall not want to miss it."
The confession feels as though it has doused you with ice water, but you refuse to show your distress. You're not stupid. You know that at some point, you would have to face the Baron. You were just hoping that it would not have been so soon. You should have known better, you suppose, that the Baron would give you single moment of reprieve once on his planet, and now you are suddenly not so sure that you want to have to attend a celebration of any sort.
"Wonderful," you force a smile, one as polite you can manage while making sure to keep your voice gentle and inviting.
"Leave your soldiers here. They won't be necessary."
The request leaves you troubled. For a moment you stand there silently, a little dumbly even. That last thing you want to do is leave your only form of proper protection outside on an unfamiliar world. Especially one as hostile and deceitful as Giedi Prime. But you do not have many options here. You are in no true form of power. You are not yet married to the na-Baron, you are lightyears away from your own planet - which doesn't belong to your family anymore by the Emperor's decree - and your father must be on Arrakis by now; even farther away. You are now the one who dictates your fate and survival, and although promised to the na-Baron, your life is still not secured. You must be tactful.
You turn your head to look over your shoulder at the soldiers who diligently stand behind you and your handmaidens. Your focus meets the unwavering stare of the lieutenant; his hardened countenance, his lips pressed into a firm line. The nod you give him is subtle, but it is still a command, and with it, he and his men silently step back.
When you return your attention back on the Mentat it is difficult to tell if he is pleased or not with how blank he keeps his features. It's unnerving but then he spins on his heels without any more fanfare and his fellow Harkonnen are quick to shadow him. Hesitation bears heavy in your gut, but even with your instinct telling you to run; to flee, you steel yourself. Drawing in a deep breath to clear your mind, you follow.
You are not sure what you had expected to find when you had allowed the Mentat to lead you. Some wild, senseless part of you feared that he may have taken you to your death. Led you to a trap to be slaughtered. But no dagger has been raised to your chest. He has not summoned soldiers from the shadows to pull you away and toss you into a tomb. Or maybe in a way he has.
The doorway that you stand before is daunting. Affixed in front of you like a rival. It is such a trivial, ordinary thing. You have passed through thresholds millions of times in your years, twisted knobs and guided doors open to pass through them. But suddenly, such a mundane thing seems to stand out like a hazardous sign - a bad omen. You know who lies beyond it. Who you must face. Now your bravery threatens to allude you. To leave you abandoned and flailing. It does not help that your handmaidens had been dismissed for you. Guided away by Harkonnen servants, and when you had asked the Mentat as to where they were being taken, what intentions lie ahead for them, he didn't answer. His silence on the matter has left you disturbed; fueled your mind to wonder and theorize about the worst. That they may be harmed.
He stands next to you now, just as silent as before, watching you expectedly.
No. You cannot flounder here. You cannot cower or cry. Your duty - your lineage will not allow it.
With a newfound determination, you step forward with your chin raised proudly. Activated by the motion, the dark door slips open, beckoning you enter, and you answer the invitation without wavering. The Mentat doesn't follow after you, but you hardly pay that any mind, too focused on analyzing the room that you now stand in. The space is open and capacious, and you spot a line of servant girls rowed up to the right with their backs against the wall. They don't glance up when you look at them, even though you can tell that they are aware of your presence. They remain silent, eyes trained on the floor and posture rigid. There is fear in them.
As if drawn by a magnetic pull, you attention leaves them to wander to the opposite end of the room. His back is facing you, but even then, you are certain that all of the stories you have heard of him will not prepare you for this moment. Even as he perches - lounges on the support of his seat from fully across the room, his presence commands your attention. The order that his being silently instructs is only amplified by the cool, harsh light that pours down around him from the viewing window, highlighting his shape as he sits like a gargoyle poised. The gossip was true, it seems, he is a corpulent man and shares the same ashen complexation as the other Harkonnen that you have seen thus far. And suddenly as curiosity burns in you to see the face of the person who has harmed so many, who has left his blight on the galaxy.
"Are you joining me, or are you intent on staying in the shadows?"
The voice is so rough and crude that it shocks you, prickling over your skin with the all the coarseness of sandpaper, and you just barely refrain from showing your displeasure at its harshness. It's graveled as it passes into your ears, but it seizes one's attention instantly, causing the hairs scattered along your body and at the nape of your neck to stand on end. Still you move forward, by the impulse of your own intrigue or the authoritative quality of his voice, you aren't certain, but you cross the breadth that separates you all the same. Each step reveals more of his face to you. The slope of his nose, the crow's feet that cluster around the corners of his eyes, the prominent frown that weighs upon his face. He doesn't spare you a glance as you stop beside him; intently focused on what lies outside of the balcony.
"Lord Baron," you greet, nodding your head down and bending your knees in a curtsy.
His hand raises up in a manner than almost seems reprimanding, and it causes you to freeze still, staring at those fingers like he might mean to strike you. But the curl of them is far too lax to deliver a proper blow and it is enough to give you some relief.
"There is no need for formalities, " he speaks. Then his stare is on you: flaying you open, evaluating, weighing, searching your worth. But underneath the judgement of someone like him, you cannot waver. "We are family now, are we not?"
The mere implication has you fighting off the urge to shudder in disgust. Instead, you straighten yourself and manage a polite smile. Or you hope that it seems polite at least. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for your answer. He casts a brief glance to the vacant chair close you, and you need no verbal instruction on what he wants, even though he still gives it.
"Sit," he offers. Commands really.
It pains you to comply, to follow the will of the man that you have been guided to resent since you realized consciousness, no matter how small the order, but you swallow your pride.
Carefully you turn on your feet, being mindful not to nudge the small table that is posted beside the chair, and you make note of the pair of theater binoculars that are displayed on the counter, waiting to be used. Gathering the light pull of your skirt to sit without crumbling the fabric, you allow yourself to recline in the seat and try to ignore how close you are to the Baron. But you suppose that you should learn to come to terms with it. He will be a permanent fixture in your life, whether you like it or not. Though it does not make it any easier to swallow down the bitter taste of loathing on your tongue. Desperate for a distraction your eyes are quick to look out past the boarders of the balcony and the sight that greets you latches onto your focus instantly. It is a wonder how you had even managed to miss the view upon your entrance. But in your defense, you were a little preoccupied. Now you are hardly able to look away. The sheer mass of the structure leaves you captivated. Great, sweeping, walls rise; climbing up towards the blank heavens with rows of seats secured between the hulking barriers. Pale, shifting shapes roar and cheer inside the stands in a fervent display of excitement and anticipation. People you quickly realize. All of them chanting loudly. But the distortion their voices all layered up into a chaotic stream makes it difficult to understand it. The walls that hold them and the very room you sit in encircle a massive plot of bare earth. It is an arena.
You have seen a few of them in your lifetime. Visited the old coliseums on Caladan. The same ones that your very ancestors had fought wild bulls in. You walked along the ancient, stone walls and pillars, cupped the golden sand within your palm and allowed it to run through your fingers. But the sheer scale of this structure is mindboggling and the number of people that have all massed together to bear witness to its exhibition is even greater. The Mentat had promised you a celebration in the honor of your marriage, and you had been left to wonder what that said celebration may have been. But now you have your answer. There is the evidence of a ferocious fight having taken place in the arena. The face of the white sand bellow has been disturbed. Blemished and smudged by footprints and the clear sign of a struggle; that the fighters had rolled along the ground and tussled for their breath. But even more damning is the dark stains that are streaked and pooled along the course earth. Even with the coloration altered black by the dark sun above, you know that it is blood.
"A gladiator fight," you conclude aloud, and there is even an edge of scornful humor on your tone. "If you truly wanted a spectacle, you could have me thrown down there. I'm sure your people would love to watch an Atreides be slaughtered." You are not sure where the comment comes from. A sudden burst of confidence or perhaps defiance. You regret your snark as soon as you register the words, but it is too late for apologies now. You simply squeeze your clasped hands together tighter, even while your head is held high. A raspy, amused sound erupts from beside you, like air escaping a puncture, and you just vaguely realize that it is a chuckle. The Baron is laughing even as the smile hardly reaches his face. It is a small sound. Barely even qualifying as a laugh, but it eases you still.
"A spectacle indeed." He says it as though he is in on a secret that you are not privy to. Part of a joke you might never know, and it immediately snuffs out the small sense of composure that you had achieved. "But I have no use for you dead."
"Then what use do you have of me?" You pry.
He hums, a hushed, guttural sound. "Do you know why you are to be married to my nephew?"
The question gives you pause. There are many duties that you are required to perform in the union with the na-Baron. It is a political alliance first and foremost. A joining of two rival houses, meant to put to rest the animosity that has burned between you both for over 10,000 years. But it is also much more than that. You are to give him an heir as well, the continuation of his lineage. But the Harkonnen are not the only ones who intend for you to produce a child: the Bene Gesserit also demand a progeny of your union (though the Baron must remain ignorant to that design). It is why your mother had been sent the Duke in the first place, to correct Lady Jessica's mistake and birth a daughter. To birth you. So much is dependent on this marriage to flourish. Much that you yourself probably are not even privy to, but it is your duty to perform regardless. If you fail, your family name will forever be smeared and the possibility of the Kwisatz Haderach may be lost to eternity. And you will not allow your mother's death to be in vain.
"Yes."
Once more he turns his head to face you and his eyes glint with a deadly intensity. "Then you know of your purpose. "
It is a plain sentence, but it speaks volumes in its simplicity and its intent is not lost on you. It is a warning. A set of instructions that you are meant to follow. Keep your head down, your mouth shut and fulfil your function as promised and you may make it out of this arrangement unscathed. It has anger flaring in the pit of your stomach, prickling over your skin and heating up your face. The desire to say something in defense of yourself rises up high, but you know that you must hold your tongue. You are sure that he can see your opposition in your eyes as much as you try to control it, but he does not mention it. His vision roves over your visage like he is studying you and your reactions, in search of weakness.
"Now watch." He says and returns his attention back to the bloodied sand beneath.
Your eyebrows furrow, openly showing you confusion. What the Baron desires you to see, you don't know. You can hardly imagine what he has in store for you but given the nature of the arena and the Baron himself, it surely won't bode well for you. You don't dare to question him or ask that he elaborate. Your mouth remains fixed shut as you survey the colosseum with your breath locked within your lungs. An unwanted type of anticipation prickles at your fingertips and toes; spurred on by the way that the crowd rouses into a frenzy and the vibrations of their riotous cries strike across the atmosphere. The sound of their shouting spikes until it is thunderous, and you can hear the blunt sound of their fists beating against the stadium like a hammer striking down on an iron nail. Despite the many voices overlapping and yelling to be heard of the others, somehow in their clamoring, their words have become clearer. And it is not just words that they are spouting. It is a name.
Feyd-Rautha.
You are certain that your lungs cease to function. That they die inside your chest while you still live. The na-Baron is going to fight. You're going to see him. Despite wanting to slip your eyes closed, your body betrays you, leading you to scour along the dark sweeping walls of the arena in a terrified search that does not stop until your vision lands on what looks to be a massive entrance built into the bordering wall of the colosseum. Your heart flutters like a startled bird, quivering wildly like a pair of wings would. "I thought my father said that we would not see each other before the wedding?"
"He said that he could not look at you. But there was no discussion of you witnessing him," the Baron answers.
You do not know why the prospect of it makes you shift uncomfortably in your seat, wishing that you could sink into the cushion and vanish. Perhaps it's because seeing him would truly sink the severity of your new reality in. There would truly be no avoiding it once you do. All you can think of is all of the rumors and gossip that you had heard over the many years. The horrible tales of a psychopath. A man unhinged. No better than a rabid dog on a frayed rope. People spoke of a remorseless monster that delighted in blood and was unflinching in delivering death. Other's claimed that his appearance is just as terrifying as his actions. That he's gaunt and hideous to behold with awful, jagged teeth and bloodshot eyes.
That is not a truth that you are ready to face, and your desire to remain ignorant to the possibility of his unsightly features burns in your gut. You are so caught up in your own anxieties that you hardly register the blaring of the announcer's voice sounding across the stadium, warbling over the sound system to praise and declare the arrival of the man who you have been dreading. You're entirely conflicted; transfixed as the entrance on the far end of the arena begins to slip open, even though your instincts tell you to turn your focus elsewhere. The floor, your hands, the crazed crowd. Anything. But is like watching a great fire or a calamity. The entire time your consciousness warns you not to look, but you are unable to. It is almost as if you have been casted under a horrible spell. Bewitched to see him even though you don't wish to.
You stare helplessly at the threshold of the arena, and for a moment you wonder if it might be the entrance to the underworld instead. A dark, consuming void for a demon to come crawling out of. But this demon does not crawl. He marches.
A figure strides out from the gateway wielding two recurved blades and the crowd erupts in an exhilarated cry. From the distance and height, you are unable to discern his features, but the way that he carries himself is already more than enough to give insight to his personality. His steps are long, eating up the ground in quick, measured paces; his shoulders are raised and straight, exuding pride. It's the saunter of someone confident in themselves and their abilities. Someone who is not just in their element but basking in it. He raises an arm high in the air, brandishing his fist and the weapon he clutches in it to address the masses, pointing the tip of the blade to sky as it erupts in a flurry of strange fireworks that burst and flourish like blots of heavy ink. The crowd punch their own arms up in turn and shout his name like an impassioned prayer.
The apprehension chilling your chest begins to thaw, giving way to a strange sort of curiosity and before you know it, you're reaching for the theater binoculars placed on the table beside you. Anticipation thrums in your veins, nearly making your fingers shake around your grip of the handle as you lift the device up to your face, lining it up to peer into the eyepieces. It takes a moment for your brain to process what it is seeing. Who it's seeing. It's surreal how his once distant, blurred features have become clear and amplified underneath the optics of the binoculars. The familiarity of him strikes you like an unforgiving wave despite never having met him before. But everything, from his gait and the shape of his face seems as though you have gazed upon it a thousand times, ran your fingertips across the rise of his cheek bones and the plains of his face even though you haven't. The familiarity terrifies you, but it also keeps your attention firmly locked onto him.
What catches your attention first are his eyes. It is difficult to tell their shade from underneath the monochrome emittance of the sun - they seem dark but some buried, distant instinct whispers that they're truly blue. A light shade akin the ocean, glittering in shades of pale cerulean and teal. It strikes you how they burn with a calculated excitement. A dangerous, fervid type of delight as he gauges the crowd with rapt attention. Even with the intense light bathing most of the scenery shades of white you know that the pale complexion of his skin is natural. Paired with the sharp angles that create his features it makes him seem as though he could have been cut from marble; a statue gifted with life and will. His lips, you shamelessly notice, are plush, and are set into a soft pout.
Even with resentment for the Harkonnen still fueling your heartbeat you're unable to deny that the stories and claims that you had heard about his appearance were awful exaggerations. Absolute lies. You don't want to admit it, but there is a kind of beauty about him. Not one that you would have found on your home planet, but he's quite attractive in a way that is almost lethal. It strikes you in a way that it shouldn't.
You continue to watch him as he comes to halt in the center of the arena, twisting his feet in a circle to look upon every section of the crowd before facing the direction of the balcony. He begins to lower himself to the ground, resting a single knee onto the sand in a sort of bow. All the while his eyes are trained upward, dangerously close to where you sit and you know that he's looking towards the Baron, kneeling to show his respects. All you can do is pray that he will pay your presence no mind. That he won't care enough to acknowledge you.
It seems that the universe has no desire to answer your prayers this day.
His dark focus flickers onto you so suddenly that you hardly have time to register it. As your eyes meet through the glass of the device, you suddenly feel as though you have been laid bare. The deafening cries of the masses fade down into a distant hum as all of your focus centers down onto him. You've never felt so exposed in your life. Like all of your every part of you has been spread open and seen; the darkest facets of you are held forward. It's like he's actually seeing you somehow. Peering at you through the distance that keeps you apart. But it's impossible for him to truly make out your features underneath the guise of the decorative chains that drapes over your face. He can't properly see you from your place this high. Still it feels as if he is looking directly at you, past the distortion of the distance and the cover of your veil and peering into your soul.
You drop the pair of binoculars away from your face, severing the image of his focused gaze and the odd connection that had been created. Still you can't drop your attention from his figure down in the arena, but the loss of the close, magnified image of the device offers you some type of reprieve. He had felt too close, too near with their usage and the distance helps to soothe you. And with your regular vision provided to you, you are able to notice the other entrances posted along the walls are opening.
The na-Baron realizes this as well. His head cocks in the direction of the open threshold to his far left, rising up from his crouched stance to properly assess it, eyes trained on the dark gapping gateway as a man ambles out from the shadows. Two others emerge from separate doorways on opposite sides of the colosseum, and Feyd-Rautha shifts his body to appraise them both in their slow approach. The three of them all but shamble towards the na-Baron, feet dragging lethargically across the sand like they caught under a drunken stupor. The realization dawns on you easily, and you are unable to stop yourself from turning to face the Baron with bewildered scowl. "They're drugged?" You accuse, sparing no judgement in your tone.
"We cannot risk the safety of the na-Baron," he explains without shame, and draws a deep drag from a smoking pipe clutched within his hand. "Measures must be taken."
You want to argue. But what use would that be? There is not an ounce of remorse or shame in his body. You've known this for years; you didn't have to meet him to realize that. You have heard countless tales of the Harkonnen's selfishness and deceit, so it should be no surprise that they're underhanded enough to rig a fight to the death in their favor. That they couldn't even do their slaves and prisoners the respect of dying in a fair fight. And the na-Baron stands so proudly in the center of that ring, holding himself high as though the scales have not been tipped in his favor. You knew that you were to wed a sadist. A violent, venomous man. It was a shame that you had to marry one that is also dishonorable.
In the prisoners' approach, blackened figures seem to materialize from the walls of the arena looking like creatures out of a twisted fable. There is a great number of them, six you believe, if your hasty count does not fail you, all clad in a dark skintight material. But even more strangely are the horned headdresses that they all wear; it extends over their countenances to make them appear faceless and inhuman. They vigilantly wander along the border of the arena, and some even dare to skulk close to the slaves as they near the na-Baron, wielding some sort of weapon within their hands like they are prepared to strike the fighters if necessary. They must be referees of some sort, but their costumes make them look like dark spirits instead.
This game truly is devised in Feyd-Rautha's favor.
The gladiator-slave that approaches from the left is the closest, covering the distance that separates him and the na-Baron quickly despite being lamed by the hinderance of drugs. With the raucous roar of the crowd resonating across the air, the suspense is palpable, hanging heavy and almost painful like a breath that has been held for too long and the people are desperate for release. You can't help the way that you watch expectantly, holding onto the handle of the binoculars like it might help keep you grounded while you observe Feyd-Rautha from the safety of your perch.
He faces the approaching fighter. And for a moment you think that he is going to make the man hobble to over to him entirely, too cruel or perhaps even lazy to meet his competitor head on. But when the fighter brandishes his sword in an overreaching arch Feyd lunges forward on spry feet, cutting up the small remaining bit of distance with two massive strides and blocks the blade with his own. The arc that the prisoner had raised his weapon in was far too high. It left his most vital organs exposed to be gutted, and the blink of an eye the na-Baron takes the opening, deftly shoving the tip of his opposing weapon into the man's stomach and driving it in deep. The fighter's body goes limp near instantly, the hand holding his weapon slackens and when Feyd-Rautha pulls his sword from his opponent's stomach, he stumbles back on weak legs before tipping back onto the sand, lying belly up in a dead weight to bleed out on the ground.
You have heard of death all your life. Soldiers of your house have shared their stories of gore and anguish to you before. The horrors of the battlefield. And you yourself are no stranger to blood and bruises, having been trained by the best of your father's ranks and even Lady Jessica herself in the ways of fighting and hand to hand combat. Your teachings were meant for survival. Defense. But this is senseless murder set in the guise of entertainment. Cruelty.
Feyd-Rautha does not share the sentiment. He twists around to face the remaining fighters, mouth twisted into a feral snarl, muscles tense, ready to deliver another killing blow. He is clearly on some type of rush after claiming his first kill and his eyes dart between the pair of gladiators, gauging which one to attack first. Both of the prisoners have synced their steps as best as they can, with one coming towards the na-Baron from the front while the other nears from the back, intending to slay him together.
But Feyd does not appear to be stressed by the prospect in the slightest, in fact you are sure that even from your elevated height you can still make out the presence of a smile on his lips. Delighted and fueled by the rush of adrenaline and the hope of slaughter. He evaluates them both carefully, waiting them out. He doesn't have to wait long though, because suddenly the one who stands behind is rushing towards him in a move that is entirely too impatient, the lapse in judgement probably brought on by the influence of the substance coursing through his veins. The other fighter is still too far from Feyd to offer any assistance, making them both fail in their effort to overwhelm him and attack at once. The na-Baron deflects the strike of the prisoner's sword easily, shoving the man back with the union of their blades to create enough space to deliver a harsh bone rattling kick to the man's bare chest. He stumbles back a few feet, dust spraying in his flounder as he struggles to collect himself from the soiled earth.
Feyd doesn't have time to strike him down while he is vulnerable, because the second fighter finally reaches him, dipping his body low with the intent to strike his sword into the na-Baron's unguarded back, aimed for the spine. But Feyd is unsurprised by the attack; smooth and effortless in his movements as he rotates around on his feet to slip from the blades course and with the glint of silver the man's throat is sliced as he passes the na-Baron. You hardly would have realized that his neck had been cut at all if not for the way that rivulets of black have begun to pour from the wound, slipping down the pale hue of his skin and dripping to the bleached sand below before he collapses.
The crowd somehow manages to erupt with even more passion to goad their na-Baron on dispatching the last man. But Feyd doesn't move on prisoner while he's still down on the ground, up righting himself on sluggish, weak knees. It is hard to stomach the sight of it, and you're certain that you can feel the oily, distant impression of nausea bubbling in your stomach. It urges you to look away, but you can't. You are frozen still. Locked into place as you watch Feyd pace around the arena like a predator stalking the bars of its enclosure. He's impatient in his wait for the fighter to finally get up on his feet, and you find yourself a little disbelieving that he would even allow the prisoner that little bit of respect, instead of slaying him while he was down and unable to properly defend himself. Maybe there is some honor in him after all. It's buried and diluted, but it seems there may be a shred of it still.
The gladiator finally raises himself to his feet, spreading his legs wide to distribute his weight between his feeble legs. You can see resolve slip across the man's body, straightening his shoulders as best as he can to secure the grip he has on his weapon. But it only prompts more of that amusement to flicker over Feyd's features before he springs towards his opponent. They meet in the clash of lethal blades, and their bodies twist and move like well-oiled machines. Even being drugged and exhausted, the prisoner's movements are powerful and practiced, but you doubt that it will be much of a match for Feyd. He has too many aspects in his favor. The game has fully been fabricated for his victory. But even with that in mind, you would be foolish not to acknowledge the way that the na-Baron uses his body. It is truly a sight - hypnotic almost. The slices he takes with his sword and the strikes that he bares down at his rival are tight. Swift, calculated blows that are charged with raw strength. He acts with pure, practiced confidence. It's clear that the art of combat comes as easily as breathing to him; second nature. The sight of him dodging and deflecting jabs underneath the extreme shine of the dim sun is an impressive display, and you can't help but wonder how well he would fair under the pressure of a fight with real stakes.
Maybe it was the controlled vehemence of his maneuvers and how skillfully he brandishes his blade, but you think that he would thrive.
The gladiator is still alive, outlasting all of his fellow prisoners and it's honestly a wonder that he has made it this far. But you don't miss the casual way that Feyd holds himself, the security in the slices he delivers and how easily he dodges and moves around his opponent. Often dipping low into the man's space to nick his flesh with small, annoying cuts before dancing out of his field of reach. He's playing with him. Drawing out the fight like a bored cat toying with a wounded mouse. You can see the hope and determination dying in the gladiator with each passing second; it melts from his limbs, giving way to a venomous, mindless agitation. It makes him sloppy.
He leaps at Feyd with little thought, desperate to get a decent lick in but the timing is once again ill and his body too open. The mistake does not go ignored and the na-Baron uses the mishap to sweep his opponents legs out from underneath him. And curiously, he casts one of his blades aside, banishing it to the sand. But you don't have to wonder for long before his hand strikes out like a serpent to grip ahold of the fighter's hair, using the leverage he has on the sluggish prisoner's head to harshly force him down and secure him on his knees. You can see the way that the man's face twists into a pained grimace, teeth gnashed together to fight off his agony as he pants raggedly, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Feyd stands behind him like some sort of figure of death. A creature sent to drag weary, tortured souls to their end.
You see the gladiators loose grip twitch around the handle of his sword, struggling to build up the last remaining scraps of his energy to swing the blade back and drive into the na-Baron's ribcage. But he doesn't have time to deliver the blow. Feyd raises his own weapon, hitching his arm back to build up tension in his hold. In that exact moment, you are certain that your eyes meet. That somehow, between the distance, his gaze reaches your own, focused in its intent like he is looking for your approval, like he is gifting you a sacrifice in your honor. You hardly have time to think of the implications of it before he drives the sword forward into the back of his victim's neck, severing the man's spinal cord and shoving it forward until the tip of the blade peeks through his throat. It is a horrid display of brutality. The violent sight almost forces a gasp from you, and you can feel your body shudder at the presentation of it. Your mind has long since gone blank, too rattled and shocked to form a coherent thought and the frenzied way the masses arise and breakout into a rapturous applause fills you brain like a haze with the wicked, rhythmic chanting of his name.
He extracts the blade from the captive's body, spraying a dark splatter of blood across the pale sand with the pull and lifts the gore-soaked weapon up into the air in a silent claim of his victory.
"Is he everything you had imagined?"
The Baron's course timbre breaks you from your daze. Your head swivels to him like a doll, but the challenge proposed in his tone rouses your focus to the center. He wants you to be afraid. To shy away from his nephew. Why you aren't sure. Perhaps he simply enjoys the idea of an Atreides cowering, but you will give him no such pleasure. You harden your gaze before you speak next, making sure to project your resolve clearly when you answer.
"He's perfect." It scares you because it doesn't even feel like a lie. It leaves your tongue too easily, like the compliment belonged there. Like your body and soul held it as a truth that you aren't ready to accept, and you're not sure how to cope with that. But what you say next surprises you even more.
"I want to meet him."
A part of you had hoped that the Baron would refuse your request. That he would stick to firm to your father's traditions and prohibit you from seeing the na-Baron until the wedding ceremony. But you know better than to think that he would honor or be controlled by old superstitions. All too soon you find yourself being led by timid servant who wordlessly guides you deep into the inner depths of the arena. The look that the Baron had spared you before you left had been unsettling and sharp, and it made you wonder if you have agreed to go to your own execution. In your descent, the rabid cries of the masses fade into a distant warble, and with it, the corridors become dim and chilled like the walls of a forgotten crypt. The caution in your gut churns with that treacherous sense of anticipation and you struggle to concentrate past the separation in your emotions. You're not sure if you should be fearful or intrigued and it leaves you caught between a confusing sort of purgatory.
The little bit of suspense hanging over you reminds you of when you used to dream about meeting him when you were both young. Nearly longed for it even, when you'd lose yourself to childish flights of fancy and daydreamed of love and adoration. It scares you to think that the sense of pining you had once entertained for him may have never truly gone away. Even with the stories of his brutish conquests, a blemish on your naive yearning. A stain of red; soaked with the scent of iron and viscera.
The sight of his violent display down in the arena seemed to confirm all of the horrid rumors that you have heard throughout the years. His indifference towards death, how casually he is able to take a life. It should all disgust you. And to a degree it does. It coats your tongue with something acetous and tart. It makes a shiver threaten to tremble down your spine. But as much as you wish to hide from it, you can't deny that he intrigues you. That the sight of him gazing upon you from the ashen sands of the colosseum like you were an ambiguity that he desired to unravel made your body thrum. You wonder if he would look at you so openly in the same way once you are both on even ground. Or if perhaps, some pathetic, traitorous part of you had simply imagined it.
The servant stops suddenly before a wide threshold, forcing you to still in your tracks to watch as she steps to the side and bows silently without so much as meeting your eyes. And then she leaves, turning sharply on her feet with the gentle echo of her feet pattering along the obsidian floor while she skitters away.
You're on your own now.
You're not sure what you will find when you cross this barrier: pain, misery . . . pleasure. A primordial type of anxiousness wells up inside of you, screaming at you to turn heel and run. You could do so easily. Escape these dismal, tenebrous chambers before he even realizes that you're here. But you're quick to squash that wild impulse. It is a dangerous thing to entertain. You must eliminate that urge all together. You're not an animal. You are an Atreides. A Bene Gesserit. You have survived the Gom Jabbar. You passed the test. And you will survive this.
With no further hesitation you step forward, focusing on sound of your dress whispering over the floor as a means to center yourself. As soon as you cross the threshold it opens up into a massive space, but the shadows are so thick and vast here that it is difficult to see where the walls truly begin or end. A pair of servant girls stand in the corner, just as rigid and silent as the others that you've seen so far, standing with their backs to the wall like they mean to merge into the shadows and hide. The only light to speak of pours from the ceiling, broadening in its descent to encapsulate the massive round pool that sits in the center of the room like a spotlight. And there, lounging along the far end of the bath with his arms draped along the border, relaxed in the murky, steaming water, is the na-Baron.
When your eyes meet you have to wonder if this is what prey feels like when locked within the gaze of a wolf; poised to lunge and jaws longing to bite. The way that he had gazed upon you in the arena had been appraising and seeking. Like he was sizing you up and searching for your favor all at once. But something in his stare has shifted since then and dipped into something searing and stifling, and it serves as an obtrusive reminder of who you've willingly confined yourself alone with. But you're unable to stop yourself from admiring him as he does to you. Roving your examination over his face, and you find your attention captivated there. The glow of the florescent lighting reveals a delicate cream undertone in his skin, and the light blush in his lips that had been hidden outside, stunted by the black sun. It breathes a sense of life into him, and nearly separates him from the otherworldly image that had been crafted by the violence he had basked in earlier.
"You must be lost."
The voice that speaks abruptly is husky and inflected with an accented lilt that blends into the rasp of it. It buzzes over your skin, and you can feel it murmur across your fingertips, but it is not enough to distract you from the confusion that sparks in you from the comment. He must notice the perplexed look that crosses your face because you don't even get time to ask him for clarification before he speaks next. "We're not to see each other. Or was that a lie?"
If you didn't know any better, you would have thought that he sounds insulted. Like the mere suggestion of you not meeting each other before the wedding had been a great offence. But surely it simply came from a place of ego and not genuine rejection or hurt. That would require affection. And that is an emotion that you're certain the na-Baron is incapable of. Still, regardless of if he truly harbors a sense of fondness for you are not, keeping this relationship as cordial as possible is in your best interest for both of your sakes.
"It wasn't a lie," you finally answer, clasping your hands together in front of yourself. "But I wanted to congratulate you on your win. . . And to finally see the man that I am intended to marry." The final admittance comes out somewhat reluctantly. But it catches his attention still. You can see the intrigue openly flit through his eyes and he tilts his head while he surveys your from across the room in a curious manner.
"And what do you think?"
You are not sure if the question is in reference to himself or his performance in the arena. Either way, your answer still stands. Though you find yourself reluctant to reveal it, even while it burns in your throat. But the way that the na-Baron watches you with a glimmer of restrained vehemence in his heavy stare almost rips the truth from the depths of your chest. But your eyes pointedly flicker back over to the servants in the corner before moving back over to the na-Baron. The question hangs heavy in the air, silently exchanged between the two of you.
"Leave us," he dismisses firmly, without removing his gaze from you. They nearly spring forward on their feet, vision casted down on the floor as they cross the room and vanish past the threshold like a pair of phantoms. You catch the subtle nod of his head as he watches you, and it is hard to tell if it is done with disinterest or an air of mocking. "There. You may speak freely now."
You don't hold in your answer now. "Disappointed," you say firmly, and you're thankful that your voice comes out stronger than you feel. A palpable shift rushes over the room. It is frigid. Moving over the blackened walls like a cold front and seeping into your bones; brought on by the subtle vexation that shifts across his features. You can see the muscles along his shoulders and the plains of his chest ripple underneath his pallid skin, tensing in his ire. It has you stuck in place like the bottoms of your feet have been glued to the floor. It doesn't feel like you're in a room with a man but sharing the space with a hunter that has its teeth and claws poised to slice. But you know that you can't cower. Not with men like him. If you give him and inch, he'll take a mile. And if you are going to make it out of this arrangement alive, you're going to have to try to stand on even ground. "That fight. It was supposed to be in my honor. But it isn't much of a victory if your opponents are impaired with drugs."
"It was out of my hands," comes his answer. It nearly could have been overtly defensive if he hadn't delivered it so steadily and direct. It's a knee jerk reaction to assume that he is lying. It has been instilled in you since birth to be wary of the Harkonnen and their words. And perhaps it is simply a dangerous form of hope, but the intuition in your gut promises you that he is telling the truth. But even then, it is difficult to find forgiveness.
"And you fought anyway."
"Careful." His voice cuts across the atmosphere like a sharp growl. He bares his teeth with the warning, letting you catch a glimpse of that dark snarl and for a moment your mind treacherously imagines what it would be like to feel the sharpness of it grazing along your skin. "I've taken tongues for less."
The threat does not strike fear in you like it should have. Like you expected it to. The longer you spend in Feyd-Rautha's presence, the more that your initial caution begins to ebb away. For better or for worse, confidence seeps in to take its place. You shock yourself for the second time today by moving towards him instead of backing away like someone with common sense would. Though if you're being honest with yourself, you have always flirted with danger. The temptation towards things that you should not want has always taken you to places not meant for you, and it is a trait that your family and teachers alike had struggled to dissuade. That you yourself have always fought. But you can't resist the urge to close the distance between you and him, following after it blindly like you're being tugged along by an invisible string.
He trails your approach with that calculated sort of interest, fully invested on your form as you carry yourself up the pair of steps. You continue to move even once you reach the final platform, but your feet do not stop moving. It is like some subconscious part of you is determined to cut as much distance between you and the na-Baron as possible. He doesn't tear his attention from you once. It's fully fixed to you as you saunter around the boarder of the bath like he couldn't bear to look away from you, and it fuels you to keep moving forward, only stopping once you stand beside him. He turns his head to gaze up at you from his position, studying you as he lounges.
"I'd save that for after the wedding, it may be difficult to say my vows otherwise." You level him with a firm stare as your tone shifts from subtly sardonic to hardened, and possibly even disappointed. " Though I'm glad to know where we stand."
You see something harden in his gaze. What, you are not sure, but the ferocity of it makes you breathless and something heated stirs in your gut.
"I mean you no ill will," he assures you, as if he had not just threatened you just a moment before. But the gravelly tone of his voice is distracting. It courses over your skin like an electrical current, humming and warm across your body. "I will bring you the heads of a thousand men if it pleases you."
It's not the admission itself that shocks you. You know that slaughter comes naturally to the na-Baron. You have witnessed that firsthand. But the sincerity and passion that cradled his words made it sound like a promise. A vow. And you know for certain that he is being purely honest. It floods you with disbelief. The way that he watches you is raw. Vulnerable but not weak or insecure. He said it with the zeal of a devout follower speaking of their faith. Full of hunger, reverence and sincerity. It makes your knees weaken and the oxygen in your lungs is suddenly useless. The devotion burning in the dark hold of his stare is something that you never imagined Feyd-Rutha could be capable of. You know that it is not love. That you are not naive enough to believe. But it is admiration. Consuming and wanting. It is almost frightening how he looks at you. Like you are an oasis, a banquet, and he is a man parched and starved. It only draws you to him even more. Like a moth fluttering closer to an open flame; hoping to be burned in its welcoming, vicious warmth.
"Why?" Your voice comes out weakened. You nearly pant, trying to breath around the fit of your bodice. It has suddenly become too tight, squeezing around your ribcage and sweltering against your skin.
He does not answer immediately. Instead he rises from the depths of the dark water, shifting to turn his body to yours, causing the water to ripple and gleam underneath the light. You can smell the perfume of the oil on his skin, fresh and warm like amber. A scandalous part of you is tempted to glance downward, even though you know that the height of the dusky liquid still hides the most intimate parts of him, but you are unable to tear your eyes away from his. They look like heavy black chasms, drawing you in and stealing your focus until he is all you can see. You can just vaguely register that he's stepping closer to you. He angles his head as he draws near, and you feel the point of his nose brush over yours through the chilled chains of your veil; the warmth of his body seeps past the barrier of your dress and sinks in deep, settling between the cradle of your hips.
"You and I; we belong together." He says it like it is a fact. A creed. To him it is. He beholds you like you are something worth worship. And the thought of having such a formidable man observing you as though you were an answer that he has been seeking makes something in you burn. It is scorching. Powerful. It knocks you breathless. "I dream of you."
The admittance makes you gasp. You briefly wonder how he could possibly have been touched by the sight of visions. Much less ones of you. How he had managed to see you in his sleep just as you had seen glimpses of him. But your marveling is quickly flooded and overruled by images of your own past dreams dancing and flashing in your mind. Pale hands sweeping across your body and leaving white-hot trails in their wake; the sting and glide of teeth and tongue; the musk and salt of sweat in your mouth. It rouses a heady sense of curiosity inside of you. And when he raises a hand and slips it underneath your veil to cup your cheek, sweeping his thumb over the shape of your lips, it makes your interest burn hotter. When you speak next your voice nearly catches in your throat. "What do you see? In your dreams."
The weight of his stare pulls you in and grips you tightly, heavy with a wild sort of hunger that might eat you alive. When he speaks next, the smoky rumble of his voice courses over you and clouds your head with a low mist. "Let me show you."
You are not sure when he had slipped the veil from over your face and off of your head, but you hear it fall behind you. Hitting the floor with a sharp, twinkling clatter. But you hardly pay it any mind. Too entranced on the heat of Feyd's palm cupping your face, holding you close while his heavy, heated stare bores into your own and in your haze, you admire that they are truly a shade of blue, just as those old visions promised. A gorgeous splash of color caught in a world of black and white. He shifts closer to you - as much as the low edge of the bath will allow, and with it you feel the sultry impression of his body heat glides over you. The cradle of his hand on your face slips from its place, traveling downward until it reaches your neck. Your heart skips a beat when the hold of his fingers reaches around your throat, and you're sure that he could feel the wild pulse of it fluttering against his palm. A flicker of amusement passes through his gaze, and suddenly it feels like some kind of test. He wants to see if you'll crack and flounder while he holds your life in his grip. But you find that the urge to flee has vanished. It's been wrung from you as though it had never been there, and suddenly you can't understand why you had ever wanted to run in the first place.
The pressure of his hand tightens like he means to squeeze the air out of you and to block your breath. Fear doesn't rise up to greet you. This isn't a challenge that you have the desire to shrink away from. You want more of it. Of him. You lean into his touch instead, tilting your chin back to bare your throat to him, and you see a ravenous type of delight pass over his expression when you do. The weight fixed around your neck; the heady scent of the rich ointment wafting from his skin dips more of that intoxicated haze over you.
For a moment you wonder if he might actually rip the oxygen from your lungs and attempt to send you to your death. The tight hold of his hand and the dark look glittering in his eyes imply that he might. But then his hold goes light, and you nearly mourn the loss when he allows his fingers to slip from around your neck. Disgracefully, you almost feel a low whine rising to the tip of your tongue. A desperate plead to have his touch on you again. But like an answer to your silent prayer, his hands unanimously run down your body, roving dangerously close to your breasts, leaving your skin tingling in their wake as they trail down and past your ribs to settle on your hips.
Time seems to slow when his fingers pluck at the smooth fabric of your skirt, bunching the material up into the cradle of his palms until it starts to slip up and over your legs, gradually revealing more and more of you. He doesn't stop until its rucked up enough to slip his hands underneath your dress, and you silently gasp at the warmth of his palms blossoming over your hips. His fingertips dig into your skin harshly enough that you know it'll be tender tomorrow, but you welcome the sting.
You can see the silent question glimmer in his eyes. The whisper of his nose gliding over your own and the nearness of his lips beckon that you come closer. He steps back just enough to allow you space, and without further prompting you lift your legs over the lip of the bath. The water is nearly scorching when you slink inside, nearly sweeping up to your waist and encapsulating you like melted wax. His grip on you didn't waver or weaken as you moved. If anything, it grew stronger, like he was worried you might slip away from him, even though the idea of escaping is a faint memory for you now.
When he tilts his head closer to yours, you think that he finally might kiss you and satiate the restless hunger that's been buzzing between the both of you. You feel the low brush of his breath against you lips when he speaks, and the throaty rasp of his voice curls out in one word:
"Beg."
It gives you pause. As soon as you hear it something defiant rises inside of you. But it isn't aggressive or wildly so. It's languid and playful. Testing. Despite the shred of desperation that you had nearly caved into earlier, you have no desire to give in so easily now. You aren't going to roll over so quickly. Not without good reason.
"No," you answer calmy, resisting, even when lust burns in your veins. "Give me a reason to."
In truth, you aren't sure where the burst of confidence comes from. Your experience with things of this nature - the touch of a man and pleasure, isn't nonexistent. You've indulged in a few nights tangled in the arms of a random temporary lover. Secretive kisses exchanged in dimly lit corridors, the ecstasy of a mouth between your thighs. But the art of it is not something that you have fully grasped onto. Flirtation and conviction in regard to sex doesn't come naturally to you. So you aren't sure why you feel inclined to tease him like you know what you're doing. But you want the challenge. Some twisted, perverted side of you wants to see the glint of the psychotic excitement that he had displayed in the arena. You want his hands on you while his eyes burn with that unrestrained ferocity. It's dangerous to goad him on. To taunt him like you understand him. You're playing a dangerous game. Like prodding at a wild animal in its enclosure, or waving a blazing, red flag in front of a pacing bull.
A fearful part of you expects for him to get angry. That he might lash out and punish you assuming that you could toy with him so freely. Maybe he'll remind you of your intended place and tell you that you aren't equals. That you mean nothing to him. But he doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he sinks down to his knees, lowering himself until the water rises up to his chest. His eyes don't stray from you once, and the hold on your hips remains firm. The intent and hunger in his eyes nearly make you lightheaded. He watches you in a way that's starved. It has you wondering if you're going to make it out of this alive. But a stronger part of you can't wait to be torn apart.
His hold on your hips gently nudges at you, guiding you to lower yourself until you're seated on the edge of the bath. You spread your legs without him having to ask, and you can see the hint of an arrogant smile perking at the corners of his mouth when one of his hands sweep down to your knee, prying it open. Anticipation simmers inside of you, searing deep inside of your gut like a hot ember. You feel his fingers sweep along your undergarment, hooking his fingers underneath the fabric to tear the delicate scrap of clothing from your hips as though it was made from paper. It stings against your skin when it snaps free, breaking with a sharp hiss as it rips apart.
You watch in awe when he lifts the frayed fabric up to his nose to draw in a heavy inhale. Embarrassment prickles at your face when you realize that he's breathing in the arousal that had soaked your underwear. It's vulgar. Filthy. But it has excitement buzzing over you and seeping into your bones. You hardly pay attention when he tosses the tattered fabric somewhere across the room, too transfixed as he leans himself forward between your knees, making a space for himself around the cradle of your thighs, hovering dangerously close to where you need him the most.
His stare pierces yours, digging a place for himself in your mind and soul, and latching on as he delivers a promise. "I'll make you scream."
Coming from anyone else it would have made you scoff or roll your eyes and cringe. Despite your inexperience, it's a line that you've heard before only to be met with utter disappointment. But you can feel the determination rolling from him, and you know that it isn't a lie. Still, you're prepared to say something snarky. To try and knock him down a peg or two before he's even started, but you never get the chance.
His head is between your thighs in an instant, spreading you open with his tongue, hot and sweltering against you. It wrenches a startled cry from your chest, and your hands scramble blindly to support yourself, clinging onto the chilled edge of the bath and the damp warmth of Feyd's shoulder so that you don't tip over. He's only just started, and his enthusiasm already leaves you suspended in disbelief. He works his mouth against you with a ravenous intensity, swiping his tongue over you before dipping it deep inside of you in a way that has liquid pleasure pouring over your body; making your nerves light up like wild, hot sparks. Your hips lift up in a mindless roll, grinding over his mouth to chase after the curl of his tongue, and he follows after the sway of your body, unshaken by your desperation.
Already you feel like you've been lit on fire. Dipped in a pool of nectar and bliss. It has your legs quivering, tensing and flexing with every suck and stoke from his mouth. It pulls ragged gasps from your heaving lungs, and you just faintly register the airy, punched out breaths lightly echoing off of the walls of the room. You can hear the wet drag of his lips and tongue licking at your cunt, tipping you closer and closer to euphoria. It's filthy. Utterly debauched. The very notion of the daughter of a Duke sleeping with a man before her wedding - fiancé or not - is scandalous, and you should be entirely ashamed that you've even wound up in this position at all. But you can't manage to find a single ounce of humiliation in your body. You're in too deep now. Nothing else matters but this moment. Nothing except for him.
Your head rolls down on your neck, and you're immediately insnared by the sight of him watching you. Most of his face is hidden by the skirt of your dress bunched around your waist, how your thighs frame his head, but you can see his eyes clearly. A haughty sense of excitement dances in them, clearly pleased with the mess that he's already made of you. You want nothing more than to wipe that arrogant look from his face, but it's almost like he can sense the quip that you're prepared to use, because the wet heat of his mouth licks over you before he closes his lips around your clit and your mind glazes over. He drags the hint of teeth over you, lighting up fire in their wake and then he sucks. Your back bows tight, breasts heaving underneath your dress, and you openly sob. But he offers you no reprieve, no chance to breathe.
With little warning he slips a finger into the wet entrance of your cunt, forcing your walls to stretch around the width of it as he curls it deep. You've touched yourself before. Used you own fingers to pleasure yourself, and you've only ever felt the hand of one other man before. A random soldier amongst the Atreides ranks, but that had been some time ago. The width of Feyd's is much bigger than your own. Thick and long enough that a single one has you gasping. The stretch of it nearly burns. But it builds a heavy ache between the apex of your thighs, rooting itself so deeply along your spine that it tears another watery cry from you. The motion of your hips turns choppy, losing your rhythm in your desperation to reach the scorching pleasure that looms over you like a wall of fire. He barely gives you time to adjust to the first finger before he's inserting another in alongside it, making the muscles of your abdomen contract and wildly. The walls of your cunt flutter around the thickness of his fingers; your body desperate to fall into the throes of release.
The fullness of it makes your mouth drop open in a silent scream, forcefully teetering you along the edge of something all-consuming and debilitating. You can taste it searing on your tongue, feel it on your fingertips and all the way down to your toes. Uninhibited moans and broken mewls of his name have begun to spill from your mouth. Punched out of you by the ceaseless drag of his tongue and weight of his finger inside of you, crooking along your walls with nasty, wet squelches to shove you closer and closer to that shattering precipice. It forces out a gutted cry that nearly stings on its way out, and you can feel Feyd's pleased laughter reverberate over your flesh in response, and the low tremors only inject more rapture into your veins. It's so close. Welling and foaming up like boiling water; a rising tide that threatens to sweep you and drown you.
All at once it stops.
You cry out like you've been wounded when he tears his mouth from you and removes his fingers from your cunt, leaving you empty and aching. You don't even try to hide your betrayed scowl as you glare down at his face, which looks entirely too delighted for your liking. Your lungs struggle around a ragged gasp, making your voice catch in your throat. "Wha- why you did sto-"
The question hardly has time to leave you before he turns his head and sinks his teeth into the plush skin of your inner thigh. It sears across your nerves, molten and white-hot, ripping a pained yelp from your chest. The smile on his face is pleased, stretched wide into that dark, impish grin. Your attention is stuck on him as he drops his jaw open, holding your scolding glower as he slips his tongue out to glide it along the sore bite mark that he left with his teeth. The wet warmth of his tongue laving over your skin, soothing the sting that he had made has your brain splitting between pain and pleasure, merging the two sensations into a muddled, delicious blur.
"Feyd." You meant for it to come out reprimanding and harsh, but instead it sounds thin and panting. You see the satisfaction spark in his eyes at the weakened tone of it, and seeking more out like a glutton, he reaches his hand forward to roll one of his knuckles over your clit. It's pure torture how he's keeping you hung along the edge of bliss. You're still sensitive from your ruined orgasm and the simple graze from the back of his hand has you doubling over like you've been struck in the gut. He tilts his head back to nuzzle his face against your own when you lean in close enough. An action that's deceptively sweet for someone so violent. It has something that feels a lot like affection bubbling up inside of your chest; dulcet and soft. You tear it away and burrow it deep before it can grow.
Guided by instinct, in a scramble to replace that unwelcome hint of tenderness, you tilt your head to join your lips to his. You can taste yourself on him, earthy and mildly sweet, and just the thought of you marking him with something so intimate - so filthy, makes you weak. He's quick to respond, meeting you eagerly with tongue and teeth. It's nearly bruising. Just as harsh and impassioned as the way that he fights, and it has you moaning into his mouth. But it isn't enough. Your hands turn greedy, sweeping over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, and in retaliation for teasing and his earlier bite, you sink your nails into the skin there, meanly dragging them until your reach his clavicle bone. But he doesn't hiss or wince in pain. The groan that spills against your lips is one of pleasure. The sound has your body thrumming and winding up tight, and paired with the steady circles he draws on your clit it has you dangerously close to tipping headfirst into the throes of melted bliss. But his touch is too light, the rhythm too slow to fully guide you into it. It leaves stuck on the edge of a torturous limbo, and you nearly whimper against his mouth.
You break the kiss in an effort to regain a sense of clarity, but he's quick to chase after you, nipping at your lips and alleviating the sting with the point of his tongue. "Feyd," you repeat, and this time it sounds horribly close to begging. You can feel your resolve cracking. Splintering down the center and melting with every glide of his finger against your clit.
"I already told you, Atreides," he murmurs it like a taunt and promise all at once. "All you need is ask."
He makes it sound so simple. So temptingly easy, but you try to cling onto your pride with a shaking grip. You know that he can see the conflict openly reflected in your eyes. The urge to fight. He moves his face from yours just enough to tilt his head as he evaluates you. It feels so condescending and the low, patronizing way that he tuts at you has a small whisper of determination peeking through the cloud of lust that fogs your mind. But he presses his knuckle against your clit in a mean drag, making your body clench and twitch like it had been stung with a live wire, and with it all cohesive thought blanks out.
"Why are you fighting?" He asks, leaning his head to run his teeth along your ear, and then the wet blaze of his tongue trails up your throat to lick the salt from your skin. "It could be like a dream."
It's such a simple sentence, but it reminds you have of how you've gotten here in the first place. The promise of pleasure, the feel of skin under your teeth, the rough grip of his hands on you. In truth, you aren't sure what you're resisting for. What game you're trying to play and win. You're just torturing yourself at this point. Holding yourself back from what you truly want needlessly. It's because of pride. The trait to endure, to remain resolute underneath the call of a challenge or opposition has been instilled in you. You've been taught to be unyielding, to hold yourself back from temptation. Especially when facing an adversary. You cannot show weakness lest you bring humiliation to your house. But you're quickly learning that you don't have much shame anymore. Being in Feyd's presence seems to drain every ounce of it from your body, shifting you into something debased and wanting. And you want him.
"Please, Feyd, I need you touch me," you beg, panting against his lips. "I need you to fuck me. I need - "
You aren't certain who moves first. If it's you who slips down from the edge of the bath or if he's the one that takes ahold of you by the hips and tugs you onto his lap. The murky water splashes and ripples from the disturbance, bathing over the lower half of your body in a warm rush as you meet in a desperate sweep of grabbing hands, and the passionate exchange of lips and the harsh graze of teeth. You follow after him as he shifts so he's leaning against the boarder of the bath, allowing you both to focus on the press of your bodies grinding against each other without the worry of falling into the water. His hips roll upward, tearing a surprised gasp from you when you feel the hard weight of his cock nudge between the apex of your thighs, brushing over your clit in a slow drag.
The feel of it is jarring almost. Dousing a small chill across your body with the reminder that you're beginning to reach the point of uncharted territory. You've never gotten this close with anyone else before. Had never entertained the idea or even desired it. Your explorations of the male body had never gone past you taking them into your mouth or vice versa. This is completely out of your depth and all of the efforts that you had taken in preparation had done little to soothe your nerves. You had spoken to your chambermaids and Lady Jessica alike about sex before, the art of love making and what you should brace for, and they had all warned you of pain. A deep tearing pain and the blood that comes with it. It had given you hardly any inclination to anticipate losing your virtue.
But even with worry tensing your gut the fervent, burning desire that's consumed you hasn't released you from its snare. Still, Feyd seems to have noticed the rigidity in your body, the way your muscles have coiled in your internal distress. He tips his head back to part his lips from yours so that your eyes can meet, and you can see amusement glittering in the darkness of them like your nervousness is humorous somehow.
"You have nothing to fear. I'll be gentle, just this once." The reassurance (or threat, you aren't quite sure) skirts over you, rough and enticing within the gravel of his voice. One of the hands that he has on your hips softly grips around your wrist, and you're left to watch curiously as he guides it down into the inky water. You gasp when he slips your palm around the weight of his cock. He's rigid and smooth in your hold, and when you inquisitively stroke your hand up the length of him, it's a little intimidating to discover the substantial girth of him. You swallow nervously around the saliva that pools in your throat. It's difficult to focus around. It's like your own body is confused, thrumming with an electrical sort of anticipation, and the clutch of anxiety that stubbornly burrows deep underneath the influence of your lust.
But there's something about the arrogant glint in Feyd's expression that makes you bristle. It gives you a touch of confidence; small, hardly there at all, but it's enough. You grip him before your determination can falter, holding him steady as you line him up to the soaked entrance of your cunt. It takes you a moment to notch him against you - a combination of your nerves and lack of practice. But when you finally do, you have to draw in a deep breath to center yourself. He's thick and warm against you and it's such a foreign sensation. A side of you still hasn't caught up with the fact that you're well and truly here, tangled up in such a scandalous position with the na-Baron - your enemy. Your rival. But it's even more shocking with how little the fact is beginning to bother you. It should frighten you. It should sicken and repulse you. But you find that it doesn't in the slightest. You only feel the damning lick of desire, the urge to chase after your pleasure and to feel the na-Baron come undone underneath you.
With a deep inhale you begin to sink yourself down on him before your nerves can get ahold of you. The stretch stings from the head of his cock working inside, the muscles between the junction of your hips straining from the effort. It's already intense, splitting you open with a fullness that you have yet to feel before even though he isn't even halfway in. Every shred of oxygen has been punched out from your lungs, and your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as you continue to slip yourself down onto him, forcing your body to accommodate to the width of his girth. Liquid, molten honey drips down the length of your spine, blurring with the raw sting rooted deep inside of you, nearly making you double over from the intensity of it.
"Easy," Feyd hums suddenly, reaching up to cup the side of your face. When he swipes his thumb underneath your eye, you just vaguely register the dampness there. Tears. You hadn't even realized that you had begun to cry from the overwhelming nature of it all, and even though it's expected, it's a little irritating to see how unbothered he appears to be while you feel as though you're coming undone at the seams. But the warmth of his hand against your cheek pulls you from the searing, electrical pressure of your muscles giving around his length, a beacon in a storm. It's another oddly, sweet gesture from the someone so brutal, and combined with the soothing weight of his hand on your waist, it has another bout of that horrendous affection rising up inside of you. Even when he lifts his tearstained thumb to his lips to lick the damp salt from his finger.
It's all too overwhelming. The sensation of his body on yours, his eyes on you, the push of his cock filling you up. It has more desire building up inside of you and it guides you to sink even more of yourself down on him, eager to take every inch. You feel it when the crown pushes past the tight ring of your cunt. The abrupt pop sends heavy tremors across your body, making your spine bow forward like a melted candlestick. It's like every bit of your energy has been sapped from you by a single motion and you have no choice but to let your head prop against his shoulder as you collect yourself with a trembling sigh. But you don't bother giving yourself any reprieve, discarding his earlier advice and bearing your hips down to force more of him deep inside, and your jaws drops open in a silent, punchout scream when your walls stretch to accommodate him.
Your mind has all but melted underneath the intensity of it, shifting to a blank with each inch that you take. By the time that the back of your thighs meets the support of his lap you feel like pure, useless mush. Reduced to pliant mess by the sudden fullness that's been stuffed into your cunt. You swear that you can feel him in your throat, shoving your lungs tight against the walls of your ribcage, keeping you breathless.
"I told you to go easy." The rumble of his voice breaks out, bleeding past the clouded over haze in your mind in a deep rasp. It's difficult to discern if he's mocking you or chiding you, but knowing what you've learned of him already, it's safe to assume that it's probably both.
You distantly feel you shake your head against his shoulder, more of that defiance rearing up. "I don't want to go easy," you counter. It takes you a moment to build up the strength and coherence to pull yourself back, tilting your chin up to assess him. His eyes are like burning pits, a yawning void that wants to eat you alive. But you don't have it in yourself to shy away from it. Instead you lean forward, slipping your hands around to grip the back of his neck, supporting yourself has you brush your nose along his. The press of his body underneath you is unflinching, his expression relaxed, but you are certain that you feel something in him waver. The hint of a vulnerability. A fleeting glimpse of it. But that's all you need. It's more than enough to tell you that if you want to, you can just as easily have him wrapped around your finger.
You angle your head closer, pressing soft kisses along the plush of his lips and the sharp cut of his jaw. "Please," you beg softly.
His mouth is on yours in an instant, hot and hungry, pulling you into another frenzied kiss, licking into your mouth to taste you. Just the glide of his lips against yours is enough to have that heated coil in your stomach already winding up tight. You feel like you're drowning. Caught up in a torrent of heat and bliss. It has your hips rising up mindlessly, instinctively working yourself on the length of his cock in a desperate need to chase after your pleasure. Stinging aftershocks trickle across your muscles with each short drag, but it only serves to make your nerves hum; aching so wonderfully deep that your eyes nearly roll back.
His lips leave yours to trail along to corners of your mouth, sweeping down your jaw to nip and bite along the delicate skin of your throat, intent to leave his mark on you. It distracts you. Pulling your focus onto the sharp cut of his teeth on your neck, that it completely catches you off guard when he secures an arm around your waist, pinning you close to his body before he thrusts his hips up into yours like he's determined to carve his place between your them. The pace that he sets is grueling. A merciless rhythm that strikes the air out of your lungs with each pronounced roll. He fills you in a way that hurts, stretching you open with every plunge of his cock. But it's an exquisite type of pain. It feels like it's tearing you apart just to piece you back together again.
You struggle to meet his pace. Your movements aren't as coordinated; choppy, and he doesn't wait for you to catch up and figure out the greedy movement and rhythm he's set. The sway of the water around your bodies seem to stifle and aid the motion of your hips simultaneously, dragging them down and lifting them all at once. You're practically useless above him, forced to sit and take it. But he doesn't seem annoyed or undeterred in the slightest with the way that he pounds himself into you. It has your brain going fuzzy, glazing over with the impression of his veins gliding along the walls of your cunt. His chest rubs against your breasts, shifting the smooth material of your dress over your nipples, and the added friction makes your back pull taut.
The heat of his mouth closes over the vulnerable stretch of your throat and you can feel the tip of his tongue glide over your pulse like he's tempted to sink his teeth in deep to drink the flow of your blood. Your cunt clenches down on his girth at the thought, and you're rewarded with a low, guttural groan that reverberates across his chest from the inside out. It makes you eager to hear more from him. To make him just as broken and debauched as you are.
You can hardly recognize yourself anymore. The way that he's practically turned you into an animal; wanton and gluttonous. You can hear the sound of your own voice, unrestrained and loud as it cries out in pleasured moans and whimpers. You don't think you've ever heard yourself this way. So uninhibited and sinful. None of your past lovers, as satisfactory as they had been, had ever been able to pull reactions like this from you. It nearly makes you feel like a stranger in your own body. Unfamiliar with your skin. But it's irresistibly good, unprincipled and shameless. But it feels like pure release, untethered by expectations or rules. And like a starved thing, you want more. You want more of him. To hear him, to feel more of him, to taste him on your tongue.
In a wild craving to hear the throaty sound of his pleasured breaths, you slip your throat away from his mouth, ignoring the disgruntled snarl that stretches across his lips to grip the nape of his neck. You lean forward before he can question you and press your teeth into the smooth flesh that stretches over the junction of his shoulder, careful not to break skin but enough to cause the sting of pain. It's like a prize when a deep groan rips out from his chest, but the sharp, bruising thrust that follows closely behind nearly dislodges your teeth from him. He must have noticed the grip of your jaw waver because he slips a hand up to cradle the back of your skull, securing you in place.
"More," he demands in a thick rasp.
The sound of the request has liquid fire dousing over you, and you don't have the strength or desire to resist. You sink your teeth down even more until it threatens to split skin underneath the weight of your bite, stopping short before you could do any actual damage. But the irritated, almost forlorn sigh that greets your ears catches your attention. His fingers flex around the back of your head like he wants to shove you closer. But surely he doesn't want that. Your teeth will tear right through him if you apply any more pressure.
"Harder." The insistent order comes out like pure gravel, and matched with another wild thrust, it has your teeth clamping down on his shoulder. The muscles in your jaw squeeze tight until flesh breaks and something iron and strangely bitter spills across your tongue and threatens to pour down your throat. The noise that leaves him is gutted and wanton. Your body clenches around him as soon as you hear the ragged panting that trickles from his lips, setting you alight with even more ardency, and the sting of your bite searing across his nerves somehow manages to fuel him with even more vigor. He rams his cock into you with heavy strokes that are debilitating. You nearly feel like a doll, nothing more than a being for his pleasure, if not for the reverent way that his hands begin to glide along your body. Clutching you to him like might slip away.
It pulls you close to him, and the position has his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. Unable to hold in the string of moans and whimpers that beg to slip from your chest, you have to slip your teeth from his skin to pant and cry against his shoulder. It's like the sun is eating at your body. Warmth, and heat, and rapture scorching you from the inside, threatening to burn and tear you apart. You can taste it, warm and sweet on the tip of your tongue, mixing with the dark tart of his blood into an intoxicating flavor. It makes you lose all sense of yourself with your mind slipping under a blank mist. Your body is so distant from you now and the only thing that keeps you connected to it is the pleasure and ecstasy soaking your limbs and filling your lungs; the thickness of him stretching you open and stuffing you full.
"Feyd," you gasp like a warning and a plea, blindly clawing at his arms and shoulders to keep you tethered down and present. But each relentless thrust just hurtles you closer to that yawning precipice. The head of his cock brushes against something deep and devastating inside of you and that's all it takes for you to split apart with a ragged scream. You hardly have time to brace for it when it finally reaches you. Bursts of white and piercing stars explode behind your eyes like a kaleidoscope; fire and electricity seize you tight, forcing every muscle in your body to wind up tight like you've been shocked. All of the air has been snatched from your lungs making your feel as though you've blacked out; lightheaded and sluggish.
You can hear Feyd grunting in your ear, but his pacing has turned messy, losing the pronounced, steady rhythm he once had in his desperation to reach his own end. Thrusting into you in a manner that's almost wild. Both of his hands find your waist and his fingertips dig in deep enough to tear a weak cry from you. With a long, guttural moan he reaches his climax, burying himself deep into your cunt as he fills you with a flood of pulsing warmth before sagging back against the boarder of the tub.
You aren't sure how long you stay like that for, suspended in a space tucked between your body and thrumming, pulsing heat. When your breath comes back to you, it's labored and deep, drawing in the scent of perfumed oils and the heady salt of sweat. You've gone limp, limbs lax and useless as your full weight drapes across the firm press of Feyd's body underneath you. It's soothing to have him close, even though it shouldn't be. There should be fear in your chest. Self-disgust and betrayal should hang over you like a cloud, but there's nothing except for satisfaction and peace. Maybe it will leave you once the influence of pheromones and the high of sex dissipate, and reality will come hurtling down on you with the conviction of a calamity. But as of now, you have no desire to entertain any of those anxieties. You nuzzle closer to Feyd, tucking your face into the crook of his neck with the ease of someone who's done it a thousand times, even while a faint part of you worries that he'll shove you away. That he might push you from him and rise from the bath to leave you abandoned in water turned tepid and soiled to remind you of your true place here. But he doesn't. He lets you settle over him, idly running his fingertips up the divot of your spine from over the cover of your soaked dress.
You feel the thrum voice of his vibrate across his chest before you hear it, and a part of you expects some sort of scathing remark.
"Did I still disappoint?"
Your eyebrows furrow at the question as your slow-moving brain struggles to follow the question, and the near flat quality of his voice doesn't assist you any. But when your finally grasp onto the realization, you can't fight off a light smile that perks at your lips from the notion that he might be teasing you. The affection is back with a vengeance. Blossoming in your chest, saccharine and warm. But now you don't have the strength to try and shove it away or to distract yourself.
"Hmmm," you hum lowly, feigning consideration as you draw in a deep sigh. "I suppose you've redeemed yourself."
The scent of something strongly metallic fills your nose, settling deep and pulling you from the gentle fuzz that's stuffed your skull. It draws you to pull yourself from the cradle of his chest to evaluate him. Your eyes are quick to scan his pallid skin and you immediately notice the rivulets of black that pour down his shoulder, streaming from the angry bitemark that has been cut into his flesh. Guilt spreads through you at the sight even though he had commanded - begged, really, for you to do it. You're sure that his blood is still smeared across your lips in a dark stain. More proof of the pain you had eagerly inflicted on him.
"I'm sorry," you apologize softly. You reach down to cup some of the murky water into the divot of your palm, it has healing properties you remember reading, and lift it up to gently pour it over the wound. Even though it must sting, he doesn't so much as flinch underneath the feel of the medicinal liquid flowing over the gash.
"Don't be," he assures. He glides the pad of one of his thumbs across your bottom lip, and you distantly gather that he's collecting the glaze of his blood there. His eyes follow the motion like he's entranced, and the intensity behind it could have sparked another bout of lust in you if you weren't already so spent. He lifts his black-stained fingers between you both, rubbing his fingertips together as he watches the smear of blood glitter underneath the cast of the pale lighting. "I'll wear it with pride."
There it is again. More of that odd, unwavering devotion. Perhaps you should be suspicious of it. It could be some sort of ploy to lull you into a false sense of security, but instinct tells you that he's being purely honest. And that might be even more frightening. If he's already so committed and consumed by lust and entitlement now, then there's truly no idea what could happen if his admiration were to evolve into something deeper. Darker. Less restrained. Horrendously, the prospect of it intrigues you. You can't help but wonder what it would be like to bask under the attention of Feyd-Rautha's obsession. An even sicker side of you might hope for it too.
You snap that thought shut and bury it deep before it can flourish. You concentrate your mind on your surroundings instead, like the dark water lapping along the edge of the bath, soaking the expensive fabrics of your dress, now damaged and defiled, and the musk of sex and fragrant oils hanging heavy in the air; the press of his flaccid cock still stuffed inside of you. But the weight of Feyd's stare cuts through all of it, gravitating your own to raise to him in turn. You can see the pale hint of blue reflecting in them, just as gorgeous as the expanse of a wild ocean. It draws you closer to him and he angles his head to join his lips to yours. For the first time this night this kiss is something soft and gentle. It feels like reverence when the plush of his mouth parts against yours. Drawing in the taste of you on the tip of his tongue, exchanging a mix or your arousal and his blood with the glide of your lips. It's a kiss that pulls you down into his orbit. It makes everything fade it an unclear background until the only thing that matters is the warmth of him underneath your hands; the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming steadily within his chest. With another delicate nip of his teeth and the sweep of his hands around you, temptation rings throughout your bones and begs you to fall into him.
ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』
summary: 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.
warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.
word count: 4.5k
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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.
The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .
There’s you.
And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.
This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.
If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.
The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?
Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.
The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.
The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.
They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.
No one could save you.
“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.
How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.
“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.
Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.
“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”
You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.
The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.
“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.
He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.
“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.
You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.
“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.
“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.
A pause.
“Please.” And then he went back to eating.
So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.
“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.
Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.
“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”
Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.
“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.
For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.
“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.
He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.
“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”
He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.
“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.
Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.
“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”
This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.
“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”
That awful, ugly, no good-
“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed.
You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things.
‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’
You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics.
You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered.
“Do all women take this long to get ready?”
You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf.
He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring.
He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous.
“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms.
You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited.
You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have.
“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction.
Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away.
The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth.
You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm.
You waited. And waited. And waited.
“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand.
There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?
“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far.
You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket.
You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack.
“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm.
“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce.
“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement.
“No.”
“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.”
Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest.
“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . . spineless.”
You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he.
“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him.
‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you.
“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred.
“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice.
You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together.
“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . .
Aimed at his throat.
He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him.
And then he leaned in closer. And closer.
“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.
You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. . . the natural musk of his skin.
“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin.
He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it.
“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own.
Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in.
“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you.
He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole.
They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with.
When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain.
But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it.
‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ‘Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’
His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft.
“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair.
Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire.
And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood.
“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now.
“I wanted to.” You conceded.
“Then you should have tried harder.”
Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused.
There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone.
And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably.
There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land.
He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now.
Like the fact that he had almost kissed you.
Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you.
You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now.
Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating.
Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped.
“Atreides.”
The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized.
No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . .
Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger.
‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier.
Summary: You were born to die and unlike the others around you, you have accepted that truth long ago. But then, things change. Your father is killed, the Atreides are made royal and you are captured.
Warning (s): Detailed death scene, sick characters, eventual smut, eventual major character death, talks of killing and murder, blah blah blah.
Notes: this is part one bc the doc was getting out of hand 😭 This is 4.8k words. Don't tell me if this is bad, imma burst into tears.
PART TWO!!
Twelve years of planning, scheming, and rebellion was lost in a single night. Twelve years of anger, unrest, and injustice were destroyed because a father loved his daughter too much.
In years time, when you are long dead and your family's legacy is nothing but a story told to warn others, you hope they offer your father grace. That for all his twisted and cruel ways, for all his betrayal plotting— they see that he is, was, a father. One who loved fiercely, who wanted to protect the only family he had left.
His execution is a slow process, The Duke stands dressed in a mix of blacks, greens, and gold behind his kneeling figure. His face set in a grim frown, he speaks of your father's betrayal; he details multiple attacks, and coups set upon the Atreides family and their supporters. He lists the dead, the people your father had killed, and the deaths he played a part in. The Duke talks and talks, and his people listen, they cheer and shout for blood to be spilled. They chant his name, they call him King.
Your father does not take his eyes off of you. He does not cry, he does not beg for mercy. He simply stares straight ahead, his lips pulled into a humorless smile. He may not cry but his eyes shine with unshed tears and his gazes waivers ever so slightly to the chains around your wrists and ankles, to the guards that are pinned to your sides. His grin wobbles and he blinks. But he does not cry. Not in front of you, in front of the Duke soon to be crowned King, and not for the supporters who linger in the crowd.
The executioner's blade rises, the crowd's cheers are near deafening, and the Duke looks away; he looks at you. There is a pity in his gaze but there is also fierce determination. The rebellion ends here.
The blade drops. You see it all in slow motion, the Duke turning his son away, his mistress watching on. The crowd jumping— cheering, mothers shielding the eyes of their children. Your father, he lets his smile drop, his mouth opens—
I love–
The sentence is never finished. His head falls, rolling into the crowd. The guards hold you up as you collapse, screaming.
The rebellion ends here.
➫➫➫
“I refuse.”
There's a hiss of annoyance from the servant. She holds your meal and your medicine on a golden tray, balancing them with the prior doses. It's been three days since the death of your father, two weeks since you last heard from your brother and nearly four days since you've eaten or taken your medicine.
It's starting to take a toll on you, the grief, and your sickness. Your mouth is constantly dry, and no amount of water is enough to sate your thirst. Your hands are constantly shaking, aching with an ancient pain, and most times you are confined to your bed because the ache in your bones is too much to bear.
When your bones don't ache, the pain in your chest takes the stage— making each breath feel like it's pinching its way out of your lungs. Your existence is miserable.
You had begged your captors for death, and they had denied.
The servant shuffles in her place, her face pinched. “The King insisted, Lady.” The title leaves her mouth sour as if she dreads to address you as such. “He wishes to remind you that you are not a prisoner here. That you are free to leave your room with a guard as long as you take your medicine.”
You aren't a prisoner, are you? With a room plated in gold and a constant stream of food and water, how could you be considered as such? You even had a servant— a maid who despised your very existence but was eager to listen to your every command if you so much as said it. You had tried to ignore it, to throw a sheet over the truth. You were more a spoil of war than a prisoner of it.
Still, you hold strong. “Tell the King, I refuse. Tell him the only thing I wish for is death.”
The maid takes a breath, you think she'll slam the try down and storm off. She had done so before, only to shuffle back hours later to do the same song and dance all over again, but she didn't. She places the tray down by the door and stalks further into the room, you watch with wary eyes as she sits to the left of you. In a plush green chair, her hazel eye stare is piercing. “You are being childish.”
You scoff and though the action is painful, you sink further into the bed and look away from her. She only sneers at you, continuing. “You are childish, selfish and ignorant of all those that surround you. The King offers a branch and you refuse to take it?”
“Your King killed my father.” You wheeze, your lungs giving a painful squeeze. “I think I'm allowed to be all those things and more.”
“He is not my King.” She spits, her voice a deadly whisper. “And you are not the only one who's lost people. My mother, my brother and my nephews are dead. Leto Atreides refused to do anything about the sickness sweeping across his settlements and my people paid for it.” She takes a deep breath, cooling the anger that dances across her face. “The rebellion is not lost. We still have a fighting chance.”
You give the servant a tired look. “My father is dead. Your leader is gone and even if he wasn't, he was a monster, he killed hundreds.”
“And what is that compared to this King's thousands?” She retorts. “Your father was not a monster, he was a commander. A voice for the scorned and your brother the sword to his cause. You can pick up where they left off, you can fix this.”
A laugh spills past your lips, it's damn near hysteric and it jolts the servant in her seat. “Fix what, exactly? I can not raise the dead, my brother is lost and my sickness threatens to claim my life. Preach your hymns to another light, Lady. Preferably not a pyre.”
She doesn't appreciate your joke, she stands abruptly, her lips tight and her brows furrowed. “Your father would not want this for you. Neither would your brother. They talked of you, constantly. Endlessly. They told us you knew nothing of their plans, that they kept you in the dark because they thought you'd risk everything to join them despite your sickness.” She looks to you, searching your face for the girl they spoke of. She looks away when all that stares back at her is a person rotting away. “It seems they were wrong.”
She doesn't let you get another word in before she leaves. The door slams behind her and your eyes struggle to find the movement. To think he would have supporters hid right under the King's nose— it was probably a backup plan; to have the very girl who dotes on you now, saddle up to the King. For her to get close enough to where his guard drops and she could sneak in the finishing blow, or maybe,it was insurance. Maybe, just maybe, your father knew he'd fail in the long run and to have people inside the castle was another way to protect you when he was gone.
Your eyes flutter shut with a huff, who was she to preach to you? To try to convince you to shove the very thing that cripples you to the side to take up the pipedream that was your father's legacy?
You loved your father, you love your brother. But you are no fool, they did not tell you in fear that you'd join them. They didn't tell you because you'd refuse to do so. You were not blind to the sins of Duke— King Leto, but they were things he could not prevent. The very sickness the servant speaks of was something incurable, something unstoppable and yet when the King tried to close borders to limit its reach, every trader rich and poor had complained. They snuck past guards and bribed their way into areas closed off and so, the sickness continued till all that caught it died and the only ones left were those who were immune.
Thousands died but their deaths were something not even the most talented healer could prevent. Thousands died and their King mourned with them, sending out provisions; medicines, food and clean water. He had offered to cut the land tax and offered the family of the dead a hefty amount of silver to help them in trying times. The King, then Duke, mourned his people and yet, some of them blamed him.
The King has his sins and he atones for them. He has to live with them. But your father? Your father had killed people in cold blood for not supporting his cause, he had robbed the sick and poor to fund his rebellion. Your father had cried; retribution! His people answered in blood.
Your father was not a commander, he was a monster and your brother his teeth.
Still, a part of you clings to the image of them they showed you. It clings to the father who'd greet you every morning with your medicine and a smile, it clings to the brother who treated you as if you've never fallen sick— who snuck you out for your planets first snowfall and showed you how to pet the serpents that laid in your riverbeds. It clings to the family, no matter how small and broken it was. Two truths could exist at once.
Your family were monsters. True. Your family was the only peace and safety you'd ever know. The truth.
You don't want to fall asleep but your body works against you, deciding that your pain will be more bearable if you aren't awake to feel every ache in your bones and stab in your chest. You can't fight, you don't really try to— but, as your consciousness fades, you hear your door open with a click. You can't force your eyes open but you hope it's the King, you hope he's granting your wish.
➫➫➫
Paul tries his best to understand his father. He studies his actions, his words and listens to whatever thoughts he chooses to share. He retraces his steps starting from the very moment Leto Atreides was named Duke and ending when he was crowned a King.
His father has suffered tragedy after tragedy, from the death of his own father to the death of his first wife and son.
Paul Atreides likes to think he gets his father, understands him on a level only a son could. But no matter how hard he tries, he can not, for the life of him, understand why his father spares the children of that traitorous Balliol man. Kings before him would have made examples of them— the death of their father wouldn't have been enough, they would have cut the hands off the son and forced him to fight in coliseums. They would have stripped his daughter bare, cut her hair to her scalp and parade her around their kingdoms till the elements took her. There would have been songs, plays made about the fall of the great Balliol family and the rise of the Golden King. His father, who has always told him to look to the past; to learn the stories of his grandfather and all before him, does not do the same.
He turns Paul away from the sight of his death. He sends his son, a man nicknamed The Butcher, away to a planet whose inhabitants were known to never anger or raise a hand in violence. He rids the Butcher of his weapons and collars him so any violence is punished with a painful zap. He keeps his daughter, a sickly girl, locked away somewhere deep in the castle with servants waiting on her hand and foot. He thinks it's a waste of resources— you were dying anyway, so why not cast you aside and let you rot instead of trying to cure you? He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand.
His father tells him it's because he's not thinking like a ruler. His father looks disappointed, horribly so, when he voices his thoughts and tells him, in a kinder way, to grow up. That he is no longer a future Duke, but a future King. With the defeat of Balliol and all his supporters, came a responsibility much bigger than the planets they left behind.
“It is a cycle, Paul.” His father rasps, his voice thick as he nurses a cup of liquor and a cigar to dull his migraine. His mother, ever diligent, ever loyal, is at his side. Her hands rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “A pattern, even. Of endless hurt. I cut the head off the Hydra. That should be enough.”
“No,” Paul protests, his voice hard. “When you cut off one head, two more grow in its place–”
“A cycle,” Leto says again, his eyes distant. “What shall I do when I cut those two heads and four sprouts in its place? Should I respond with violence every time? When does it end, Paul? Why must my hands be stained with blood endlessly when I can allow the two living heads to learn from the priors’ mistakes?”
For a moment, Paul is speechless. He looks to his mother for some type of support only to wilt when she has her head bowed away from him. She agrees with his father. Paul doesn't get it, endless possibilities run through his mind— his dreams do not hold solid answers, nor does Duncan when he turns to him. He doesn't get it and wants to desperately. So, he tries a different angle.
“Balliol was a monster.”
His father hums, he doesn't disagree. “He was a friend, once.”
“And because he was a friend, you pardon his children? His son?”
Leto takes a sip from his cup, chuckling humorlessly. Jessica sighs. Both sounds make him bristle. He watches as his father places his cup to the side, and his cigar in a tray before looking at him. Truly looking at him. “Would you kill for me, Paul?”
Paul blinks, chest tightening. “What?”
“If I asked it of you, would you?” Leto asks again, “If I told you it was the right thing to do, that if it'd save your mother, that you would never have to hurt again, would you kill for me?”
Jessica makes a noise of protest, her eyes flickering between the two of them but Leto holds up a hand, his gaze never wavering. Paul hesitates, only for a second before swallowing. “Of course, I would.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked me to,” Paul answers, slowly. He looks at his father unsurely, “I don't–”
“Why would it matter that I asked, Paul? Would you have answered differently if someone else asked?” Leto presses.
“Of course, I would–”
"Why?”
“Because you're my father!” Paul snaps. Jessica lets her eyes fall shut, taking a shuddering breath. Leto slumps into his chair, Paul continues unsteadily, “I would do it because you're my father. I would do anything you asked of me.”
Leto picks up his glass, his hands shake almost unnoticeably but the ice rattles like a snake in his cup. “ Exactly. So, why should I punish another son for doing what my own would do? Why would I punish a girl whose only sin was being her father's daughter?”
Paul doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, Leto's words sit heavy in his chest, on his soul. He squirms in his seat, under his father's gaze then—
“Paul–”
He's on his feet before he can think, storming away like a petulant child. His father grabs his mother by her arm before she can follow him, and he tells her to let him go. It is something he's never done before. But, it is something he is thankful for. He needs to think, he needs time.
He needs to think like a future King and not a boy.
➫➫➫
The air is cool when you wake. The ceiling is a glittering, sparkling silver, and the blankets that cover you are not blankets at all— instead, a thin gray sheet spills over you messily, bunched in some areas and dips to the floor in others. You turn your head just slightly, squinting as a glow orb floats over your head, it pulses at you almost curiously before floating off deeper into the room.
You blink. Your mind is trying its best to shake off the fog that clings to it. This is not your room. Well, not the room you were in before. This room is silver and white, its floor carpeted instead of marbled and every possible sharp edge of the room is rounded. Your eyes fall to your body, taking in the thick white nightgown that now covers your body to the IV embedded in the crook of your arm. Your lips part and your body shivers, for the first time in a long time, your constant thirst is bearable, the ache in your bones is nothing but a memory and your chest doesn't pinch painfully.
You take a breath, a deep one, and let it go. You stir under the sheets, trying to sit up but you struggle— days without food have made your body weak and most unwilling to respond.
“Here,” A voice starts and suddenly gentle hands are helping you upright. You blink at him, in shock, staring at his face wide-eyed and Paul avoids your stare, fluffing the pillow behind you. Though, when you don't look away, his eyes meet yours with a frown. “What?”
Yours snap away instantly and you flinch away from his grasp immediately, “Sorry. I'm–” Your heart pounds, you dare to peek at him again but he's staring above you at a monitor that displays your vitals. He watches the jump in your pulse with the same frown, if not deeper than before. Your hands grip weakly at the sheets, should you bow? Could you bow? There was a prince in your presence, towering over your bed. It was something of romance novels, of fantasy long lost and, it makes you sicker than you are. You wish for space, you wish for the room before and where they left you to rot. “Where–”
Paul steps away as if he was never close in the first place, his gaze trailing away from you and to a tray. It's smaller than any of the other ones, it only has a small bowl of oatmeal, paired with diced berries and a small cup of juice. Your medicine is nowhere to be seen but the sight of the IV in your arms tells you they resorted to other methods to get you to take it. Methods that were always out of reach for you when your father was alive. He waves a hand and the bot holding the tray rises with a whirring noise and wheels till it's near your bed and slowly, lowers the tray into your lap. You look at the tray, the food, and the bot, which lets out a delightful little beep then at Paul who is watching you with a careful look of indifference.
“You are still in the castle.” He answers your unfinished question from before. “We had you transferred to a smaller, safer room when you refused to wake. It has only been a day, you are lucky. They were considering a feeding tube.” He pauses, smiling listlessly. “They still are. Eat.”
You give the oatmeal a look. It's bland, even with the berries and juice. It smells of wet paper and paste and it makes your stomach turn on itself. “I’m not hungry.”
“And I'm not the son of a King.” He refutes. “You will get better food in time, when you prove you can handle this type first. We can't give you big portions or season it– it will only cause more pain.” When you make no move to grab the spoon, Paul considers you for a moment. His eyes search your face, fluttering in thought, “Can you move your arms?”
“Barely.” You admit, you can barely muster the energy to unclench your fist let alone raise your arms to eat. It is utterly embarrassing.
Paul sighs, “I shall fetch your maid and–”
Your pulse spikes, fast enough to make the silent monitor beep in warning. You do not want to deal with that woman again, she'll only rant about your father again or perhaps she'd refuse to feed you till you agreed to help her. She seems like the type. “No.” You hiss. Paul watches you shift in your bed, your face twisting in pain, “I can– I can do it myself, there is no need to get her.”
“You are being stubborn.” He says, his voice softening when you flinch again. His lips seel shut for only a moment, considering his words before he speaks. “She is meant to help you, my father assigned her, himself. She will not hurt you–” Your pulse spikes, and the monitor beeps in warning again. Paul falls silent, his face taunt. His mouth opens but the words catch in his throat, like he doesn't truly want to ask, he does so anyways. “Has she hurt you?”
“No.” You answer but his eyes aren't on you, it's on your pulse.
“You are lying.” He says, not accusing but shocked that you are doing so. He looks away from the monitor and back to you. “Why are you lying for her if she hurt you?”
“Because she hasn't hurt me, not physically. It doesn't matter. You don't need to get her, I can feed myself.” You respond, you urge your arms to lift, your fist to unclench and they're slow to listen. It feels as if you are lifting blocks of concrete but you push through it till your hands rest on the tray, your fingers only inches away from the spoon. “Thank you for the meal, my… my Prince. But I am sure I am keeping you from other duties, you are free to leave.”
Paul doesn't budge, he watches you disbelieving. “Eat.”
“I will–”
“No. Show me that you can bring the spoon to your mouth and I shall leave.” He takes a step towards you, his hair falling into his face. “Eat.”
How stubborn your new prince is. You swallow your annoyance and inch your fingers closer to the spoon, it's a snail's pace but you are moving and that's enough. Your fingers are slow to wrap around the handle of the spoon, even slower to lift— your arm shakes furiously, your wrist nearly gives out, it takes longer than you like to get the spoon in the bowl and when you try to lift it again, your body protests. You clear your throat, and narrow your eyes on your hand and try again, it doesn't move.
Paul sucks in a breath and walks towards you once more, he pulls a chair close to your bed and plops down gracelessly. Your eyes slide to him, ready to question him but he leans forward, snatching the spoon from your hand and pulls the try closer to him with his free one. “What are you–” He doesn't let you finish the sentence before placing a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth.
You blink rapidly and swallow, opening your mouth again whilst leaning back, away from him. “Your majesty–?” Paul leans forward again and gives you another spoonful. He does this everytime you try to speak, looking faintly pleased to shut you up and most annoyed when you try to talk with your mouth full. So, you give up and let the Prince feed you,he makes quick work of it once he realizes you are no longer trying to talk and the bowl is quickly emptied and is placed to the side as he stands and grabs the cup and gently brings it to your lips. Your nose crinkles as you stare through the clear glass of the cup at him and he only raises his brows.
“You are very persistent.” You murmur, taking a small sip of juice. The taste of berries and hibiscus is sweet enough to make your stomach turn upon swallowing. Weakly, you turn and lean away from the cup, allowing yourself to fall back on your pillows. Paul lets you do so, grabbing the tray and handing it back to the small robot who beeps again. He places the bowl and cup on the tray and dismisses the bot.
He watches it roll out the room with his lips pressed together, then turns back to you. “You’re… sick.”
You blink tiredly at him, “Obviously.”
He lets out a huff, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile before he smothers it. Shaking his head and tucking the messy strands of his hair behind his ear, he tries again. “I mean– How long have you been sick? There was no mention of it on any medical records.”
“I’ve been sick since I was a child.” Longer, if you were being honest. You were a sick baby, a sick newborn, sick in your mother's womb. “My father thought it would be best if we kept it a secret. We were a powerful warehouse and a sick daughter is a weakness that can not be fixed. Cured.”
Paul's hands drop, folding behind his back as he tilts his head. “Interesting choice of words. Do you truly believe you can't be cured or is that something your father drilled in your head?”
Your eye twitches, just slightly and you try to pull the sheets higher up your body. Eating food has made you drowsy, you can feel your body urging you to sleep once again. When the sheet doesn't budge, Paul pulls it up your body without much thought, waiting for your answer. You take a small breath, eyes closing, “It's something that I know. My sickness is incurable, I am dying and my medicine only pushes the date further and further out. It is a waste of resources to keep me alive. Something I told my father, something I tried to tell the King.”
Paul hums, considering, then, “Nothing is incurable, Lady.”
A tired snort leaves you. “Do you know how my father was caught?” Paul doesn't answer, your eyes crack open and there's a thin smile on your lips, “He believed he had found it, a cure for me. He wanted me to live, he had already lost his wife, he could not bear to lose a daughter. So he willingly covered his eyes with wool and ignoring the pleas of me and my brother, he went out to secure it. Do you know what he found? He found your father's men.” You sigh, “And now we are here.”
Paul shakes his head. “There is a cure for you, Lady Balliol. We will find one and when we do, I ask a favor from you.” You let out a questioning hum, your eyes falling shut. Paul ignores the way his heart thunders at the sight of you. Truly, you are sickly, horribly so. “Your father left behind files… we can not open them without active DNA from his bloodline. You are his closest living relative with your brother being light years away, will you open them for us?”
You murmur tiredly and Paul shifts, calling your name again. You stir sluggishly, your words slow, “And if you don't cure me? What do I get in return?”
“Well, you'll be dead if we don't cure you.” He snorts, smothering another smile when you chuckle in agreement, “But…but I give you full permission, with the void as my witness to haunt me endlessly. There will never be a day where my thoughts stray from you. Is that good enough for you?”
You can only muster a nod, your chest rising and falling steadily as you fall into an easy sleep. Paul doesn't leave right away, he lingers at your doorway, his eyes trailing over your face. Over the slope of your nose and the hollowness in your cheeks, he pictures you healthy, cured. Plump with fattening foods and with the very existence of life, you were already pretty but that image of you makes a much prettier sight. The robot rolls back in, beeping to itself in a sweet little tune and stops right before Paul, its mismatched eyes flickering up at him.
“Do send me a message when she wakes, Cricket.”
Cricket beeps in understanding and Paul lets him in, watching for only one more moment before shaking his head. He has things to do.
Warnings: Sickness, hallucinations, talks suicidal tendencies, , blood, talks of medicine and needles! kissing, making out, brief dry humping. TELL ME IF I MISS ANYTHING!!
Notes: Look, this was supposed to be the end but it's a part two instead, please don't hate me y'all 😭 Part three is already in the works! This is like 8k words!! No cricket mention! Maybe in part three! The summary is sorta funny once you reach the end of the story please laugh-
PART ONE
“You are being ridiculous.”
“When the worms feast on my flesh I hope I taste nice.”
The changing divider is just thin enough to allow shadows to pass through and because of this Paul sees the maid throw her hands up before he hears her curse in her mother tongue. Paul swallows a snort, a small smile playing on his lips as he flips through an old book— it's been like this for hours. Your new maid was kinder than your last and, her cruelest punishment was making you look like a proper lady, as proper as you could look when your sickness allows you to skip out on all the corsets, ties and uncomfortable bonnets with their big ugly bows and flowers.
Paul hears your maid curse, your shadows move and you giggle. It's a soft sound, so soft, he almost misses as he turns a page in the book he's pretending to read. Still, it rasps and he hears the little gasp of pain you take after the humor passes and he frowns. The new medication works but not well enough, it takes away your bigger symptoms but it puts new ones in its place. Pinching lungs traded for ones that squeeze and contract suddenly, your drowsiness swapped for the inability to sleep— the notes said nurses found you awake at all times of night, bleary eyed and delirious but filled with too much energy. Your lack of appetite was pushed aside for your constant hunger and its consequence was not being able to keep any solid down.
Paul flips another page, his frown falling into an indifferent line. He's not supposed to know that about you, he was specifically barred from reading your medical files— something about respecting your privacy and doctor– patient confidentiality. Paul flips another page, he hears you giggle and your maid chide you and tries not to twitch at the sound. You've been giggling a lot recently, not that he really cares, it's just… if the action brought you pain why do you continue to do so? How can you find humor in anything with your circumstances? Then, he wonders if it's another side effect.
Paul goes to flip another unread page when you finally step from behind the divider. You look… Paul clears his throat and politely looks away feeling exasperated. The maid, Lyra, is still busy with the workings of your dress— the deep green fabric falls off your shoulders, your breast barely contained by the sinking fabric, your hair wild but not horribly so, it almost looks purposely roguish but with the state of the rest of you, he knows that's not the case. You look at him, the smile on your face is a touch whimsical and your eyes misty and it's then he knows you're not all there— it's the early workings of your medication, he guesses, he was sent to fetch you not too long after a dose. “Paul, if you were a worm–”
Paul shuts down the conversation before it can even start. “No.”
It's almost cute, how you wilt into yourself. Lyra uses it as an opportunity to pull your dress up before it can fall and expose you completely. She fixes a few buttons and he hears a zipper, then the fabric is hugging your figure nicely. Lyra eyes your hair for a moment, a finger brushing away a strand that hangs in your line of sight and you smile at her, leaning into her hand with a hum. It only makes the woman frown.
“She’ll be fine once she gets some food in her.” She says to Paul. Though her tone is concerned, she pitches her lips into a soft smile, “Don’t think I like this variant much. She doesn't remember most of her day then she spends the other half throwing up.”
Paul doesn't think of your medical files. His nose doesn't twitch at the new information, he doesn't immediately file it away in his brain as another reason to hate this stupid new medication. Forgetfulness. The word repeats in his head and he closes the book, his fingers tapping across the cover before they stretch and repeat the motion– Lyra pretends not to notice it as she guides you back to your bed. It makes sense, he thinks, maybe you forgot the way you were supposed to be acting around him, the moment this medication was introduced you had dropped the formal address of ‘your majesty’, you had started to smile at the sight of him. His fingers twitch as you groan something to Lyra— your head hurts. Another side effect?
Paul is standing before he realizes. “I’ll talk to her doctors.”
Lyra looks a touch surprise, her eyes shooting away from you to the prince then back to you with twitching lips. “If that's what you want to do, my lord.”
He's out of the room so fast, she can't help the laugh that escapes her. “Oh, that poor boy.”
You blink up at her, “Hm..?”
She only pats your hand fondly. “I’ll tell you when you're more coherent.”
Leto tries to outpace his son but Paul matches his stride. “–And she is throwing up her meals, what is the point of feeding her if she can not keep it down?”
Leto glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I thought I banned you from reading her files.”
Paul blinks, but he doesn't stumble in his stride nor does he slow. “I didn't. I simply talked to her maid, she's very forthcoming.” He lies.
Leto turns a corner, Paul follows. So, the King tries a different tactic. “I thought you wanted her dead?”
That causes his son to trip a little. “I did. I do, but as future King I won't deny she is of more value alive–” Paul sees his father frown, the ends of his lips twitching downward and he rushes to add, “–but I also realize she is human, she's not that much older than me and she's sick and this variant seems to be making it worse.”
Leto slows to a stop, just a bit and actually seems to consider his words. “The doctors say this variant is working the best out of all the ones they tried–”
“Father, if you were to ask her, her name, she'd answer wrong.” Paul interrupts, his voice a touch annoyed as he thinks back to you. You'd probably ask about worms again or make some ill-timed joke about your possible death. His mind flashes images of you, sick, confined to bed to now; standing, delirious and breasts spilling out of your dress— he instantly puts a cap on that thought and clears his throat. “We are supposed to keep her alive and that is not living.”
“I’ll bring it up in the next meeting about her health–” Paul opens his mouth and Leto gives him a sharp look. “–No, you may not join. But, I'm sure Lady Balliol appreciates your sudden… interest in her care.” There's a touch of amusement in his father's voice and the King pats Paul on the shoulder as he moves to pass him.
Paul freezes as he tries to process that statement, “What?”
But only Leto hums in reply, his mind already elsewhere. Paul falls in step with him and tries again, his voice louder. “Dad, what do you mean by that?”
The man gives his son a sidelong glance before looking away, his lips pursing— suddenly any amusement he seemed to find in the situation is gone. “It’s nothing, really.”
“It’s obviously not nothing.” Paul says, “You never say anything without meaning, you, yourself told me that. So what did you mean by that?”
“It’s just,” The King starts carefully and Paul can see in his face that he is carefully picking his words. “You hated Lady Balliol from the moment you saw her, you called for her death– wanted her head to roll with her fathers’.”
Paul goes to interrupt but Leto continues, his brow dipping in thought, “If I listened to you the first time, the very girl you worry about would be dead, do you understand that? You brought me pages of what dead Kings would do to inspire me and now you come to me worrying about her care after talking to her, what, a handful of times?” Leto looks at him then, his eyes searching. “This switch is odd if not a little cute and this sudden interest; I can only understand if you grew fond of her in the moments you spent together. I am aware that you loiter around her room, after all.”
Paul goes pink in the face. “It’s not like that.”
King Leto frowns at him, “Isn’t it? Even in sickness, she is a stunning sight. Her wit, when she is sound, is astounding and I find her quite humorous— if you have a small fancy for her, it's okay. Truly, I would rather that than you see her as some type of pawn, she's—”
“Human.” Paul says, his face still pink as he looks anywhere but his father. “I know she is human. Flesh and bone like you and me.”
“And?”
“And what?” Paul asks, annoyed. “She’s sick.”
Leto has an odd smile blooming on his face and the sight of it makes Paul want to squirm right out of his skin. Whatever Leto sees when he looks at his son, it's enough of an answer but still; he is a father and can't help taking the moment to tease him. “You can still like sick people, you know.”
Paul seems to twitch at that. “Yes, I know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. In old times, when one was wed— they'd say ‘In sickness and in health.’ Nothing can really stop love, I believe.”
Paul stops walking, hoping that his father would continue without him. Though, his face falls when Leto stops too— the both of them are right outside his private office and Leto is still smiling like he knows something Paul doesn't. “In fact, I have even read some interesting works— The Kings of old marrying off their Princes to nations they took over.”
“Well, we don't always have to follow the ways of Old Kings do we?” Paul says, his face looking as if he sucked on a lemon. “We can see where they failed and learn from it, yes?”
“Oh, no, these marriages were quite prosperous. Brought peace to the realm and all that.”
“Dad?”
The King's smile grows, “Yes?”
“You’re going to be late for your meeting.” Paul inclines his head towards the office and Leto laughs.
“Oh, now you don't want to join?”
“I think I'm quite alright out here.” He says, his eyes darting away. “I have things to do, as you know.”
Leto chuckles and with a shake of his head, he slips into his office. Paul gets a brief glance of the men in there— at the doctors and their notes splayed across the table then he sees Duncan, two of them make the barest of eye contact before they both look away, though a thought crosses Paul's mind. If he couldn't have a say in these meetings— maybe he could convince someone else to be his voice.
Lyra, your new nurse-maid, is a lot of things. She's a whole head shorter than you, plump and filled with curves and a mother. She gets nervous around you, treats you like porcelain when you cough or develop a wobble in your step but she's stern. Stern but not cruel, like your last nurse-maid and she tells you, you act like her youngest. A melancholy little five year old who knew a little too much about death and rot because of her father who happens to be a farmer. Lyra, stars-guide-her, treats you like you're her child and it makes you ache.
When you die, it will hurt her.
You don't voice this, of course. You've come to a certain realization that it's all you do— hurt people, curse them with an early death or the burden of your care. You had tried to warn your father off from it, tried to convince your brother to make him see reason and look where that got them; dead or banished for caring. You try to imagine what will happen to Lyra after your death, she just— she just cares too much and if she has her way, there will be a story about you twisted and pecked at till it made you look pretty. Your sunken cheeks passed off as high cheekbones, the dark bags under your eyes spun to be mysterious. You will die, yes, but some part of you will live on with a better life than you had now.
You sit, wrapped in thick blankets and an IV planted in your arm and your mouth chalky. They've been flushing the prior variant of medication out of your system— they had pumped you full of so much activated charcoal you vomited for a straight hour and now they're rehydrating you in preparation for the new variant. You wish they'd let you die, that someone would let that old maid in and let her pull the plug and bar the doors. You want to be put of your misery, you wish to save the time of every doctor and nurse experimenting on you and have them focus on something worthwhile like– like, you don't know, the creeping death that's been appearing on Arrakis?
But you are ignored. Of course you are— you are no princess and a lady of high standing no longer, you are a prisoner. A pretty one; a toy to play with until you give out and they get a new one. So, you pick at your fingers and think almost absentmindedly that you should be alarmed at how easy the skin peels and how you don't bleed and maybe it's odd because humans bleed but not you, not the King's favorite toy, you peel more and more and more and–
That's not right.
Your head is swimming but you are sure you bleed, you are sure you're human.
“You are something far worse.” Your father snickers and you flinch. You look up (— when had you looked down?) And you don't know how you didn't notice him the first time. He had always been a big man, commanding every space he entered and despite how ridiculous he looked in the small chair, he had a nasty sneer on his face, his brown eyes filled with hate.
That's not right either, he never looked at you like that. Your father loved you.
“I did, didn't I?” He mutters. “Loved you enough to forsake everything I built and this is how you repay me?” He gestures to you, the green and gray dress you wear with little embroidered hawks on the collar. “You would break bread with the enemy?”
“I have no choice,” You whisper and your voice echoes, thundering in your ears. “They won't let me go— they won't let me die–”
“I don't want to hear that.” Lord Balliol hisses, his face twisting. You can't help but to look away, his face is all wrong, too angry— too filled with hate. “You betray your blood with your very life–”
Your heart drops, this isn't right. He wouldn't say this, he wouldn't but he is and your lip wobbles, “Papa…”
“I wasted so much time on you.” He continues, his voice hard and it's like he can't hear you. “Do you realize that? Do you realize what you cost me?”
“I never meant to– I-I only wanted–”
“Be quiet!” He shouts and you flinch away from him. “You have cost me everything, everyone. My wife, my son, my people; you are nothing but a curse–” And when he spits your name, it sounds like it is. “You are my biggest disappointment, my worst regret and for that, I can not let you live.”
You are shaking, the blanket clenched between your fingers. “What?”
“I can't let you leave this room alive.” Lord Balliol says but he is warping; he is nothing but smoke when he throws himself at you. A creature made of darkness and death and smells of sulfur— his hands wrap around your throat and when he squeezes, it burns. You claw at his hands, only for them to faze through and then you call for him. For your father and not the monster that he becomes, he does not answer but his hands tighten.
When you wake it is with a scream. Your fist strikes the prince across his face but you are too blinded with fear to even notice. Paul falls back with a shout of surprise and you still don't notice because you are still screaming, clutching at your chest and heart as you scramble away with hiccuping sobs.
“Papa,” You cry as Lyra runs for you. The maid is at your side in seconds, catching you just before you fall to the floor and uncaring of your thrashing, “Papa, papa, I'm sorry!”
Lyra soothes you through your sobs, through the tremors that rock through your body, her hand smoothing over the silk bonnet that barely stays on your head and Paul watches. There's little else he could do now that he was nursing a bloodied nose.
Paul doesn't know what's more pitiful, the fact that you still call for your monster of a father in this state or the fact that you got a hit on him. He hates the thought the moment it crosses his mind — he is being mean again, he knows it's not you. Not really, he had caught the wild, dazed look in your eyes before you swung on him and honestly should have known better. You were having a night terror, he had been near your room the moment you screamed, entered only second to Lyra who seemed surprised to see you having one.
“It’s never this bad.” She had said, her eyes wide and her hands shaking. She had wanted to run to you instantly but this was— you had screamed as if you were being torn apart from the inside out and Paul knew he had to be the one to wake you, especially when you began to scratch at your chest and arms.
Finally, you had quieted. Your sobs turned into hiccups that tampered out to sniffles. Lyra holds you till you stop shaking and only pulls away when Paul calls to her, “You need to fetch a doctor.” He says and when she doesn't move, he uses what Duncan calls his princely voice, “Fetch them all if you need to, wake my father if you must. I'll stay with Lady Balliol.”
Still, she hesitates but one look at his face she disappears from the room. Paul waits a moment, then two as he wipes his nose, “You hit like a soldier.” He says it more to the air than to you but you respond all the same, forcing yourself to stand— using your bed as support.
“I was a soldier.” You mutter, “I was his weakest but I was trained.” Paul moves closer to you, his arms outstretched as if to help you climb back into bed but you curl away from his hands and his help and pull yourself back up on your own. The effort has you sweating and when you swallow, your throat burns faintly. Your hand shakes as you rub your throat and Paul sniffles from the spot near the door and the reminder that you struck the prince has your heart tripping over itself. “I’m–”
“If you apologize, I'll actually scream.” Paul says, his voice flat. “You have nothing to apologize for. I shook you awake during a night terror, of course you hit me.”
You fall silent, blinking at him owlishly. “But you're bleeding.”
“I doubt it'd be the last time I'll bleed.” Paul says, he smiles and it is small, “But if you want to get even, you can always tell me what you were dreaming about.”
Your eyes dart to the chair near the bed and you think of your father, of the creature he became and how it tried to kill you. You swallow and this time, you can't hide the wince it pulls from you, “It is nothing good.”
“Well, I suppose that's expected. You were dreaming of your father weren't you?”
You frown at him and Paul finds himself amused with how you bristle. You are nothing more than skin and bones but your hackles rise and he nearly expects you to hiss at him, instead you pull your blanket on to you, a barrier to separate yourself from him. “Why ask a question you already knew?”
“To see if you'd tell the truth,” He says, shrugging. “To see if you were lucid. It's nice to see that you are.”
You pull a face and it's almost so delicately confused, Paul nearly cooes at you. He missed this, missed coming to your room and having to argue his way into a conversation with you, he missed the you that despised him for who he was and what he represented. He draws closer to you and you don't budge from your spot on your bed, eyes following his every movement, almost unnervingly alert. He sits in the same chair your father sat in your dream and his is smaller, kinder as he finally breaks eye contact— looking away to grab tissue for his bloody hands. “Where’s Lyra?”
“Getting your doctors or my father.” Paul answers, “Why did the dream of your father scare you so much?”
Your lips purse as you look at Paul. He's still not looking at you, he's wiping fruitlessly at his hands. The blood smears but does not remove. You reach for your basin of warm water and grab a rag and when you hold a hand out, Paul's head snaps up almost automatically, “What do you–”
“Give me your hands.” You interrupt.
Paul hesitates before shrugging— what harm would you truly cause now that you're lucid? The only violence you craved when your mind was still was your own death. He gives you his hands and frowns when you begin to wipe them, you free his hands from his blood and in turn, you stain yours. Your hands shake as you pass over each knuckle and when his hands are clean, you reach out to his face— your eyes lock and Paul sees a girl. But not a scared one, you meet his eyes with a frown before they flicker down to the mess that is his nose and he watches you twitch at the sight of his blood. Your lip wobbles and Paul thinks you are about to ask permission to touch his face but he flinches when the cool rag touches his face.
You are gentle and he finds himself leaning into your hands as you wipe away the blood, another hand cupping his face gently to hold him steady as you do so.
Paul thinks you are disgustingly soft. Too soft to be a soldier, too soft to be the daughter of some deranged commander. He has only known you for a handful of weeks, nearly three months and he sees why you rot. You are too soft and it allows infection to dig its way into your flesh, you are being kept captive— a statement you had said plainly a hundred times over and you wipe at his face like he is fragile and that he is the one who had the nightmare.
Paul will miss you when you die, he thinks. He'll miss the arguments, the fights, the drug induced rants and most of all, he'll miss your softness.
It is a thought that has him yanking away from you. His stomach turns and he swallows back the sickness that creeps up his throat. You won't die, he forces the thought into his head, through the darkness that seeps into his mind— he isn't sure when it formed but he clears it as fast as he can. He promised you a cure, a long life and maybe, one day, when he is King– he'd pardon you. You couldn't die because he had plans for you, beyond you unsealing records of your family. Your softness, he realizes, must be contagious.
It's what's making him all gooey and twisty inside. It makes his cold heart melt and he forces himself to stand straight, his hands that are twitching, clenching and unclenching are forced behind his back as he clears his throat. He ignores how you frown at his reaction just as he ignores his urge to apologize. “Your dream?”
The rag feels heavy in your hands, and you twist it— wiping your knuckles clean. “It wasn't my father,” You say but your voice cracks as you drop the rag. “At least, not at the end.”
“Meaning?”
You blink at him, annoyed. “Meaning it was just a nightmare, my Prince. Not the key to the universe.”
Paul smiles like he knows something you don't, his eyes twinkling, “I find dreams to be forthcoming about future events. Maybe your dream is warning you?” You frown, a hand going to your neck and you flinch when you find the skin is raw. Paul frowns and takes several steps closer to you, bending at his knee, “Let me see.”
You hesitate but drop your hand and hiss when Paul's cool, prodding fingers brush over the flesh but he hushes you with a grimace. You try to pull back nervously but Paul follows your movement, standing and nearly climbing on top of you, “Paul, what are you–”
“These are burns.” He says, mystified. His touch is still gentle and it makes you shiver. “How in the world did you–”
King Leto clears his throat. Both of your eyes snap to him and the man is all but fighting a grin as your doctors linger just behind him, their eyes turned politely upwards. The sight they're greeted with is no doubt… scandalous, you are sure. The prince is all but straddling you, his hand while on your neck— are more caressing than choking or grabbing, his other hand is on your shoulder, keeping you steady. If you moved your head down or if the Prince moved his up, you’d be face to face and that thought has you instantly leaning away. You try to scramble from the bed— the King is before you and the proper etiquette is to bow before him but Paul keeps you to the bed, pushing you back when you try to get up.
“What are you doing?” He hisses, he shifts and his feet meet the ground again but he keeps his hands on your shoulders therefore keeping you planted on your bed. “Stop moving, you're injured.”
You swat at his hands, urging him to let go but Paul only bares his teeth in annoyance, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shift. “I need to bow–”
“You do not.”
“Your father is The King-!”
“And I am the Prince and I've yet to see you on your knees before me.” Paul snaps. Leto snorts and Paul feels himself flush red once he realizes what he's said but it seems to go over your head as you turn in his hold, Paul looks down, confused at your sudden silence but your hands sudden lash upwards, fingers tickling under his arm and Paul barks out a sharp laugh and bows away from you out of instinct. King Leto watches this unfold with wide eyes, his mouth opening then closing as you push yourself out of bed, ignoring Paul's glaring as you drop into a near perfect curtsy before him.
“Your Majesty.” You greet before you wobble just barely. Leto is quick to greet you back, his voice warm as he grasps your hand and pulls you from the curtsy. He's smiling but it drops once he gets a good look at you. His eyes flicker to Paul who stands only a step behind you, his arms clenched to his sides then to the room around you.
“There are no candles in here.” He says. Your brow dips in confusion but Paul takes a step forward, his voice low.
“Nothing in here can hold a flame. Nothing in here should burn. ” Paul says, he takes another step forward and this time his voice is worried, “Her medicine is not–”
King Leto’s snap to him, a frown forming. “Enough. It is not your place-”
Your hand twitches in Leto's grip and it makes him look at you— makes him realize that his hand is still linked with yours. You're frowning at the King and he blinks, surprised that you're showing him a negative emotion for once. He has only seen you witty and docile, you had sly tongue, yes. But you've only ever used it to plead for a quicker death, so to see this directed at him, it makes him pause and it's enough of an opening for you to speak, “Actually,” You start, your voice strong. “I would feel better if it was Paul's–”
Paul clears his throat. You blink, eyes flying to him and his eyebrows are raised and you stutter, face warm as you correct yourself, “I would feel better if it was the Prince’s place, Your Majesty.”
Leto drops your hand, his eyes flickering between you and his son with an odd look. The both of you are shoulder to shoulder, nearly pressed against each other and Paul shifts closer to you when his father lets go of your hand, as if bracing himself to catch your weight if you were to fall. Closer than strangers should be but neither of you shy away from each other, in fact,his son preens— his shoulders rolled back to stand straight, a smirk twitching at his lips. They make eye contact and it drops but Leto frowns. “Explain.”
“You all want me alive, yes?” Leto nods his head and you continue. “Well, with all due respect to you and the doctors– you're doing a horrible job at it. The Prince has been the only one keeping track of the side effects with each dose and if I'm being frank, he is the only reason I know what day it is. Sure, the new variant is keeping my heart beating but I don't– I don't remember anything, I am sure I'm losing taste and I keep having horrible nightmares and now there are burns manifesting on my skin.”
“The Prince has made it mission to see me every day and speak to me even when I'm choking on my own spit and asking bizarre questions. He sits and talks to me and it is the only interaction I have outside of Lyra, The Doctors and the rare visit from you, Your Majesty. You want me living but this isn't– Keeping me locked away in a little room is not that.”
The room is silent, Leto looking away deep in thought, his lips twitching. He can see why his son likes you— Paul had made the same argument but Leto had only brushed him off as a boy with a crush. He takes a breath and then— “Alright.”
Paul speaks first. “Alright..?”
“Your lady has spoken and it'd be remiss of me not to listen.” Leto says and he ignores Paul's huff. “The Prince will have a say in your health— in your medicine, that is. And you, Lady Balliol, may have your freedom.”
You make a face. “I always had my freedom. You said I did.”
“You do.” He agrees. “But I permit you to walk the halls, the garden— by the void, go horseback riding if you can muster the energy but I only have one condition.”
You look at him but the King is only looking at his son. “You are to be at her side and if you can not, you will be in charge of finding a suitable replacement. Is that understood?”
Paul looks at you from the corner of his eye then quickly away. “Of course.”
Leto nods. “Good, that starts tomorrow. Now leave us.”
The room snaps into motion at the Prince's dismal and suddenly Paul is on the other side of the room, being guided at the door by his father while the doctor's prod at your skin and usher you back to bed. Lyra loiters in the corner of the room but you don't look at her, instead you keep your eyes on Paul and he gives you one sharp nod before the door is closed.
Paul took to his new orders like a fish took to water.
For the next week, he's at your door— prim, proper, with his hair curled and dressed comfortably. You had been in a much worse state, your neck wrapped to your ears in bandages, your eyes were bleary and your mouth had been thick as if filled with sand but every morning Lyra had dressed you in a cute dress that didn't reach your ankles in fear you'd somehow trip down stairs. Paul would always look you over, his lips would quirked up and say,“You’re beautiful.”
You had bare your teeth at him each and every time and he'd chuckled, unfazed by your intimidation. “You jest.”
Paul would look away but still offer his arm to you and you'd take it easily, stumbling into a steady pace with him. “I would not joke about one's beauty.” he'd say as he turned a corner, he would stop and let you look at the paintings on the wall. He'd bite back any cruel comment he'd spit in other situations and watch with a small grin as you took in every detail. “Would you rather I called you hideous?”
“I would rather us walk in silence.”
The second week, The Prince did just that much to your annoyance. Though, this time your trips were no longer in the castles but the endless courtyards and gardens. He'd offer you his arm, his lips sealed yet drawn in a tight smile that only grew when you'd turn to him and ask him questions of the statues or plants or ask him what he had for breakfast. The Prince would look at you, his lips unmoving but head tilted— he was teasing you, you realized. You had asked for silence and he granted easily knowing you'd soon ask him to help you fill it. Not willing to beg for him to speak to you, you had turned to childish tactics— you had tickled the Prince when he refused to answer your questions, chased him around the ground when he tried to escape your hands and threatened to tickle him more if he kept to his silence.
By the third week, you realize your Prince was a chatterbox. He'd talk about anything if you let him and you did— Lyra looked almost bored as she stood behind you watching as Paul ranted about the side effects of a new variant they wanted to introduce you to. The three of you had been nestled in one of the gardens, Paul had wanted to teach you chess but when he saw what a poor student you were, he simply gave up and allowed you to move the pieces mindlessly around the board.
“And get this– one side effect was urinating blood.” Paul threw his hand up then he glanced down at the board and moved a piece at random. “You would not believe how hard I had to fight to keep that out of the equation.”
You shoved his piece with your own, knocking it off the board but Paul caught it before it could hit the ground. “You should have let me try it, at least. Maybe it's the cure.”
Paul shot you a withering look, “It would have shut down your kidneys.”
You had met it with a sarcastic grin, “Oh, yay.”
The fourth week doesn't start the same. Paul isn't there to greet you in the morning and you try to swallow back your disappointment as Lyra helps you undress to get more comfortable. Once that's done, you dismiss her with a wave of your hand, you ignore her gentle concern and tell her you only mean to stay in bed for the day. You have spent weeks on your feet, you confide in her and while it is fun, you are tired. She leaves with little fuss, pressing a kiss to your hairline and promises she'll be back before lunch. You watch her go with a smile before you turn to your window.
Nothing says freedom like a room with a barred window but you know better than to take it to heart. You had spent the first few weeks begging for your death and now some still feared if they left you alone long enough, you'd throw yourself from the window. You had thought to do so once but now you just stare, watching with a small frown.
Distantly, waves roll and crash against the beach, dragging out sand for a moment only to push back new sand in its place. Seagulls squawk as they take flight, sparrows flitter about, sometimes a few land on your windowsill peering past the bars and meeting your gaze before taking flight once more. Distantly, there are servants of all ages and genders bustling about the castle, you can hear them talk, hear them laugh, you hear them living.
It is a strange thing to realize, that everyone, everything, is living in some way. That even the sand and waves will have someone who will look back on it fondly. That the people outside your room have family, friends, and legacies to carry their memories. It is strange not having that to yourself— with your father and his closest supporters dead, who will remember you kindly? Your maid and her silly stories? Your brother? The thought had your eyes watering, your brother was everything to you— he had allowed you to feel like a child when everyone else had treated you like an experiment, you remember his smile, his hugs and how he frowned when you coughed. It is with kindness, you hope the Royal family tells him you are dead.
Paul had told you he was safe, far away on a planet where hurt and sickness was unimaginable. You hope with him free of you, of your father, he worries for nothing and sleeps all day in the sun.
You turn in your bed, pulling your blanket high as you sniffle. Your mind races when there's nothing to occupy it and you find your thoughts settling on your Prince. You wonder how he'd remember you when you were gone— if he remembered you at all. Surely, your memory would get washed out by grander things, his coronation, the first day the crown sits on his head and he's referred to as a King. You try to picture it, him dressed in greens and gold, a beautiful lady on his arm— his Queen, your mind supplies and it has your mood souring even more.
The universe had cursed you. A sickness that could not be cured, it was shutting down your body even with the countless medications Paul makes you try. The void haunts you, a sickly little crush that clings to your skin and tears through flesh whenever you and Paul spend time together. You two have grown close— impossibly so. It was rare to see you not on his arm, you not poking at his sides, it was rare to see him not looking after you. His warm eyes trailing after you as you talked to Duncan or some other guard, your mind wanders and you wonder when the line had become so blurred between you two, you wonder when his absence began to hurt so much.
You are so lost in thought, you don't hear Paul enter the room. He crouches, his eyes meeting yours as his hand reaches out, he feels your temperature and frowns when finds you warm. “Are you okay?”
You blink at him, squinting through your lashes. “You’re late.”
Paul hums softly. “I am, I'm sorry.” His hand moves down, caressing the side of your face. This is also new; the touching. He's always doing it now, linking fingers or fixing stray baby hairs. “Have you waited long?”
You lean into his touch, a sigh leaving your lips. Paul is cool against your heat and your heart slows when he doesn't pull away. “I didn't wait at all.” He runs a thumb over your cheek and smears a tear into your skin, “Don’t be so full of yourself, Paul.”
“I’m sorry.” He says again, his voice is soft. He's still rubbing drying tears into your cheek and he opens his mouth again and you let out a tired breath.
“Paul, if you say sorry again, I'll shut you up myself.”
Paul's thumb freezes and it makes your eyes open, “Will you?” He murmurs but he's smiling at the familiarity of your words. His thumb starts its pattern again, “Is that a threat or a promise, Balliol?”
When you only stare at him, your eyes narrowing, he swallows. “I’m s-”
Paul's lips are soft. Softer than yours and that has you pulling away just as fast as you kissed him but you are not prepared for Paul to follow your lips with a sharp breath, his hand on your face curling to keep you close. He turns your soft kiss, hungry, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip as he gently leads you back against your bed. Paul doesn't break the kiss as he crawls on top of you and though he is gentle, the pressure makes you gasp and Paul slips his tongue into your mouth. The feeling has you squirming under him, you've only been kissed once and that was only a peck before the guard you convinced to do so felt bad and scampered off— you're new to this, to making out and kissing with tongue and Paul doesn't seem to mind, you're a little lost on what to do but you suck on the tongue that Paul swirls around your mouth, you're awarded a soft moan that has you heating up.
To say Paul was guiding you would be a stretch— Paul was only kissing you, pressing into your body and knocking knees until he fit close to you. He's careful with his weight, with how he moves himself but he's only kissing you, he won't stop kissing you. Even when you break from his lips with a small whimper, his lips only move down to your chin then your neck, his tongue swirling across your healed scars and when he nips, a small moan bubbles from your lips, your hands clenching at the fabric on his chest. Paul pulls away from you and he looks ruined, his face is flushed red, his hair is wind whipped and his lips as pink as they are swollen, glossed with your shared spit and he licks his lips as if your taste doesn't bother him. His lashes are fluttering with each breath, his chest heaving, “We must stop.”
The noise you make is tortured, your fingers tightening on his shirt. “We mustn't.”
One of Paul's hands clasps over yours and he presses your palms flat against his thundering heart, “We must,” He says again but he's still looking at you like he wants to swallow you whole, he's still on top of you. “You are sick.”
Your hands pull at Paul's shirt and he goes easily, “It’s not contagious.”
Paul breathes a soft laugh and rewards you with a kiss to your nose. He shifts and he's in between your legs, pulling your leg up to wrap around his waist. “You’re warm.” He tries.
Using your leg, you draw him closer. “I wish it were warmer.”
“My clever, darling girl.” He murmurs before kissing you again. You smile into the kiss, gasping when your Prince rolls his hips forward and it is a pleasure that you've never known before. Your hips buck to chase the fleeting pleasure, a whine leaving your lips. “Yeah?” Paul mumbles into the kiss, he stops his hips for only a moment before pressing deeper, his clothed dick grinding against your core, “You like that?”
You nod, face flushed and heart pounding as Paul grins and goes for a deeper kiss—
Lyra knocks twice against the door frame and Paul is slow to pull away, he sighs against your lips and runs a thumb over your warm cheeks. “Go away.” He orders but Lyra doesn't so much as move from the door.
“Time for her medicine and her lunch.” Lyra says her voice stern. “A lunch she is meant to have with the entirety of the royal family.”
“We can reschedule it.” Paul says but he's already climbing off of you and you're shaking in his absence— this is embarrassing but Paul acts like it's any other day. You refuse to look at Lyra even when she makes her way to you, clicking her tongue.
“I have a daughter around your age too.” She sniffs, settling the tray over your knees. Your attention goes from the wall to your medicine, the many needles and pills on the tray. “It is not the first time I've seen something like that. Expected better from the prince though.”
Paul's face is pink once more. “She kissed me first.”
You shoot him an offended look and he instantly apologizes, hands thrown up and Lyra laughs, disinfecting your arm. “That’s even worse. Making her do all the hard work.” She preps the needle. “Please go and clean up, Your Majesty. You look… disheveled.”
Paul wrestles a hand through his hair the moment she says it, his tongue darting over his lips. “Right.” He says, he smiles at you and takes a step forward, bends and pecks you on the lips. “I’ll see you soon, Balliol.”
You are left gaping as your Prince all but skips from the room and Lyra lets out a soft laugh. “Do brace yourself, my lady. You have opened a door I fear you can not close– here, don't tense your arm.” She pulls your arm straight, the needle presses against your skin and it breaks. It snaps and Lyra flinches back as it flies to the floor. She pulls your arm closer, her breath hitching. “My lady–”
The blood that leaves your arm is boiling. Bubbling and so dark, it's nearly black. You are so very warm but this— even as the blood leaks from your arm, you do not feel pain. Why do you not feel pain? “Well,” You mumble, watching as your blood stains your sheets. “No closing this door.”
Imagine if Paul Atreides claimed you as his destiny: PART Ⅰ of Ⅱ
|| Word Count: 1.5K || Angst → Fluff ||
A/N: I had this as a big idea that I had to get down before the basic headcanons and stuff, so here's my take on our Lisan al Gaib 😎 if you like this then hit me up for some relationship headcanons and the like, I'm up for it all. Enjoy reading or watching the movie if you haven't already - I'm going again lol, and screen X is the best way to experience it fr
Also I feel like I should write a second part to this lmao, if you liked what you read?
You weren't one for dreams of destiny.
The dreams you had seemed meaningless, confusing, nothing to do with what ifs and what could. Not like his.
But you always seemed to feel some kind of atmosphere, an aura you couldn't quite shake off, even when you woke up from the darkness. There was no face to go with the voice, the voice in the dark that called to you in whispers that you didn't understand. Beautiful words that weren't yours, but sounded so soft and gentle and powerful, as they reached out to you from distant lands.
You could never place them, pin them down and study them, understand them, until the day the Emperor was challenged by a ghost of a lost House, thought to be dead, left to be forgotten. You stand near the Emperor and his guards and men, the Great Houses looming and listening from higher above, as the Fremen fill up the space to watch the confrontation in spirited anticipation.
The life debt was paid. The late Emperor was overthrown. The ascendancy of Paul Atreides rose and took from the throne to claim it.
His attention flicks from his eyes boring coldly into the Emperor's, to meet yours, his voice smooth and set, full of conviction and force.
"Our destiny is together. I'll take her."
Your eyes widen slightly as his words sink in, blinking through the shock and incredulity that rushes through you and makes your heart race in apprehension and wonder. Though his voice twins with your wandering dreams, you don't know whether to feel fascination and longing, or fear and cautiousness at some greater force beyond your understanding, playing out before your very eyes.
"I..." your voice falters in uncertainty and disbelief, and you try again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me well," Paul responds with an undying, stoic certainty that's almost unnerving. "As I know you."
His eyes study you, his Spice-stained blue eyes bleeding into yours, scanning every freckle on your face and curve of your outfit. Assessing you, knowing you, ridiculous throngs of power filling his aura and projecting onto you with his intense stare. You have to fight not to shiver under it, ultimately failing.
"What of me?" is the wisest reply you can think of before the silence stretches into dangerous uncertainty.
"Everything," Paul says evenly, but there's no mistaking the challenge and determination in his tone, almost daring you to reject him, to disagree, a built-up desire of dreamt promises resolving his stand. "I choose you, as my Empress. We will rule together, over the Empire."
Scepticism and bewilderment washes over you and makes your blood heat and stir, retreating into silence as he takes a step closer to you, gazing at you as if you're the most curious, exotic being he's ever seen.
Desire threatens to override Paul Atreides' reason, clinging onto the hope and chance of a narrow way through to light, a light that could only be sought out with you by his side. Without you, there was nothing in sight but pools of blood replacing luscious marine life and oceans running through Arrakis, disarray and disillusion at every turn and infecting every heart.
You were absolutely perfect.
And you were already his, long before this moment, before you and he were born into the world and named. There was no manipulation needed, because everything was laid out for him to take, welcoming him to rule and grow higher and higher. Fate had bonded you and strung you along to here and now, and as you blink up into his bright eyes that narrow slightly at you, frowning softly as if you hadn't understood his demand.
"Do you know what I am?"
You pause for a moment, speaking slowly and cautiously, as the crowd of Fremen and the wary, late Emperor watch on in tense wordlessness. "You are Leto Atreides' son. Former Duke of Caladan."
"What I am," Paul repeats evenly, "not who I am." He stares at you in silence for another beat, before speaking up again. "Do you know of the Bene Gesserit?"
You stop yourself from glancing in Lady Jessica's direction just in time; the runes patterning her skin, her once soft eyes now spiked with an unfamiliar darkness of ages past. Anyone could get trapped in her watchful glare, and her son's holds almost as much intensity.
"No," you decide on hesitantly.
"Kwisatz Hederach," he adds, taking another step forward until you can feel his breath tickling your cheeks, standing above you with unspoken grace and vigor. "I see the future. A part of me is the future."
His hand is suddenly squeezing yours warmly and tightly, making you flinch slightly and glance down at them before looking back up at him.
"In this future, I am with you."
All you can do is stare at him in awe and wariness, not knowing whether to let your curiosity guide you, or distance yourself as far as possible from the boy who reigns over the dunes.
"Why?" you whisper, the crowds seeming to fade around you as you focus on the boy in front of you, his fingers tangling with yours boldly.
"I've seen it," Paul insists, his tone a touch softer in thought and wistfulness. "All of it. When I am with you..." His grip tightens over yours, the fire in his eyes returning. "We're unstoppable."
"And..." your words dry before you can speak them, and you will yourself to go on, unable to break away from the deep blue hues of his gaze. "And without?"
His jaw visibly clenches at your question, and his hand drops yours, shaking his head only answer as he glances away in slight frustration.
"You don't have the leisure of choice. It's all been made for you, written in the sands and stars, and what you need to do is walk in its path. I will show you the way. You have no other. Do you understand?"
The firmness is strong in his words and glare, making you look away from him too, still in a slight stun over the rush of events. In less than a day, your freedom has been stripped to this young man's desires and destiny, entwined with yours. You, who barely knew him until now, only familiar with his voice, his words, that echoed and rang in your head like a lullaby.
But this feels so harsh and strict. The eyes of the former Emporer linger between the two of you, and Paul's army of Fremen stand behind him attentively, some gazing at you in admiration and hope, of their messiah's promised bride. And she is beautiful.
"That's unfair."
"The future is unfair," Paul says calmly, his collected, cool tone wavering for a moment. "But it will be so much worse without you by my side, and I will not accept that. Not for my people... not for myself."
You stare at him in fascination and caution, lost for words. His fingers rise to brush against the skin of your cheek, sending tingles in their wake and making you fight back the automatic reaction, your eyes following his surprisingly gentle touch. Two fingers trace down the shape of your cheek down to your chin, tilting your head slightly upwards. Just one step closer, and your lips would be touching too.
"Name anything," he murmurs to you, the Fremen straining to hear his voice as it reaches you effortlessly, his expression earnest and determined. "Anything. And it is yours. Only if you willingly wed me in turn. Not as a concubine, nor a mistress."
You blink, then blink again, taken aback as a million thoughts and suggestions race through your mind and make your head spin for a split second. You glance at the elder Emperor, who gazes back at you and the infamous Lisan al Gaib wearily, his eyes clouded with sombreness and light spite.
"I... I don't," you shake your head, overwhelmed by an impossible choice. "I don't know..."
Paul's expression softens into a smile you haven't seen before, one that makes your cheeks flush with colour as you watch him; a gentle, amused smile that's somehow familiar and unfamiliar all at once, one meant just for you, as he disregards his surroundings.
"You will know," he replies quietly, "and I will have you, and protect you, rule with you. Love you. As I am meant to."
Paul suddenly brings you closer, pulling you into a searing kiss without warning. The exotic, earthy taste of the Spice on his tongue floods your senses and sends shudders of ecstasy and heat coursing under your skin and hushing the myriad of thoughts buzzing in your mind in an instant.
When he pulls away, all too soon, you find yourself chasing his lips before you catch yourself, and Paul gives you another soft smile, his forehead resting against yours as your eyes lock.
"And as I long to," he finishes against your lips, his words grounded with a look of protectiveness and desire that makes you instinctively relax further in his hold.
⊹⊹⊹
From beyond you both, his mother smiles slightly at the scene, a hand hovering over her rounded stomach.
The first step has been made.
══════════════⊹⊱≼ part two coming soon ≽⊰⊹══════════════
a/n: dedicated to @targaryenbarbie @howyouloveyourdragon and @alexagirlie my beloveds 🩷
Summary: Paul meets the girl of his dreams. The only surprise is that she's not a stranger to him.
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, CNC, dubcon, INAPPROPRIATE USE OF THE VOICE, oral f receiving, overstim, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex
Word Count: 2,000
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dune characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷
He’s only seen you in dreams until now, your eyes alway seeing through to the very heart of him. Today is the first day he has seen you in the flesh. And he’s rendered speechless. Paul walks toward you, hesitant and unsure, his voice barely above a whisper as he questions.
“Who are you?”
You give him that smile. That same infuriatingly beautiful smile you always have in his dreams, the one that tells him you know something that he does not.
“Have you forgotten me so quickly?”
Paul stares at you, brow furrowed. There’s something that calls him to you. Something beyond his dreams. As he stands there, thinking to himself, desperately trying to remember you, he hears you laugh. And the memories all come flooding back as if a dam has opened inside is mind. He smiles at you, eyes going wide as he finally recognizes you.
“Little Idaho?”
“The one and only!” You affirm, hands on your hips, “Though I guess I looked pretty different the last time we saw each other.”
Yeah, that’s an understatement. When he last saw you, the two of you were just a couple of kids. And now, you’re this goddess. The literal woman of his dreams. Paul continues staring at you intensely, unsure of whether or not he should reach out and touch you, fearful that if he does, this will all turn out to be some cruel trick and you will disappear from his life again. You give him a curious look, tilting your head to the side.
“Paul? What is it?”
“I had thousands of dreams… Of a woman who would be my destiny…”
You shake your head, linking arms with him as the two of you walk into the palace, “There you go, talking in riddles again. You’re just as frustrating as when we were kids, you know?”
His cheeks turn scarlet as he watches you run up to Duncan, your big brother greeting you with a wide smile as the two of you embrace. Though he tries to attribute it to the Arrakian heat, Paul knows his blush is solely because of you. He knows it’s completely ridiculous, but he feels a pit in his stomach as he watches you ignore him in favor of speaking to your brother. The two of you chatter away animatedly and he watches his dearest friend and the girl of his dreams like an outsider looking in. That is, until you glance over him, grab him by the hand, and bring him into the conversation.
You don’t let go of Paul’s hand right away, either, a warm feeling arising inside him at the feeling of your soft palm against his. You tell the two of them what’s been happening on Caladan in the last week or so, either not feeling or not paying attention to Paul’s gaze on you. Duncan seems to notice it, however, and excuses himself, giving his friend a wink and making himself scarce. Paul is barely able to hold back his sigh of relief as he turns to you, offering to walk you to one of the guest rooms.
You nod eagerly, “Yeah, I need to wash all this sand off of me. I have no clue how the two of you manage to live like this.”
Paul smirks slightly at your dramatics before gesturing for you to follow him. He keeps glancing back at you, out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to lose a minute of precious time. The harsh Arrakian sun filters through the windows, not yet hot enough to close off the palace, illuminating you as you walk. It’s difficult to look away from you.
He opens the door to your room and laughs to himself as you drop your bag and run to dive onto the bed, sprawling out over it. Paul watches as you turn onto your back, a contented smile on your face, his eyes tracing the contours of your body, lingering on the curve of your breasts, your hips… His stomach tightens and he waits for you to say or do something, anything, to give him some indication of what you want.
Finally, you sit up, patting the space beside you on the bed. Paul clears his throat, moving to sit down next to you, his hands resting on his lap, his thigh pressed flush up against yours. You angle your body toward him, smiling brightly.
“So, has your mom been helping you with the Voice? How’s that going?”
Paul nods, happy that you remember something about him, “Yes, I’m learning a lot.”
“Try it on me,” you request, meeting his gaze, “C’mon. Command me to do something.”
His cheeks flush yet again. Command you? The idea is appealing, but… He bites the inside of his cheek, his voice trembling slightly as he speaks.
“Command you? Are you sure?”
You nod eagerly, “Come on. Let’s see if you’re any good at it.”
The almost taunting, teasing edge to your voice makes him desperate to prove himself to you. He clears his throat again, speaking in a low, clear voice.
“Sit closer to me.” But you don’t move. You shake your head, indicating that you felt no pull to obey him. Paul sighs in annoyance, biting his lip as he thinks for a moment before you urge him to try again. He takes a deep breath, his voice even lower now, rougher as he demands, “Sit closer to me.”
As if in a trance, you move closer to him, your body pressed flush up against his. At first, he wonders the effect this will have on you, but you’re like an excitable child, bouncing up and down, asking him to try something else. His heart pounds at your proximity, the scent of your shampoo, the feel of your skin. Paul is consumed with the desperate need to kiss every inch of you, but he steels himself, wanting to please you, and uses the Voice again.
He looks into your eyes, using that same timbre as he did before, “Close your eyes.”
You do as he asks, laughing to yourself, “Wow. I wish I could use that to tell Duncan to shut his mouth.”
He can’t help but laugh at your joke, but with every passing minute, the desire, no, the need to kiss you grows stronger and stronger. He leans in slightly, close enough that you can feel his breath upon your lip, your faces nearly touching as he speaks again.
“Open them.”
Your eyes open and you look him in the eyes, a lazy smile on your face as you whisper, “If you want to kiss me, you don’t need to use the Voice for it, Paul.”
He gulps, your words filling him with excitement as he leans in even closer, his hand reaching up to caress your cheek; Paul’s voice is an almost timid whisper as he asks, “Can I kiss you?”
You nod, your eyes closing once more as you lean in. Paul’s movements echo yours as he cups your face in his hands, pressing his lips against your own. The feeling is nearly enough to drive him insane, your arms wrapping around him as your mouth moves against his own. He tilts his head to the side, eager to deepen the kiss, his tongue moving into your mouth to dance against your own. He’s dreamed of kissing you a hundred times now, if not more, but nothing compares to the real thing.
The two of you fall backward onto the bed, your body on top of his as the two of you continue kissing. Paul watches as you pull away, only to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it to the ground beside the bed, your pants quickly joining it in a crumpled heap. His teeth sink into his lower lip as he rests his hands on your hips, palming at your soft flesh, his pants growing uncomfortably tight. You tug at the hem of his shirt, helping him out of it as he sits up, allowing it to join yours. Your hands move to his pants, pulling them down slightly, along with his underwear, his cock nearly slapping against his stomach, the tip an angry red color, already leaking with precum. You give him a coy smile, your hands moving down the toned planes of his stomach to his hips before you speak again.
“I wonder if you could make me come just using the Voice…”
Your words make him let out a groan of excitement as he flips the two of you over so that he now lays on top of you, a smirk on his face, “I don’t think the Bene Gesserit would approve of it being used for something like that.”
“Do you care?”
“Not a bit.”
His lips find yours again, kissing you passionately, hands moving to cup your tits over your bra, moving behind you to unclasp it. He admires your bare breasts with nothing short of greed. He wraps his lips around one of your nipples, suckling at the pert bud, his fingers hooking in your panties as he tosses them to the ground as well. Both of you lay there, eyes locked, bare bodies intertwined. Paul looks at you, the unspoken question in his gaze answered with a nod of your head. He takes a deep breath before using the Voice on you again.
“Make yourself come without touching yourself where I know you’re dying to.”
He watches as your eyes glaze over, your hands trailing over your body, your face twisting in pleasure as you press your thighs together. Your breathing grows more and more rapid, your face covered in a thin sheen of sweat, tendrils of hair clinging to your face as your hips buck off the mattress, your breathy moans sounding like music to his ears. Paul runs his hands through your hair, watching as you cry out his name as you reach your peak, completely untouched.
Paul holds you close as you come back down to reality, your eyes coming into focus as you stare up at him, speaking softly, “That was…”
“You liked it?”
“Mhm.”
He kisses your neck, down your chest, your stomach - his tongue tracing your navel, before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your center. He gazes up at you, eyes darkened with lust as he asks.
“Can I try something with it again?” You nod, waiting, lips parting in surprise, a little smile forming as he commands, “Spread your legs and stay completely still. Don’t try to squirm away from me.”
You lose count of how many times he makes you come, his tongue lapping at your folds eagerly, devouring as if he’s a starving man. And you lay there, your legs spread, fingers twisted in his hair, his hands squeezing at your thighs. You whine softly when he moves to suckle at your clit, the sensitive bud swollen from his nose nuzzling against it as he tasted you, but now? He fucks you with his fingers and flattens his tongue against the sensitive bud, bringing you more pleasure than you ever thought possible.
He moves back up to kiss you, and you taste yourself on Paul’s tongue. He whispers, asking if this is what you truly want. No Voice. Nothing. He wants to know. And you nod, replying that this is all you’ve ever dreamed of. His eyes light up as he joins his body with yours. You cling to him, arms wrapping around him, leaving long red marks along his back with your nails as he slots his hips against you eagerly, desperately. This is all he’s ever dreamed of too, in every sense of the word. And now that you’re here with him, on Arrakis? He’s going to let it be known to all that you will be the next Duchess, the Lady of House Atreides when he succeeds his father.
Paul Atreides has no intention of letting his dream girl slip away.
description. from a young age, you and PAUL ATREIDES believe you belonged to the other, and foolishly thought you could one day marry. not even an unlikely marriage between your parents will diminish those beliefs.
includes. STEPCEST, SMUT MDNI 18+, fem!reader, oral (f receiving), childhood best friends to stepsiblings, instigator paul, appearances by lady jessica, duke leto, and duncan idaho, sparring, sneaking around
wc: 5.3k+
a/n: title from us by movement. artwork credit to revol404 on instagram. ao3 link
When you were younger, you saw Castle Caladan for what it isn’t.
In nearly all of your memories, Castle Caladan was warm and bright. The sun shone into the large windows, illuminating the gray hallways and providing a comforting warmth that seduced your young mind into seeing Castle Caladan as one of the residences from the fairytales your mother would tell you. In these memories you were always running and smiling, often hand-in-hand with your best friend. Your first love.
Paul Atreides.
Castle Caladan was the home of the person you cared about most. Therefore, visits were vacations. They were scarce, becoming more rare the older you got, but that only made you treasure them more.
You and Paul would spend the entire day together, even going as far as to sneak out of your allocated bedrooms and tiptoe into the chambers of the other. In the morning, the maids would find two little bodies sharing a bed, hands reaching out to touch the other in the empty space between you both.
And as you grew, you traded running around the halls for playing each other in chess. Playing throughout the fields was traded for walking along the shoreline.
Sneaking into each other's bedroom only changed by the nature of intentions. You still ached to spend more time together, but the innocence of it was lost. In the solitude of the night, you would make up for the time lost during the day to Paul’s training as the heir, and your duties with your mother and Lady Jessica.
When your mother broke the news, she misled you.
“You will be permanently living with the Atreides family,” came her carefully chosen words. If she had not trained you, maybe it would’ve taken you longer to catch the implications. Maybe you would not have understood what circumstances had brought this upon your family until you were packing, or even until you were already en route to Caladan.
Instead, it’s then and there that you realize how your chances have been lowered to none.
Your mother had said your name, her tone as dry and disappointed as her eyes. “You will never be able to marry him. It is as I said.”
And that was that.
Your best friend becomes your step brother in the blink of an eye. Together, you made up the new and noble siblings of House Atreides.
Your mother and Paul's father were married, and you and Paul now shared a last name. It was an immovable fact, no matter how often you and Paul attempted to convince each other of the opposite in moments of intense desperation.
No matter how many times you tried to convince the other that marriage is a procedure that could be reversed should the need ever arise, you both knew that a reversal would be unlikely.
Duke Leto married your mother despite his clear love for Lady Jessica for security. If he could manage to commit such an act onto the one he loves, then there would be no undoing this.
Now, you see Castle Caladan for what it is.
As beautiful as it is dreary. As cold as it is large. As encompassing as it is comforting.
You sit at the breakfast table next to Paul and across from your mother. Lady Jessica sits at the end of the table, and Duke Leto, your stepfather, is absent.
There’s no small talk, just the silent scraping of utensils against expensive china and the occasional audible gulp of fluid down throats.
Every so often, you throw a curious glance Paul’s way, and the look he throws at you is in similar fashion. You both feel the stiffness in the air.
Paul raises his eyebrows. He nudges them towards your mother and then his mother, and does the same with his eyes for emphasis.
You slightly widen your eyes pointedly, your way of saying I know without having to say it. His lips pull up into a small smile and then you both turn back to face your plates.
The tense silence continues for a while. Your mother addresses Lady Jessica. Lady Jessica addresses Paul. Your mother addresses you and Paul.
And then your plates are cleaned and Paul is standing.
“May we be excused?”
It’s surprisingly a clear day outside, and you did not have to speak to Paul to know that he intended for both of you to enjoy the agreeable weather before Caladan was inevitably submerged in water once more later in the night.
“You may be excused,” Lady Jessica confirms.
You’re in the midst of rising from your seat and pushing the chair out from under you whenever you catch Lady Jessica’s eye. She does not say anything to you, but she does not need to.
Just the cold gaze of her blue eyes alone are enough to make you sink back into your seat. From behind you, Paul calls your name. If you were not locked in a trance, you would have looked at him, you would have found the soothing blue-green of his eyes instead of the petrifying chill of his mothers.
“I’ll see you later, Paul,” you tell him on your own volition, but you think that is what Lady Jessica wanted you to say anyway.
She waits until the dining room is cleared of anyone other than you two before she begins to communicate.
“You and my son…” Her words taper off and you are too busy focusing on the way her lips have only moved to take in another bite of her breakfast, and not to speak to you.
While you understand the ways of the Bene Gesserit, it never fails to amaze you.
“Ma’am?” You are playing dumb and both of you are aware.
Still, Lady Jessica elaborates, “You both have had feelings for the other since you were young.”
There is no room for denial so there is no reason for you to attempt it. You nod twice, casting your eyes down to your lap where your hands lay restlessly. You begin to pick at your nails as Lady Jessica continues.
“And are those feelings still present?”
Your answer comes entirely too quick.
“No!” Your voice echoes around the room and you cringe.
Lady Jessica lifts an eyebrow. She senses your dishonesty.
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “Yes, ma’am. But we have not acted on them.”
When she communicates this time, it is with her voice.
“Good. You are a smart girl and your mother has raised you well. I’m sure you will make both of us proud.” She finishes off her food and sits straighter, wiping her mouth free of nonexistent residue with a white cloth. “Now I’m sure you have things to be getting to, right, dear?”
You have never been happier to leave somewhere. You say your goodbyes as graciously as possible and leave the dining room.
You’re in the training room exhausting yourself with slightly shaky jabs at the practice dummy whenever the door opens. There is a split second where you’re prepared to turn around and throw the next jab at the intruder, but then he speaks.
“If I were Gurney I would chastise you for fighting with your back to the door.”
You speak around your heavy breaths.
“Eyes in the back of my head, remember?”
Your reference is one that goes back to you and Paul’s young teenage years. A phrase you confidently proclaimed once you and Paul both had begun extensive training, learning combat that could protect yourselves and your—then separate—family names should the need ever arise. (To this day, Paul is more formidable in combat than you are, but back then you could confidently hold your own.)
Gurney had taken over training then, and he had allowed you and Paul to train together, solely because you were visiting during one of Paul’s less intense training sessions.
(You believed that Gurney always had a soft spot for you and the Atreides heir. Not nearly as obvious as the one held by Duncan Idaho, but its existence is present within the weathered man.)
When Gurney had chastised you for fighting with your back to the door, you quickly quipped with a claim that you had eyes in the back of your head. When Gurney tossed a rock at your back, not big enough to provide more than a bruise against your skin, you were able to block it without turning around.
Gurney was impressed. Paul was stunned. You attributed it to pure luck. Yet since then, it was never let go.
When you begin to notice Paul approaching you, you credit your awareness of his movement to knowing him more than you knew your surroundings. You weren’t the most skilled warrior. Your mother belongs to a notable house, which forced you to learn slightly more than the basic survival skills. Some chastised her for withholding you from Bene Gesserit training, or perhaps more in depth training that would harden both your body and your mind. As far as she cared, you could hold your own in a fight, and that is all you needed.
But you knew Paul. The ins and outs. Sometimes, late at night when you would allow the sickness of infatuation to fall upon you as you gazed at the stars, you liked to think that you and Paul were intertwined. You liked to convince yourself that your souls were intertwined and codependent.
It is hard to dispute that claim when you know based on intuition alone that Paul is right behind you.
(You can also feel his body heat and his presence behind you, but in your mind that is not nearly as romantic.)
You spin around to face Paul, your arms raised and body tensed with preparation to fight.
Paul eyes your posture, cocks his head to the side, and mirrors it.
It’s over quickly.
Paul has your dagger thrown to the side within the first three movements. He has your hands restricted in his grasp in the next two movements. With just one more movement, he has your cheek and chest pressed against the wall with your hands bound behind your back. For just a moment more, he stands a respectable distance away from you.
With the space between you both, the position could be passed off as friendly. The position could pass as the competitive nature it resembled.
Until Paul takes a step closer and flushes his crotch against your backside, making you well aware of the stiff form within his trousers.
For just a moment more, you let yourself revel in the feeling with your eyes closed, the rate of your breathing evening out now that you aren’t exerting yourself. You shimmy your hips just a bit, nestling Paul’s erection between your cheeks as best as you can with lack of movement and layers hindering your abilities.
But then the moment is gone. You push it away when you speak.
“Paul,” you intend for the syllables of his name to be a warning. At first, they come out as a pleading whine, so you clear your throat and try again.
“Paul.” This time, it is firm and demanding.
When Paul hums, it is against the shell of your ear. The proximity allows you to feel his voice instead of just hearing it, and you are instantly reminded of the times Paul had been on his knees between your legs and using the vibration that came from him to bring you pleasure you have not felt since.
“We really shouldn’t.” You’re trying to convince both him and yourself.
“Why shouldn’t we?”
The question should not have to be asked. It is a question that should not need to be answered, for you both know what is preventing you from having the other in ways from before.
You do not answer. Your forehead thuds against the wall, your warm breath rebounds against the wall and hits your lower face when you exhale.
Paul starts to gently rock his hips into yours. His free hand, the one not restricting your movement, presses flat against the cement structure.
When the pleasure increases, and your desire follows, you lift your head and let it lull to the side, resting the side of your skull against the toned muscles in Paul’s bicep. You start to give in.
Your lips part in a moan devoid of any sound as Paul asks you again.
“Tell me, my star. Why shouldn’t we?”
He lets go of your hands, instead using his own for a more important cause. His palm glides up the side of your shirt until he reaches your breast. You cannot feel the warmth of his touch through your layers, but just the pressure alone is enough to have you choking around your words.
“Because it’s not right, Paul,” you eventually tell him.
Paul tuts. The hand on the wall meets your waist, his fingertips pressing into the area as he uses his grip to pull you back against him.
“What d’you mean it’s not right?” He kisses the side of your neck and at this moment, you are considering letting him take you here and now. “It feels right, doesn’t it?”
You’re nodding before he even finishes speaking.
You had not realized just how bad you missed Paul until now. Your mind has conjured up images of him in your sleep, perfect replicas of his face created from memories of your time spent together and imagining what could be if you just release your inhibitions. When Paul gently sinks his teeth into the skin along your shoulder, it dawns on you that with just a bit more time, your dreams could easily walk into the waking world.
Maybe you were just about to give in. Maybe Paul would have convinced you to let him finally have you.
Either way, the moment is lost whenever Paul steps away from you, taking away all of the contact points in one singular move.
You turn to face him with your eyebrows furrowed and your eyes already beginning to sting with rejection whenever the door opens.
You turn your head, both stunned and grateful to see Duncan Idaho walking through, his stride strong and purposeful until he notices you standing in front of Paul.
He takes a moment to cast his eyes between both of you. You watch his gaze flicker around the room, no doubt taking in as much information as he could, before he lands on you.
“Didn’t know you were joining us today, Eyes.” It is no surprise that Duncan pulls on the same story from before for your nickname. Just as you have yet to let the anecdote go, he has yet to let the nickname go.
“I’m not,” you tell him, attempting to subtly adjust your garments. It is clear that you were not as subtle as you could have been whenever Duncan eyes you up and down. You swear there is something akin to knowing on his face.
“I was just leaving.”
“Don’t leave on my accord. Paul could use more of a challenge, isn’t that right?” Duncan smiles teasingly and finally looks at your stepbrother. You do the same.
(You are surprised to see that Paul does not look as flustered as you anticipated him to. You hope you did not pull the short stick.)
“Oh … yes.” Paul turns to face you with a smile similar to Duncan’s on his lips. “Join us … little sis.” The term of endearment sounds foreign coming from him. That is not the only reason why it makes you cringe.
You understand that both of them are making a joke at your expense. There have been a few times where you foolishly joined Duncan and Paul during their sessions, only to get knocked on your ass by Paul and goaded into getting back up by Duncan. The cycle would continue until you could do nothing but lay in bed the next day, praying for a speedy recovery so you would not waste a day that could be spent in Paul's presence.
Now that you live here, that one issue would be taken care of. Still, you prefer to be able to comfortably move around without bruises and aches restricting your movement.
Although your mind is already made up, you cannot help but attempt to defend yourself.
“Who says I haven’t gotten better?”
Paul smirks. You both know that while you have improved, he has too. He will always be ahead of you. The compromising position you were in only a few minutes ago serves as proof.
“Have you?” Duncan asks.
Your reply comes in the form of dismissal, which you do as politely as you can, adding only slight annoyance to your tone that you could only display in the presence of Duncan and none of the other members of House Atreides.
“Enjoy yourselves. Paul, I’ll see you at dinner.”
Paul nods once and then you leave with the boisterous sound of Duncan’s laughter escorting you out.
Dinner is much like breakfast.
Duke Leto joins this time, which allows for much more conversation. But the stiff and tense air still permeates the dining room. It takes you half of your entree to decipher exactly where the energy is coming from, but it is so clear once it is revealed that you cannot help but beat yourself up over your previous confusion just a bit.
Different from earlier in the morning, your mother sits at the head of the table with Duke Leto on the other end. Lady Jessica has been casted off and forced to sit across from you and Paul. She appears uncomfortable in the seat, constantly readjusting herself between quick statements that clearly express her discontent at the new arrangement.
You would have focused more on the dramatics of your family dinner table if Paul were not toying with you beneath it.
You are incredibly thankful that he kept his hands to himself, but his feet are just as insistent. Just as restless.
They poke against yours constantly, not in an attempt to gather your attention as you would consistently send looks his way. Never were they returned. He would either be discussing his day with his father, talking to either of your mothers, or focused on the diminishing food on his plate.
There were a few occasions where you thought Paul’s actions were accidental. You would draw your foot back, but when his covered toes found yours once more, you knew it to be another one of his games. It was juvenile and childish, but you found yourself allowing it to happen.
You would take any form of Paul’s touch, so long as it did not compromise too much.
You repeat your philosophy in your mind over and over again like the sayings of the Bene Gesserit whenever Paul approaches you.
You stand in the center of your bedroom in your night clothes. Your curtains are still open, exposing the vast nothingness that the sea presents itself as since the sun has set. The stars twinkle above, and you had already prepared yourself for a night of tracing constellations before Paul entered.
He stands in front of you, dressed just as down as you are. His hair is still a little wet from bathing, and you briefly recount the many times you played with the curls until they began to dampen and eventually dry. Each time, his hair would look unkempt in the mornings, but Paul never cared. He claimed that his hair was just a reminder of the night he spent with you.
You would pretend to be unaffected by his sweet talking, only to flush at the memory of his words later in the day.
“Are you listening to me, my star?” His words pull you from your senseless daydreaming.
“What was that?”
Paul’s lips tug up in the corners as he dips his head for a moment. When he looks at you once more, he takes a step closer.
You knew why he was here in the first place, but the advance of his hand reaching for your waist still has your breath hitching.
“I was wondering if you would let me have a taste of you.”
He stares at you, waiting for an answer. Meanwhile, you are losing yourself as you continue to look into his eyes, analyzing the way his long and dark eyelashes add depth to them for the millionth time.
Eventually, the raise of his eyebrows cue you.
“Paul,” you start with a soft tone, an attempt to keep it neutral. But Paul knows you just as well as you know him. Possibly even better.
He senses the impending rejection woven in just the syllables of his name.
He sighs. He pulls you closer by your hips. He rests his forehead against yours and presses his hands into your lower back.
He says your name. No, he breathes it. His breath hits your lips before you part them. With his next exhale, you inhale. The pattern continues until Paul prepares to speak, but you interrupt him.
“She knows.”
You do not have to specify exactly who you are talking about.
Paul sighs again, this time as if he is defeated.
“Of course she knows. My mother is all knowing, didn’t you know?” He speaks with faux amusement. He’s lighthearted, and the emotion is completely misplaced.
“We can’t go back to doing this, Paul.”
He begins to speak over you, but you continue.
“Paul, we can’t. No. No. It’s too dangerous. It’s too–”
“We can. Yes, we can, my star. Look at me–”
You do as told, removing the touch of your foreheads from the others to look at each other head on once more.
“What are you so afraid of?”
The question is so simple. The answer is, too. It is one you have run over in your head day in and day out since moving in just a few months ago. It is the same response you reminded yourself of whenever Paul would touch you, even if it were just an accidental graze of his knuckles against yours.
The difficulty comes with admittance.
But in the safe confines of your bedroom, with nothing but the moon, stars, and sea as a witness, you open your mouth.
“I’m afraid of losing you.”
Paul shakes his head gently, sending little water droplets flying.
“You will never lose me. You know that.”
“Yes, I will, Paul.”
“No. Why would you say that? We live together now. We’re bound together.”
It takes a moment to wring yourself out of Paul’s touch, and when you do, he keeps his hands suspended in the air without making any attempts to straighten his posture. He looks dejected.
You approach your window, staring off into the distance as you say, “Exactly. We are bound together in ways that will never reach marriage. We cannot get married.”
Paul’s footsteps are near silent as he approaches you.
“Does that mean you cannot be mine and I cannot be yours? What we have will always transcend marriage, my star.”
When you do not bother to respond, there is a resounding thud.
You look to your side to find Paul on his knees before you. You, the bastard daughter, have brought the heir of House Atreides to his knees. Like this, with the low lighting in your bedroom reflecting the highest points of his cheekbones and emphasizing the valleys along the plane of his face, it is easy to remind yourself that Paul Atreides is just as much of a bastard as you.
You two are in this together. Why should you not be together as well?
You are already planning to accept when he begs.
“Please? Just one taste and I will let you be if that is what you wish. You have my word.”
Typically, Paul is a man of his word. When you were kids and you accidentally knocked over a vase, a gift from another of the houses, Paul never told a soul just as he promised. When you had the tiniest crush on Duncan and let Paul in on the secret, he never told. He had given you his word both times.
It is this time when you first are made aware of Paul’s capacity for dishonesty.
Either way, you lift the skirt of your nightgown.
Paul fits between your legs without much difficulty at all. While it may have been a while since you allowed yourselves this delicacy, it is as easy as breathing to return to the routine.
Paul begins to lick and suck at your essence with appreciation derived from deprivation. His hands press into the fat of your backside, either to hold you steady or keep you flush against him. In any case, you are securely pressed against Paul’s mouth and he has no intention of letting you go anytime soon.
You feel similarly, throwing your leg over his shoulder and digging the heel of your foot into the defined muscles of his back. Your hand presses against the glass plane beside you when Paul puckers his lips and sucks along your clit.
The position calls for some maneuvering. You bend your standing leg, then grip Paul’s curls with your freehand, pulling him just a little closer to your center. His tongue has slid down to your hole and bringing him closer has bumped his nose against your clit. The bud catches the ridge of it, and you shamelessly run your hips side to side in an attempt to catch it again. Paul, noticing your efforts, does it for you.
He grabs your ass just a bit tighter, adjusting your robes with one hand before returning to his handfuls, and then he shakes his head just enough to provide the stimulation you were searching for. He dips his tongue into your entrance, brings it back out, and repeats the movement. Coupled with the alternating shake of his nose against your clit, and your recent abstinence, you are close sooner than you would have preferred.
You sacrifice your minute control over him when you free his hair from your hands, and instead imprison the linen fabric of your gown within your grasp. You pull your garb up, scrunching the fabric into your hand to get a look at Paul.
When his eyes are revealed, they are already casted up towards you. They crinkle at the corners as if he is smiling at you, and the shape you feel against your cunt is confirmation. When he peels away from you there is a visible erotic sheen across his lips.
“I forgot how good you taste.”
He speaks to you casually, in a fashion to the conversations of nonsensical small talk you had been subjected to earlier in the day.
For some reason, this makes your head spin.
You nudge your hips back in Paul’s direction and he does not have to be told to return to work.
There is so much slip and slide between your legs that you cannot tell what is your arousal and what is his saliva. The combination of fluids multiples whenever Paul slides a finger in your entrance, slinking it along your insides before he finds the spot. He pays extra attention to it, watching you as he slips another finger in to join it without much time in between.
You have not been aware of the volume of your moans until Paul begins to flick your clit with his tongue, after which a croaky sound slips past your lips and it is entirely too loud for the circumstances.
Your hand slaps over your mouth before you can stop it.
Paul shakes his head, removing his lips from you but not his fingers. He chastises you.
“Don’t do that to me, my star.”
That is all he has to say for you to remove your hand and continue to let the sounds that encourage him spill out.
(Luckily, your sleeping quarters exist further away from the other’s.)
It is only a few more moments before your lower abdomen tenses and an orgasm seizes control of your body without much warning in advance. You grip your robes for stability, press your fingers into the glass of the window, and keep Paul close with your leg wound around his shoulders.
He had no intention of leaving at all. He continues to lick at you, now incorporating a loud slurp that is seemingly intended to clean you up.
When the twitching of your muscles has ceased, both of your feet have rejoined the floor for only a minute before Paul has your legs wrapped around his waist.
He carries you off towards your bed.
“May I continue?” he asks as he lays you on your back at the foot of the furniture.
There is no hesitation when you tell him, “Please do.”
You heard the hushed whispers echoing throughout the hall, spreading information that should have solely remained private to your personal quarters.
"They appear to be close. Too close," came from the voices of your maids, spoken with excitement as the thrill from sharing tales that did not concern them flooded their bodies. Like always, they were in small huddles, bodies curved into each other, their postings abandoned as they assumed that no Atreides would be wandering the halls at this house.
Except you were.
Your lightweight garbs noiselessly tap against your ankle with each careful step, freed from the extensive jewelry you were usually kept in throughout the day. As of late, your mother has been presenting you as a jewel in an attempt to delude the Houses into forgetting that you are a bastard. House Atreides wanted for you to be seen as the potential for great alliances.
Paul was presented the same.
Marriage became the topic of conversation more often, and you and Paul played the parts you needed to.
You played the parts necessary to continue this.
His door is cracked just enough for you to silently slip in.
“They were talking about us again.” The lack of romance within Paul’s greeting words do not matter as much when his hands wind around your hips.
Still, you can’t help but tease him just a bit. Your hands find his shoulders, palms easily gliding back until you can comfortably tug at his dark curls.
“Could you at least tell me you missed me before we dive into Castle gossip? What happened to romance, Paul?”
He smiles at you like he had been expecting you to say something along those lines. He leans in, pressing his lips to your cheeks and then your nose.
“Hello, my love. How I’ve missed you so. I have no idea how I lasted this long without you.” He is exaggerating. It has only been a couple of days since you and Paul last met into the hours of the night.
You scoff and gently slap his shoulders. You do not bother hiding the effect of his words on you.
“I heard the maids talking on my way down here.” You dive into repeating the words echoing around the concrete castle walls, but the way Paul looks at you is distracting you. His green eyes plainly flicker from your eyes to your lips, back and forth, back and forth, with a speed that says he does not want to be caught in the act. His lips, slightly chapped but no less appealing, are parted, allowing his tongue to briefly appear before disappearing back into his mouth.
You let your words taper off.
“You can kiss me, you know.”
He nods once. When he speaks, his voice is a gentle whisper. “I know. I just didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“Luckily I’m done now.”
Paul kisses you with familiarity.
You knew that no matter what, you and Paul would be married off to others. But in your deluded mind, you figured that you might as well have fun while you could. You might as well pretend that Paul Atreides was yours, and you were his, until eventually that would be forced to change.
Ok wait Paul with cute aggression???? I imagined him doing the Darcy hand flex in that fic 😭😭
Hi, hello, I know this wasn't a request but it literally gave me inspo and it took forever I'm sorry—
Summary: The Three times you were just too much for Paul and the one time he acted on it and feared for his life.
Warnings: none besides shaky writing and rushed ending! Word count is 7k! Yikies!!!
He snuck into your chambers.
But it's nothing new— it's an action he's done time and time again since you were children. To play longer, to talk, to find comfort in the arms of his best friend– Paul Atreides doesn't make it shy that your bed despite it not being your bed is his favorite place to sleep, that your room is his favorite place to exist.
“But only when you're here.” He remembers telling you. You were both too young to understand what that truly meant, baby fat still lingering on your bones and limbs too short. “When you're gone I don't like it here.” He whispered to you like it was some type of world-ending secret. “When you're gone, everything that's yours is mine again. I don't like it.”
“I could take it with me.” You had giggled, the thought of packing a whole room up when you left was funny. Where would another bed fit when you had one at home? Where would the dressers or desk fit? What use would you have of all the greens, blacks, and red hawks?
“No.” He had turned to face you then, pink lips drawn into a pout. “If you take it then I'd have nothing to remember you by.”
You giggled again and it made a smile pull at his lips. “Then what should I do?”
“You should stay.”
Paul has snuck into your room countless times when you were both younger, children wishing to be children– clinging to their childhood before it's pried away from them and they're forced to be Grand Dukes and Pretty ladies in pretty, stuffy gowns. But the two of you are no longer children– you are no longer clinging, you'd loosen your grip and let yourself fall gracefully into gowns that left him speechless and tickled his cheeks pink.
Yet, he is left behind, still a boy, still sneaking.
“Wake up.”
You groan, swatting at the hand that prods at your cheek. “Go away, Paul.”
The boy sucks his teeth loudly, poking your cheek again– he pinches your skin with his knuckle and thumb, not hard enough to hurt, only enough pressure to make your eyes pop up in an annoyed glare. “You promised.” He starts loftily, his nose turned upwards in the gentle light that floats in through your open window. It's still night, you can tell by the sleep that still clings to your eyelids and the chill in the salted air. Paul doesn't seem to care that it's night though, “You promised you'd watch the meteor shower with me.”
“You promised me you'd be less annoying.” You mutter turning away from him and his too white pajamas. The moonlight casts a hauntingly blue-white glow against your skin and its light can be seen even behind your closed eyelids– still, you make no move to get up and close the curtains or turn back towards Paul and his pestering. You simply pull your blanket up till it touches your nose and clench your eyes tighter.
The bed behind you dips and the Atreides boy whines– it's a mess of your name, and maybe a curse and he pulls at the blanket. “You swore on it, promised on the brightest star.”
“The star will still shine if I don't go out with you tonight.” You muse, you let your blanket go and he thumps against the bed lamely. His back hits the mattress as you turn, staring at him with a small wisp of a smile. “There will always be another meteor shower.”
In the glow of the moonlight, you look otherworldly. A beauty he's only ever seen in painting or heard in songs– but even then, it doesn't truly compare. A silk hair wrap keeps the hair free from your face, allowing him to trace the slope of your nose with his eyes. The moonlight blesses him with light, gentle enough to hide the sight of his face from you but bright enough for him to trace the curves of your lips when you smile sleepily. It sends a strange pain through his chest and he realizes all too quickly that he wants to kiss you.
He wants to kiss you as if it would take the pain in his chest away, he wants to kiss you because for the lack of better words– you've never been more beautiful than in this moment. He wants to pull your face close and press his lips to yours but then what?
He's never kissed a girl before, hell, he's never truly kissed before. There were pecks shared between mother and son– a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, or nose. There were kisses pressed to hands out of respect and loyalty– There was a kiss back a few summers ago, he was only fourteen when he kissed the first son of Rhylme house. A pretty boy with mismatched eyes and a fanged smile. It was only a peck, a brief brush of lips and he held his breath the whole time in fear he still smelt and tasted like the garlic bread he had at dinner.
It hadn't meant anything, they were just children– boys clinging to childhood and petty little ways they could disappoint their fathers if they ever found out. A kiss that was barely a kiss is all Paul knew and if he kissed you now what would happen? Would you kiss him back? Would you see him as a man and not as he is, a boy?
Paul wants to kiss you– his lips pout and hand twitches at his side but he can't. He won't.
“There will never be another tonight.” He finally says. “There will always be a tomorrow but never another now.”
You only hum, soft and airy– Paul can tell you're already falling back to sleep and he lets you. That strange pain in his chest stopped him from bothering you any more than he already had. “Look out the window, Paul.” When he doesn't move from your side, only gazing at you with the oddest look, you muster a smile. “The stars are falling, Atreides. Don't miss it because of me.”
He blinks, once, twice then he lifts himself just enough to peer out through your window from your bed. Falling meteors streak the sky in a colorful hue of light– they vary from the brightest reds to pearly blues, they fall like danger stuck in an everlasting waltz, some twist and turn around each other in colorful coils, nearly touching but just out of reach from each other. He opens his mouth to speak, to gasp maybe– he's never seen something so, so…
You shift in your bed curling towards the warmth that pours off him and you yawn when he looks down. “Happy birthday, Paul. May the stars always shine upon you.”
Beautiful. The pain in his chest quadruples and he swallows harshly as he tries to blink it away. Paul can not kiss you, not when he was still a boy clinging to his past, a boy clinging to a childish hope that the girl– now a young woman could ever like him back.
Paul can't kiss you but one day, he hopes he can.
***
“Master Atreides.” You curtsy.
“Lady Zalmunna.” He bows.
The two of you make eye contact from your bent positions and you can't help it – he looks truly odd bent at the waist staring up at you– you giggle. A giggle that turns into a deep belly laugh when he raises a brow and dips even lower, his brown curls sweeping across the floor. “I see how it is.” His voice is pinched, a bit nasally but he doesn't move from his bow. He simply turns his head and throws you a grin, “A man bares his honor on his neck when he bows before a lady and you laugh.”
“Only because you look so silly.” You promise mirthfully, your eyes glinting as you wave a hand and he stands straight as a board. “One would think I am the one with a higher position with the way you peacock for my attention.”
Paul's face tints pink under the golden light of the ballroom and he opens his mouth to protest but both your parents had enough of your little song and dance.
“I want you both to mingle.” Your mother sighs. Dressed in a pretty pale pink gown with white accessories, she looks like the odd one out in the sea of Atreides that surround you both. Even you had gone with a neutral gray gown paired with even paler green hair clips and earrings to both honor your host and fit in. “No standing in the corner all night.”
“No gossiping,” Lady Jessica adds softly, though she's smiling at the two of you and there's an inkling in you that she doesn't truly care if you do. “No gambling on your peers. Do not drink too much but–”
“Do not drink too little.” Paul finishes then he groans. “We must look like we enjoy ourselves even if we want crows to peck out our eyes. Must we go through this every time?”
Your mother tuts at him but doesn't answer, taking a step forward to fix the pins in your hair and pinch your cheeks. To add color, she once said. She had found if she pinched hard enough even the darkest skin bloomed a pretty red. “Remember what I told you, dear.”
Right. You try to smile but it's only a pale imitation of your real one. “Of course.” Paul shoots you both a curious look as his father murmurs something to him that makes him smile. “I won't let you down, Ma. I promise.”
“I know you won't.” She says simply. “Do enjoy yourself, now; Shoo, shoo.”
You tuck yourself onto Paul's arm, instantly pulling his attention from his parents. He quickly bids them goodbye before you pull him into the stream of people– you are both greeted as you walk, some bow only to Paul. Pretty girls with their pretty mothers' curtsy deep and low, their eyes searching through thick lashes as they hold a fan over their face. Some bow only to you– a few are girls, the ones you've spent time with within school or weekends at their house. They don't curtsy fully, only half-hearted before the launch to their feet again and pull you into hugs. Some giggle at the sight of Paul and you glare– you know childish songs and taunts hang on their tongue when they wiggle their brows at the both of you and you quickly pull him in a different direction.
Some who bow to you, are boys– men, really. The chubby-cheeked boys who once pulled ponytails and chased girls around with little dead things are now sharp-jawed and tall. They bend at their waist and kiss your hand– they spin tales of your beauty and their admiration for your family in a span of one breath as their stone-faced fathers and bright-eyed mothers watch from behind them. You think you handle it well– you are used to it, already considered a woman and an available one, boys have been bowing to you since you were sixteen, hoping to get in your good books before your mother opened your metaphorical marriage doors.
Now they are blown open and men come and go, some see you as a challenge. A girl raised under a single mother but in the company of some of the universe's strongest soldiers– they enjoy the chase you could offer but you are seldom to run and face them head-on. They were the ones that usually did the running.
Paul Atreides, freshly eighteen and freshly recognized as a man is not used to this. When the ladies curtsied, he had cringed into your side– muttering something about seeing down their dresses as he pulled you away, when the boys kissed your hands and sang to you about your beauty, he didn't try to hide his snort. He met their glares head-on, raising a disinterested brow when he leered at him. Paul Atreides may be a man in age but parts of him still cling to the boy you grew up with and that thrills a hidden part of you.
“Tell me, Paul.” You begin as you both settle in the very corner your mothers told you to stay away from. “What is a woman without her pretty gown?”
Paul blinks. “Nude.”
The look you give him sends him into a fit of chuckles, you wait a moment before speaking again. “I am serious, you know. Outside of the pretty gowns, we are people– with hopes and dreams. Look there, at the girl in the orange–” You point a gloved finger towards a huddle of girls, focusing on the one you've met in passing. “Her name is Basma, her house doesn't matter, not truly when all she wants to do is study medicine and help children.”
“She’s pretty.” He comments and you scoff.
“Of course she's pretty, we are all pretty. We are bred for it, like show ponies. Look, that there is Delora, do you remember her? She used to cry over the littlest things growing up, do you know what she wants to be?”
Paul follows your gaze and frowns at the sight of the girl. She's pretty in a ghostly way– too pale skin, paired with charcoal hair and ruby red lips, she looks like a creature of the night. She moves across the ballroom floor gracefully, bowing her head when spoken to and smiling softly when needed. All of it is very practiced and a far cry from the girl who cried when he looked at her funny all those years ago– she, like you, had seemingly blossomed into a woman overnight. It sparks that strange feeling in his chest, a tight squeeze at his heart– he feels as if he's being left behind again, forced to follow in the shadow of your steps.
“Well?” You draw his attention back to you. “Any guesses?”
“A dancer.” He tries. “She moves like one.”
“Close.” You smile, dipping your head in greeting when Delora turns her head and spots the two of you. Paul rushes to do the same. Your voice drops into a weedy whisper as she draws closer, “She wants to be a singer. Her voice is heavenly.”
And you're right but it's not a surprise, you're rarely wrong– Delora’s voice is a pleasant hum when she says your name, deep, soft, and drawn out. She leans forward and kisses your cheek and it lingers for only a second too long and it hits Paul like a train.
Paul's right-hand twitches as it always does– it twitches when he's overwhelmed, it twitches when he doesn't know what to do, it twitches when he's annoyed. This time, it twitches as he fights the urge to push the girl away from you. There's a look on her face, a look he's familiar with when it comes to you, a look that usually dances across his own– She likes you. Delora with a pretty voice, a pretty face, and high standing in society– she likes you and if she pitched a fit about it she could have you if you wanted her.
She greets Paul dully. It's almost disrespectful seeing as she was standing in his home, in his ballroom talking to his best friend. And he greets her with the same lackluster tone.
“Atreides.”
Crybaby. He wants to greet, but he doesn't. He tilts his head and gives her a once-over that doesn't linger. How could he ever think she was pretty when she was the competition? “Yasu.”
You blink only once, studying the situation with raised brows before you plaster another smile on your face and step in between them. You let your back fall against Paul's chest and hold your hands out– for a moment it looks like you were going to surrender on his behalf but you don't, you grasp the other girl's hands instead. “You look beautiful, Delora. I'm happy you took time out of your night to greet us.”
“Only you, My dear comet–” Paul's hand twitches but the girl continues uninterrupted. “I was sent to ask if you were going to Orbit.”
“Oh!” Your voice jumps an octave and you cast an uneasy glance to Paul for just a moment before facing your friend again. “I would love to, truly but I can't – I already promised Paul I would spend the night with him.”
Huh. Paul shifts behind you and you let more of your weight fall against his chest – it forces his hands to shoot up and steady you at your waist and Delora's eyes are drawn to the movement. She frowns.
“I see…” Her eyes linger on his hands before they slide back to your face with a tight smile. “Well, if you need better company tonight– you know where to find me, Comet.” She nods once and turns so sharply, the ends of dresses snap like two fingers.
“What is Orbit?” Paul questions once the other girl is far enough.
You tense in his arms and try to pull away but he only holds you steady against him. “Paul…” You whine and he only chuckles.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“It’s nothing really.” You start awkwardly, “Orbit or orbiting is a group of us… available people mingling, seeing if we get along without the watchful eye of our parents.” You pause only for a moment to spare him a look from the corner of your eye. “Since this is taking place at your home, we would orbit near the ocean. When it happens at mine, it takes place deep in our garden maze. You should have been invited but I don't think…”
“Delora doesn't like me.” He finishes and you nod uneasily.
“She doesn't like anyone, honestly. But we've been buddies since we started orbiting at the same time. She's soft on me.”
Paul squeezes your hips, drawing you closer to him for several moments to laugh – his nose brushing against the cusp of your ear and a shiver runs up your spine just as he lets you go.“It's because she likes you.”
“Don’t be silly–”
“I’m serious,” Paul says. “She looked like she was going to bite me just because I was holding you.”
“You were holding me rather tight.” You joke, snickering when Paul rolls his eyes. “And I saw the way you were looking at her.”
“You weren't even facing me.”
“But I have eyes on the back of my head, Master Atreides.” You say poshly, grinning as he huffs. He goes to turn away from you and probably to grab a drink off a passing waiter's tray but you step in front of him with a shit-eating grin. “Tell me, Paul, were you jealous?”
Who in their right mind would admit to jealousy, it's a sickly emotion. One that creeps in on you and before you could blink– it swallows you whole, drawing you in its waves of green stomach fluid. Jealousy was something he would never admit to, not to you at least. So he huffs, rolling his eyes instead. “What was your mother talking about?”
You freeze for just a second, your pretty face going blank in the blink of an eye– it's gone as fast he blinks. “What?”
“Your mother told you to remember something.” Paul says, “Don’t tell me it's nothing and don't lie to me. I can tell when you're lying.”
“What? No, you can't.”
“Yes I can– We are not doing this, you aren't changing the subject either. What do you need to remember?”
You have to find a husband. Your mother's voice is a hushed whisper in your ear. Or at least entertain the idea of one. I won't be here forever, I can't protect you forever. You had to find a husband because your mother thinks you're doomed without one– you had to find a husband because when your mother lost your father it had weakened her heart and spirit so greatly that she was ill. You had to find a husband because one day you will wake up and find yourself an orphan with nothing but a title to lean on and your mother thinks a husband would be able to guide you through her loss– to allow you a grace period she didn't get to have.
The thought of it makes you ill– marrying for security rather than love, marrying because your mother said so. She did not care for love if it meant keeping you safe and you had tried to understand it when you were young. You had slipped into dresses too tight, stuffed socks into the heels of your shoe till they fit, you had become a diamond under her pressure but it still wasn't enough. It will never be enough till you have a husband.
“My mother…” You search for the right words, wetting your lips as you do. “My mother's wish is for me to find a husband before my nineteenth birthday– or at least, secure suitors before I take her place as an advisor.”
“But you have suitors– you– a husband? Doesn't she think you are too young to sign your life away to someone who–” Words fail the Atreides boy, his eyes blown wide as he takes a step back and cards a hand through his hair. Flirting, courting was one thing– it was nothing but shy smiles and trading flowers, necklaces, and treats, it was something that you could take a step away from, something to hold off overbearing parents for the season. But marriage? Marriage was a death trap where you each put a foot into a boiling pool of water and wait for the other to jerk away first. One gets away with minor injuries, one gets to heal while the other is left behind with their foot in the water– skin peeling, raw, and falling off the bone.
He has seen the scars his father's first marriage has left him– even if he hides it well, shielding his fear of remarrying under the guise of keeping it open for political reasons, Paul could still see the pink that clings to his dark skin. He can still see the bone. He's seen what marriage did to your mother– your father hadn't jerked away but he had slipped and fell into that pool of water, gone before you truly had the chance to meet him and your mother still keeps her foot in that water because she can't move on.
Paul can't see you like that– he refuses to bear witness to the destruction of you before you are even built. If you crumble because of a weight on your ring finger, he'd follow– he'd always follow because he was your friend, because he loves you even if he can't bring himself to utter the words.
“My life was signed away from me the moment I was born under the Zalmunna name. My mother says my father left me an empire and endless riches but what he truly left me was… a curse. A curse that I must deal with to keep my mother happy– after all she has done for me, I can at least do this for her.” You finally shrug when he couldn't find the words to continue, “I don't mind, not really.”
You lied. Paul can see it in your face, in the way you're starting to hug yourself and shy away from his gaze. He wonders how he's looking at you for you to pull away from him– he wonders if you know how sad you look. How the sadness in your eyes suddenly added age to your face, no longer eighteen, no younger a child but a woman surrendering to her fate.
That strange pain in his chest is back, a pain he only ever gets around you and Paul thinks he wants to steal you away. Steal you away from both your responsibility, from your fates and loveless marriages. He'd take you anywhere you'd ask, he'd do anything you asked at that moment if it meant you would be forever happy. It pinches and steals his breath– the urge to kiss you is back, though it never truly leaves. Void swallow the ball, he wants to scream, to pitch a Delora Yasu-size fit until he gets his way. He wants the void to swallow your fears, your responsibilities, he wants the void to take everything that would ever harm you. Void consume them all if it means he could have you.
“If I could save you from this…” He starts but you wave a weak hand.
“I do not need saving, Paul.”
“Pretend you do. If only for a moment– if only to humor me,” He takes a step forward, his hand pulling yours toward him to lace fingers. “If I could save you– would you let me?”
“This is hardly a proper conversation to be having in the open.” You whisper, you cast an uneasy glance around the room– hoping, willing for someone to be watching the both of you. Basma, Delora, hell– you'd even talk your mother coming over to scold you both to escape his gaze.
But alas, for once, no one even glanced in your direction.
Paul squeezes your hand and draws your attention back to him, his face set in a neutral frown, not angry, not happy. He's thinking, waiting. “If we had this conversation alone, you would hold your breath to make yourself faint.”
Your heart flutters at the memory. “I haven't done that since I was eight.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile–then he squeezes your hand again, pulling you close. “Would you let me save you, Lady Zalmunna?”
He's staring at you again. With that odd look that makes your heart skip several beats, he's staring at you like the world could disappear around him and he'd never notice. You squeeze his hand in return, speaking before you could think yourself out of it.
“Maybe but in a perfect world Master Atreides, I wouldn't need saving. In a perfect world it'd only be me and you and I think we'd be happy.”
Paul pauses for just a moment, his heart thundering. “Are we not happy now?”
“I think we are comfortable. Happiness doesn't feel like a leash and collar.”
You pull away then, clearing your throat. You say something to him but it's lost in his hazy thoughts. You say something about being thirsty, a small whisper about lemonade and he hears himself reply– you nod and stumble away from him with a frown that he's sure he's copying.
In that moment, Paul swears he'd make this world perfect for you.
***
Paul Atreides is toeing a fine line between being annoying or cute.
The day after the ball and the following week– you appreciated the doting, the whispered words of kindness and him checking up on you every few hours through holo-call— something you both hid from your parents, not because you couldn't talk to each other but the fact that they would take the devices away. Fear built on top of old superstition– certain technology just shouldn't exist. We do not need another war.
So, the first week was spent in your rooms in stolen moments, talking, complaining, gossiping. For the first week it was fun, refreshing but as time bleeds into the second week Paul Atreides has become something of a thorn in your side. A cute hazel eyed thorn but a thorn nonetheless.
“Let me help you.”
“No, Paul. I am perfectly capable of going through the archives on my own."
There's a pause and you think, finally, he's given up– he'd slink off back to his room or to bother his father but as long as it was in a different direction from you and preferably two hallways away, you didn't care. But luck was rarely kind to you and almost never on your side because as you reach for the scanner, done with the conversation– done with Paul, he perks up with a smile.
“Allow me to keep you company then.”
Your eye twitches as the door slides upward. “I would be horrible company, Master Atreides. My time here is solely for the information in the scrolls, I fear I can't spare a moment to engage in conversation with you.”
Paul shrugs as if he doesn't care– and he doesn't, his lips seemingly stuck in that impish smile he always has when he is around you. “Your presence will be enough. I know you need to work and I'll be as silent as a mouse until you are done.”
You cast your friend a very wary look, your lips pulled into a deep frown but his smile only widens and he sweeps his arm towards the door. “After you, My Lady.”
Your frown slips just a smidge as you walk past him. You try to remind yourself that he means well, that he taking your feelings into action with most things now and you shouldn't be mad but–
Paul steps on the back of your dress and it nearly makes you fall on your ass if not for his hands shooting out. Your head jerks over your shoulder – ready to spit some type of mild poison at him but you turn your head too fast and it dies on your tongue. Your noses smush together– you both are mere inches apart, breathes mixing and eyes wide. For a moment, your eyes dart to his parted lips without meaning to and his breath hitches– eyes widening, his tongue darts over his lips to wet them.
It's enough to break whatever spell that was casted over you because you tear your gaze anyway, completely missing the hurt that dances across his face as you clear your throat. “I’m sorry.”
“No I… it was my fault.” He whispers. “I’m sorry, just.. pretend I'm not here. Quiet as a mouse, remember?”
You thin your lips with a sharp nod and just like that, the both of you fall into a tense silence. You busy yourself with the scrolls– reading, translating dead languages and making note of what needed to be trashed and what could be saved. In the corner of the room, dimly lit by the glowglobe that floats around the room, Paul Atreides sat pretty– a book he managed to find in the mess of scrolls sits on his lap and he thumbs through the pages quietly but you know he's not reading. You know because every time you looked up, he looked down.
It was almost a game, almost cute. How he avoided your gaze but had no problem gazing at you when you weren't looking– it almost bearable if his gaze didn't feel like he was looking through you. It was as if you were nude with the way he was staring at you and you knew you weren't– you had sneakily checked when he wasn't looking, you still had two layers of dresses on, still had your coat and all your buttons were buttoned up. There was nothing for him to stare at– to… to... what's the word?
Your eyes dart up just in time to lock with Paul's admiring ones. Yes, admire. There was nothing to admire about you in your clothes meant for home and comfort but he sat there as loyal as a painter committing an image to memory so they could remember it when they were alone. It unnerved you. But a lot of things he did nowadays unnerved you– he was always staring, always questioning– always touching you in a way that made your heart pound and your throat dry and when he pins you with that look– the look he has now, it makes your head spin.
“Is there something on my face?”
Paul blinks twice at the harshness in your tone then drops his gaze with a sigh. “No.”
“Then why do you stare at it as if something were?” You press. Your pen twirls between your fingers– if he stopped looking at you when you looked at him, fine. You would simply stare at him for the rest of the time, you got more done than you expected anyways.
Paul looks up for only a moment, his lips twitching. “Has it ever occurred to you that you happen to be pretty?”
Your mouth drops open– then when he snorts after catching a glance of you, you snap your lips shut and twist them into a scowl despite your fluttering pulse. “You jest.”
“I’m not.” He says. “You are very pretty and when you are pretty, people will stare. People stare at you all the time and you never snap at them.”
“I did not snap–!” You stop yourself as he raises a brow at you. Instead, you take a breath and plaster on a smile, “Thank you. For calling me pretty but it is different when we are in a room full of people, I can never pinpoint the person staring at me. When we are alone I can look up and catch you staring at me.”
Paul lets out a long hum as he closes the book on his lap and stretches, long legs thrown over countless scrolls that are probably important. You couldn't bring yourself to care, not when your eyes soak in his bulking form. You curse him in your head, for actually taking training seriously, for becoming a man before your eyes.
“Does it bother you when I stare at you?”
“Pardon?”
The Atreides man crosses his arms over his chest and it's almost cute– the words from earlier haunting you, almost cute if it didn't put his arms on full display as he frowns. “When I look at you does it make you uncomfortable?” A pause, then he mumbles. “I could look at you less…?”
You blink and wow, now you feel bad. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you spin your pen between your fingers as you decide how to answer that– truthfully, you didn't mind that he stared, that he followed after you like some type of puppy or that he hung off your every word. Weeks ago, you think him giving you this much attention would have sent you to an early grave but after the night of the ball it all felt like he was doing it out of necessity more than anything else. That your friendship suddenly became a chore, another responsibility for him as the Future Duke of Caladan– he couldn't have his future advisor be miserable.
If Paul wanted to be around you, fine. If he wanted to pester you and drive you up the wall with his nonsense– also fine, you were okay with that as long as it came from him on his own and not because he feels bad for you.
You hated when people felt bad for you.
“It doesn't bother me.” You finally answer, your pen stilling in your hands. “I don't… I don't mind you staring at me but this look is different from all the looks you gave me before and–” Your eyes dart up and there's a faint taste of copper on your drying tongue as he meets your eyes. “– I don't know what it means. Are you angry at me?”
“Never.” is his whisper of a reply and you scoff, shaking your head. Your heart is thudding in your chest and it feels like it might explode but you might as well lay all your cards on the table while you still have the courage– so you push away from the desk and round it. Paul scrambles to stand as you stop in front of him– his mouth opens but you don't give him the chance to speak.
“It feels like you're angry with me, you've been giving me that look and it burns me, Paul! You say it's not anger but it steals my breath, it makes me ill– my heart aches for something I must have done but can't remember, so you must remind– tell me what I did to–”
A warm hand clamps over your mouth and you flinch, a tear falling from your eye. Trying to take a step away from Paul but his other hand hooks on the crook of your elbow. You try to speak but he squeezes your face just a bit with a shake of his head. “Don’t speak– just let me think for a second.”
You let a second pass, then you frown against his palm. Then, he breathes:
“You drive me utterly insane–”
Your heart plummets and again, you try to pull away but he keeps you in place.
“For every night I laid awake thinking of what I would say in this situation– for all my planning to go out the window the moment you shed a tear, I don't know whether to be angry at you or to kiss you.” He takes a loud, shuddering breath, “So I will say this as plainly as my heart will let me: I'm in love with you. Truly those words don't do what I feel for you justice– I stare at you because I am angry for you. I am angry at the universe we live in and how it's tearing us apart, it angers me you think you need to prove yourself to anyone but yourself–”
He blinks hard then, shaking his head. “I am in love with you, I can't tell you when it happened because I think it was always there and I know you're angry at me and this is not going to help but I can't watch you destroy yourself thinking you did something wrong. I could never be angry at you, you could never do wrong in my heart and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for this.”
Over his hand clamped on your mouth, Paul presses a kiss against his skin. He holds it there for only a moment before pulling back to meet your wide eyed bewilderment. “I wish I could kiss you but I will not force my feelings on you.”
He pulls his hand away. “Paul–”
And all at once, there are more voices than his, all sounding pained– some are hushed, barely a whisper and others are loud, clambering– falling over each other to be heard as your limbs lock. “Don’t speak.”
You want to scream at him. Damn him and his ability to use the voice– you try to break the grip on you but it digs, clawing into your very soul with one command: obey.
“You are going to let me leave… You won't chase me, you'll sit here and finish the rest of your work then you will go home and that's when you'll remember what I said to you.”
No, you want to wail. It isn't fair, none of this is fair! But the fight is slowly leaving your body. You try to blink it away but all that leaves you are tears as he gives you a sorrowful smile.
You blink again and you're at your desk, pen in hand with a distant pinch of heartbreak in your chest. Your brows dips as you cast an uneasy glance around the room– the door is shut but there's a slight breeze in a room that makes your bones ache. With a sigh, you place your pen down as the glowglobe floats its way towards your face– dimming as it does.
Huh. Your hand touches your face as the glowglobe shows you your reflection. Why did you start crying?
***
The memories flood you the moment you kicked off your shoes. It overwhelms you– hits you so hard you stumble back grasping at your chest because with the memory comes the emotion you were forced to forget.
I'm in love with you.
Anger is the strongest emotion– especially when it's directed at someone you love– and you do love Paul, you don't let your mind or your doubts talk you out it–you are more angry than you are sad, more sad than you are happy and it spills from your face in fat tears and pours from you in sobs as your body tries to manage the sudden flood of emotions.
You'll kill him for making you feel this way but not before you kiss him– you wish he had less honor for a moment, you wish he had simply kissed you when he had the chance and the ability to make you forget. You ignore the part of you that sings that he didn't.
You're out your door faster than you ever ran, still shoeless– still sobbing. You might punch the Atreides boy before you tell him you return his feelings– friendship and love dance along the same line and you've grown so used to what you had, it never occurred to you that you might lose what you had once you got older.
Fuck getting older, you want to scream. Your feet thunder against your estate floor as you race to the ships made for personal trips. Your mother calls out for you but you ignore her– you could make it to the Caladan Castle in ten minutes if you speed.
***
Paul Atreides is barely holding together while he's talking to his father when there is suddenly a great big crash. It seemingly shakes the castle and for a moment, both Atreides men think they're under attack then after a beat of silence before—
“PAUL ATREIDES!”
The man of the hour pales. “Oh no.”
Duke Leto spares his son a curious look as shouting fills the halls– he hears his mother, he hears your mother frantically questioning you, begging you to slow down. He hears the opening and slamming of doors as you draw closer to his father's study. It's just his luck you'd start on this side of the castle– if he tries to run, you'd surely see him and chase him down and if he were to hide, his father would tell you he's just under the desk.
He's doomed but he doesn't regret telling you he loved you.
“What did you do?” The Duke asks in an almost amused tone, Paul clears his throat.
“I told her I love her.”
The Duke blinks. “Oh?”
“Then I made her forget until she reached home.”
The Duke closes his eyes for a very long moment, not jumping as the door next door slams open. “Stars above, Paul.”
He doesn't try to defend himself as the doors slam open. There you stand, wild eyed and a mess– hair whipped by wind, clothes askew and shoeless. Your eyes lock and you take a step forward, Paul stumbles three steps back.
“I’m sorry–”
“I should hang you by your balls!”
Duke Leto winces, casting an uneasy glance to the two mothers who now linger by the door unsure of what to do.
You take another step forward and Paul darts behind the desk. “You have to understand why I did it–”
“No I don't! You used the voice on me! You made me leave!” You snap, you try to close the distance between the two of you but he only darts to the other side of the desk. “You do not say you love someone and then force them to leave! What is wrong with you?!”
Your mother slaps a hand over her mouth while Lady Jessica's brow shoots up.
“I couldn't bear the thought of you rejecting me– not right then, not right now– stop getting closer to me–” He jerks away from the desk and nearly trips trying to escape you but you catch the ends of his shirt and yank him towards you and do the one thing you wished he did.
You kiss him.
You kiss him and try to push everything you feel for him into the action–your fears, your doubts,your love all put into one action, one moment you will never regret even if it doesn't end well for the both of you. His hand just barely touches your face before a voice clears and the moment breaks– suddenly, the two of you are reminded that you are in a room with your parents with nosy guards and workers passing by. Still, Paul is the first to pull away from you, his cheeks pink as he addresses your parents while you make sure to keep your back to them in pure mortification.
“Well,” Lady Jessica begins, her tone is light as it always is, her hidden amusement now laying bare for all to hear, “I suppose… This will be a first for both our houses. A Duke and his advisor.” She seems to make a hand movement you can't see because the blush on Paul's face darkens and there's a chuckle from Duke Leto and a breath of amusement from your mother.
“At least the wedding will be local.” Your mother jokes and the tension melts from your body. She isn't mad at you, she isn't disappointed with you. “That is if you intend to make an honest woman out of her, Paul.”
“Of course I am.”
A pause, a beat of silence of you staring wide eyed at your best friend then you hear a shift of fabric, she nods.
“Good. We’ll leave you two to talk… No more shouting about hanging someone from their balls, no more running. Just talk.”
Another beat of silence before they shuffle out of the room, and it's only the two of each other. You speak first.
“You want to marry me?”
“I want to do everything with you.” Paul admits, “But marriage is one of them, it doesn't have to be now, it doesn't even have to be five years from now– I can wait for you.”
You shake your head breathlessly, “But you hate the idea of marriage.”
“I hate the thought of losing you more.” He says, “I’ve thought about it, I couldn't stop thinking about it– If you give me the chance, I could make a happy wife out of you. A happy woman.” He takes a step forward, his hands falling on your arms almost unsure of the action like you'd still lash at him. “You return my feelings?”
“Of course I do, Paul.” You relax under his touch, “I think I've always had but our situation– with our positions in life… I think I always put it last, always brushed it off as friendship because if it was anything else we'd get hurt.” You take another step closer, eliminating the space between the two of you as you rest your forehead against his collarbone. “What are we going to do, Paul?”
“I don't know.” He whispers,his hand disappears from your arm and fingers dip under your chin, bringing your face up as he smiles at you. “We’ll take it one day at a time.” His eyes dart to your lips, a silent question your heart skips a beat at– your tongue darts across your lips as you nod.
And in his kiss, you knew everything would be okay. In his kiss, you knew your future was no longer grim.
alright i’ve seen a lot of arranged marriages with paul and reader is always the one who’s salty about it but what if PAUL was the salty bitch? never seen that before.
reader just wants to make him happy. she’s been in love with him since they were introduced as kids. Paul, however, ain’t about it and he’s all pissy and what not.
The Death of a Star
Summary: Paul thought he could never love you but when a star starts to die, it sucks everything in and in your death, your rebirth, he learns he can.
Warning(s): Cheating! Not the sexual kind but the emotional kind! Toxic marriage, sorta dark Paul, almost sexual cheating, talks of bastards, child birth, violence, arranged marriage, pussy eating, fingering, PinV sex, creaming, use of the voice. Talks of baby making and brief pregnancy mention.
Note(s): I took your ask and shook it all about. And hi, hello, i got this ask basically THREE YEARS AGO! And its been sitting in my docs, brewing, growing longer and longer. This is 12k words. If you want more long fics like this from me and not two/three parters— PLEASE let me know. ALSO, shout-out to @cocoamoonmalfoy bc i bothered her with just random segments of this fic for two years I'm pretty sure 😭 this is so fucking long please don't tell me if there's mistakes im gonna scream.
A little after. (Same universe drabble!)
There is something about motherhood that has changed you.
Of course, there have been obvious changes. You were a girl when you first arrived on Caladan, a girl when they dragged you under the twinkling stars and made you swear to the void you would never stray from your husband. A mere child who wanted nothing more to be happy, to make her family proud, a child who smiled at her husband no older than her and repeated words she truly didn't know the meaning of.
You had become a lady when your husband first laid with you, a woman when the single time was enough to bring forth an heir. It was what your ladies told you at least, bringing a person into this universe was a woman's work and you had done just that. Your son, Oliver Atreides, was born screaming, kicking and crying. The ladies said you were a woman now, covered in sweat, tears, and your own blood but you couldn't bring yourself to agree. You think some parts of the girl you once were resurfaced when they hand you, your babe. You had held him close and wept to him. ‘Oh, Ollie. My little Ollie.’
Motherhood has changed you, yes. It made you harder in spots where you were once soft. But nothing has changed you more than marrying the Atreides heir, Paul.
Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?
You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.
Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.
Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.
“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”
He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”
He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”
You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”
“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”
You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?
You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.
“Lady Wife!”
Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.
You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”
“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”
Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”
“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.
Oh, you like him.
You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”
“Emmett, My lady.”
You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”
Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”
Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.
It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.
You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…
You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.
You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”
Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”
Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”
Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?
Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.
'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'
The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.
Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”
Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”
“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”
Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.
Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.
Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”
He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”
“How is she?”
Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.
Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”
It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”
Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”
He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.
When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”
The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”
The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.”
Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”
“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”
“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”
“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”
Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.
There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”
And he's at a loss for words. “What?”
“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”
She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”
“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”
Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.
It is hard to play dumb but…
“Higher, my lady…”
Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”
Whoooosh! Thunk.
The arrow misses.
Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”
“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”
“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”
He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”
You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”
This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”
Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.
“Do you?”
Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.
But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.
“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”
The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”
“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”
“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”
The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.
Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”
“Leave.”
Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”
He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”
That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”
The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”
“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–
“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”
Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”
“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”
He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”
“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”
He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”
You don't look at Paul as you go.
Duncan stands beside you.
It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.
It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.
You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.
“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.
You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”
“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”
He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”
“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”
“Fine.”
He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”
Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”
“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”
You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”
“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”
“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”
“I would like it if you cried.”
You flinch back, “What?”
“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”
“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”
“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”
“That doesn't matter.”
Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”
Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”
Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”
“You are not that much older than me.”
He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”
You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.
And yet…
You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”
“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”
“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”
“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”
When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”
“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”
“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”
You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”
“And then?” You murmur.
Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”
“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”
And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”
You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”
“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”
“What?”
“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”
“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”
“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”
And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–
Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.
The next few days are… odd.
Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.
Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.
Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.
You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”
Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.
Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”
Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”
“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”
Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.
Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”
“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.
For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”
Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.
“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”
Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.
The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.
When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.
To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.
The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.
“For how long?”
Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”
Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”
Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”
Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”
“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”
Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”
Duncan's heart drops. “What?”
“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”
Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.
Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.
He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”
Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”
Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.
You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.
It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.
Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.
You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”
You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”
Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—
“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”
The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.
“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”
Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”
“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.
“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”
You blink. “What?”
“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”
Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”
Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”
You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”
“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”
Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”
“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”
You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”
“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”
You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”
“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”
You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”
“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”
“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”
“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.
“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.
Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”
You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.
You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”
You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.
“Oh, f-fuck!”
The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.
His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.
And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”
You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.
Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.
Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”
Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.
“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”
Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”
Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”
The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.
“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”
Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”
Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”
That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.
“Paul, I'm–”
He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”
“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”
Paul is grinning, teary eyed and peachy faced. “I am surprised.” Then he's kissing you again.
farleigh, don’t listen to the haters. i love you, and you love me. we don’t owe anyone anything. our family is what matters. if you get likes and good comments great, if you get hate then whatever because THEY DONT MATTER. i love you 💕besides they jealous because you are rocking my world every night…yeah i said it, the D is fire 🔥 happy wife happy life❤️
(also how did i go thru all the farleigh start fanfics someone write me more)
I remember you saying something that Farleigh doesn't intentionally make reader jealous, and when reader is jealous she doesn't act possessive/snubby and stuff and actually COMMUNICATES like a mature person, but does Farleigh?? 🤨🤨 I think not. How would reader deal with the bbg's jealousy? 🤔🤔🤔
Summary: Farleigh needs to learn that he's not the only person in your life but until then, he's gonna be a little shit about it.
Or,
The one where Reader becomes a brat tamer.
Warnings: insecurities, talks of dom/sub shit, blowjobs, face sitting/pussy eating, PinV sex, begging, crying from overstimulation. Talks of cheating but not the way you think.
Notes: I don't take requests, i say as i write every cool ask i am sent. This is 3.7k words, unedited but I need it out of my drafts 💀 so I'm closing my eyes and posting.
Farleigh hates Todd Foster.
He hates his smile and his annoying wheezy laugh. He hates his messy hair and his blue eyes. But most of all, he hates how Todd fucking Foster has just spawned into your life on a random Tuesday and how you couldn't seem to shut up about the man.
Farleigh's fingers twitch over his keyboard as he turns to peer back at your half dressed state. You're giggling. It shouldn't make him annoyed but it does, you're giggling– your makeup is smeared, his blanket is pulled up to cover your chest, the hickeys he left on your neck are on display, you're waking up in his bed after he's thoroughly fucked you to sleep hours prior but you're giggling at another man's text and it makes his skin itch.
“Baby.” He calls and you give a halfhearted hum. You don't look away from your phone, your fingers flying across your screen as another giggle slips from your lips. Farleigh turns, his arms crossing over his chest as his tongue drags across his teeth, “What round y'all on?”
That catches your attention. You blink at him, your head tilting as you take in the furrow of his brow— how his bare biceps bulge over his clenched fists to how low his sweatpants sit on his hips and how they shift even lower as he spreads his legs. He's pissed but lord above, he is hot. You have a hard time dragging your eyes away from his body but when you do, you're a little startled by the heat in his eyes, “What?”
“I said,” He starts, a humorless smile pulling at his lips. “What round are you and Todd on– seeing as you've been ignoring me for him since you've woken up.”
Your phone buzzes in your hand and you look down briefly to see Todd's response flash across the screen and Farleigh sucks his teeth. You jerk at the sound, your eyes finding his as a confused laugh leaves you, “I woke up to you studying, I didn't want to bother you and you don't even know if it's Todd-”
Farleigh can't help the sneer that pulls at his lips. “It’s always Todd.” He says. “‘Todd did this-’, ‘Todd did that -’ and ‘Babe did you know Todd-’ I would think he was your fucking boyfriend with the way you talk about him.”
An annoyed heat shoots through you and you swallow, blinking at your boyfriend. “What, so you want me to apologize for having friends?”
“You know what?” Farleigh is shaking his head,a scoff passing through his lips as turns back to face his desk. “Nevermind. I don't care.”
“But you obviously do.” You sigh. “Do you want to talk about it or–”
Farleigh speaks before he thinks, his head swimming in the anger he's so clearly trying to swallow back. “No, I wouldn't want to take time from your precious Todd.”
Farleigh can feel you gaping at the back of his head before a disbelieving laugh leaves your lips. Your hands are trembling as you push from his bed, your legs are a little shaky but you don't let that stop you from gathering your clothes off his floor. You throw them on haphazardly and Farleigh doesn't turn to look at you once, his shoulders drawn nearly to his ears in his effort to ignore you. “You’re a fucking asshole.” You spit once you slip on your shoes and Farleigh shrugs. You see his ears turning red from your place near his door and scoff. “Call me when you're less of a dick.”
You make sure to slam his door on the way out.
“No offense but your boyfriend is a whiny bitch.”
Todd dodges the fry you throw at him with a laugh and you roll your eyes. “You don't get to call him names when this is your fault. He thinks we're fucking or something!”
Todd steals one of your fries, dipping in his milkshake. “No offense or anything coz’ you're a proper looker but you aren't my type.”
You throw your hands up. “I know that! I've said plenty of times we're just friends and I don't know today just got to him–” Todd opens his mouth and you silence him with a look. “And I'm not breaking up with him, that's stupid and I'm not going to drop you because that's not fair to me.”
“Well there goes two of my plans.” Todd jokes. He takes another one of your fries, looking away in thought. “He’s never done this before, right?”
“No, never.” You answer. “We always talked through our issues, you know? He's never snapped at me before.”
Todd hums, his eyes flicking back to you. “Fuck him.”
“Todd–”
“I’m serious.” He continues, he rolls his hand the fry flopping around limply in his grasp. “If this is the first time he's ever been jealous like this, fuck him. Show him there's nothing to be jealous about when you’re only rocking his world. Make him forget his name and all that.”
Flustered, you fall quiet. Your fingers drumming across the table as you think, “I don't– We experiment, yeah?”
Todd nods, eating the fry. “Naturally.”
“And he's always been the one rocking my world.” You continue slowly. Saying this out loud sounds wrong, the words feel like tar leaking from your mouth, sticking to your teeth. You love what Farleigh does for you and to you in the bedroom, you've been bent in half, fucked upside down, and tied up more times than you can count but it was always you never him. “I don't think he'd like it any other way.”
Todd snorts but when he sees your rather serious look he laughs. “You’re joking, right?”
“What?”
“Lovebug, no offense but your man wants to be dominated.” Todd starts his voice flat, “From what I've seen and what you've told me about him— he's practically begging for it. He even got this dreamy look in his eyes that one time you pinched his thigh and told him to behave.”
You sink in your seat. “You saw that?”
“I see everything but that's not the point.” Todd waves his hand. “The point is– the signs are there and your man is a brat. You just have to fuck him dormant.”
“Jesus.” You hiss, your face hot as you throw a cautious look around the diner. “Can you be any louder?”
Todd snickers at your embarrassment but falls silent to pick through your food and you're momentarily left with your thoughts. You wouldn't lie and say the idea didn't sound appealing to you— you liked being in charge, the rare times Farleigh let you do what you want while on top of him had been the hardest you've ever cummed. You had once ridden him so hard with your hand around his throat and that was hot—He hadn't stopped you nor pushed you off in the moment, in fact, his eyes seemed to have rolled to the back of his head as you bounced on him. There have been other times now that you've thought about it, times where Farleigh seemed to instantly cave when you put up a little fight, how his cheeks used to flush when you argued with him. Hell, you should have known when Farleigh had told you he loved you on top that one time he was drunk!
The groan that leaves you is pitched with embarrassment and self-realization. You've been blind and Todd was right— Farleigh had been fucking begging for it. “He could have just asked.” You speak mostly to yourself, your voice filled with annoyance but thinly veiled want. Your blood is running hot as you begin to imagine Farleigh under you. Truly, under you and him begging. “He’s so annoying.”
Todd laughs, his eyes twinkling. “Glad you've figured it out. Now, can you do me a huge favor and get me his cousin's number–”
Farleigh nearly breaks his phone when he gets a notification from your Myspace account. It's a picture of you and Todd, he's the one who took the picture, his wide toothy smile front and center with you in the background, a half smile on your face, your chin resting on your palm. It's been four hours since you stormed out, you didn't call, you didn't text him, you didn't even update your mood on Myspace to be passive aggressive. You spent four hours away from him and Farleigh could only assume you spent the entirety of that time with Todd.
His mood only worsens when he sees that your mood status has finally changed. Touched. The first thought that flies through his mind is ‘He bets you are.’ Before he shakes it from his head almost violently— Farleigh knows you and knows that you'd sooner die than ever cheat on anyone let alone him. Farleigh knows better but he can't help the bitterness that boils in his blood, he can't but be jealous. The very thought of him, Farleigh Start, being jealous makes his stomach turn. He was used to making his partner jealous but you had quickly nipped that in the bud when you first started dating and you had sat him down and explained that he hurt your feelings and before then, before you, Farleigh wouldn't have cared. Farleigh tries to ignore his thoughts that are telling him why he cares so much— it's a word he's barely ever used but it settles in his head, makes his bones ache as he closes his eyes with a groan.
Farleigh loves you. He knows he does, he wouldn't have stuck around this long if he didn't and he's fucking scared of it; of this hold you have on him.
It's been four hours since he's seen you and it's been four hours of him starting to text an apology, only to delete it. Four hours of him punching in your number before turning off his phone before he could dial it. Farleigh wants to say he's sorry but it's like pulling rotten teeth out with a pair of rusted pliers. It's good to get the rot out, to stop it before it turns deadly but there's always a chance of the rust making it worse.
Farleigh is typing out what feels like his hundredth, ‘I’m sorry–’ text when his door knob jiggles. He shuts off his phone, tossing it as he throws his feet over the edge of his bed, ready to answer the door, assuming it's probably Felix when he hears the key slide into its slot. He freezes, if only for a moment before his heart starts to pound— only you have a key to his room. An illegal little copy he slid to you when the two of you got really serious.
You don't see him when you enter and Farleigh doesn't dare speak. You're huffing to yourself, shrugging your jacket off and kicking off your shoes— your whole outfit is different from when you left; it's cute but comfortable. A sweater skirt clings to your hips, a matching in color oversized sweater sliding off your shoulders. Farleigh swallows at the sight of you and you turn, nearly jumping out of your skin when the both of you make eye contact.
Farleigh shifts. He hasn't bothered to change— still in the same sweatpants and shirtless, he feels underdressed before you. “You’re back.”
You quirk a brow at him. “Of course I'm back.”
The way you say it makes him feel warm. Like he's an idiot for thinking you'd ever walk away from him. It's that warmness that has him throwing his arms open for you and it has him melting when you come without a fight. Farleigh loops his arms around your waist, pulling you so close you're arching into him. His head rests on your chest, ear pressed against your steady heartbeat and he mumbles. “Sorry.”
Your hands rub their way up his arms before they settle on his shoulders. “That’s it?”
Farleigh groans against you. “I’m really, really sorry for snapping at you. Wasn't right and I'm an asshole.”
You hum, your fingers sliding up the base of his neck. You angle his head up and press a kiss against his lips. Farleigh sighs into your mouth— the kiss is sweet, slow as leaking syrup and warm so when you make the move to deepen it, your tongue licking into his mouth and fingers curling into his hair, Farleigh lets out a startled gasp. This kiss is filthy. More than he's ever gotten from you, you're kissing him like you're starved, it's all tongues and teeth– and when you suck on his tongue and bite on his lip and Farleigh feels himself swelling in his pants. “Fuck,” He gasps, leaning away to suck in air. You don't stop kissing him, trailing kisses across his face and down his neck. “I thought– I thought you were mad at me?”
You shake his arms free from your waist as you begin to kneel before him, your lips find his neck and your teeth scrape against his pulse and Farleigh bites his lip and even though he's confused he bares his neck to you and you wonder how you never noticed. “I am.” You mumble against his skin. You're careful with how you press your teeth into his skin and Farleigh moans all the same, his hands clenching at his sides. You soothe the darkening skin with a small kiss, “I’m really upset with you, Far’.”
Farleigh starts to apologize again, his lips start to form the words but when you settle to your knees before him blinking up at him, he feels his heart skip several beats and his teeth clack with how fast he shuts his mouth. You palm him through his sweats, your cheek nuzzling against his crotch and if he didn't feel you through his pants, Farleigh would be sure he was dreaming. “I’m– Baby, I'm so confused right now.”
You smile up at him. “You remember our safe word?”
He's sure his brain whites out. Your lips are moving, he sees them but he doesn't hear you— his blood rushing everywhere but to his head. The breath that leaves him is little, punched out of him but he's nodding his head so quickly he sure his brain is rattling in his skull. “Yeah,” He whispers and Farleigh thinks he's shaking from his building excitement. You give him a look and he bites back a smile. It's cute to see you trying to be like this– he thinks the dominance doesn't fit you but you're willing to give and he's eager to take.“Yeah I remember, it's ‘basket’.”
You nod and your hands find the tops of his sweats. Farleigh is quick to help you pull them off and you lean back and watch as he kicks them off his legs as his dick springs free. You nearly roll your eyes at the lack of underwear but Farleigh works a quick down himself out of reflex and it has you smacking his hand away. He opens his mouth to protest, maybe, but you're already leaning forward, your hands falling on his twitching thighs as you pepper kisses along his cock and his mouth slams shut. It's rare that you do this with him, a bad experience in the past made you hesitant and Farleigh would never force you to do so, so it was usually saved for birthdays, anniversaries or the rare day you felt confident enough to do so. Your tongue drags across the underside of his dick and he allows a soft moan to fall from his lips, he guesses you're feeling confident in your anger.
It's embarrassing how quickly he becomes undone. You only give him small teasing kisses and licks, your tongue dances across his flushed tip and he's dripping, his cock twitching in your steady hands. When you finally take him in your mouth, the sound that punches out of him is tortured,“Oh, fuck, please.” He moans. His legs clench in effort not to fuck up into your mouth, his fingers digging into the bed sheets. Your cheeks hollow as you bob your head, drooling down the length of him, your lashes flutter as you take him. Farleigh has always been a mouthful, he's warm and salty but it's not unpleasant— he tastes faintly of his body wash. You swallow around him and his stomach clenches, a moan of your name tumbling out his lips. “Do that again, please.”
And you do, over and over again till he's panting and moaning above you, your jaw aches but you don't stop. He chants your name like it's something sacred and the sounds send a red hot rod of desire shooting through you, “I’m gonna cum.” He warns his voice breaking and you only feel a little bad when you pull away, a glob of spit connecting you both.
Farleigh whines, dragging out your name but you're pushing to your feet, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. You have an odd, heavy look in your eye and Farleigh thinks— how angry could you really be when you're guiding him to lay back against his bed as you pull your clothes off. How mad can you really be when you're climbing on top of him, putting your soaking cunt in his face and telling him,“Make a mess.”
Farleigh drags you down till you're resting heavy against his face, his arms round tight around your thighs as he licks into you. He grinds his nose against your clit, his tongue dipping in and out of your clenching hole as your hips roll against his face. Your hand is clenched in his hair, pulling him closer and he moans, drooling as you guide his head to move faster against your pussy. He's mouthing against you, swallowing everything you have to offer and you moan, grinning, “You like that?” You ask, yanking his head back and away from your cunt. His face is shiny with your slick and his eyes are glossy, he licks his lips nodding as much as he could in your grip. It makes your smile grow, “You like eating my pussy?”
Farleigh can't even pretend to be embarrassed when he moans out a desperate ‘yes’ because you're guiding his head back to where he wants to be most and your hand is reaching back to stroke his still sensitive dick. He tries to keep his focus on you, sliding his tongue through your folds but your thumb slides over the head of his cock, smearing precum down his length and his hips jump to chase the feeling. He attempts to lean back to see what you're doing and the moment he does, your hand stills. You're looking at him with a raised brow and he's whining again, trying to jerk his hips into your warm hand. “I’m just– baby, I'm so close.”
You blink, “So?”
His mouth drops open, he stutters, “I just–” He licks his lips again, his hands tightening on your thighs. “I really, really want to cum and I promise I'll make you cum so hard after just please, baby it feels like my heart is gonna explode.”
Your hand tightens on his dick and moans softly. “I thought you were sorry.”
“I am but–”
“So show me your sorry instead of begging to cum like some sort of–” You stop yourself and Farleigh watches with curious eyes, you already got this far, you might as well commit to it. “–Some sort of slut. Make me cum and I'll think about whether you deserve it or not.”
Farleigh takes a breath, his eyelashes fluttering. How bad can it be? When even at your meanness, you're stumbling over your words and you're still touching him, giving him little taste of pleasure. How bad could it really, really be?
An hour later, he realizes he fucked up. He's choking back a sob, a fist pressed to his mouth as you bounce on his dick. You're chasing your own pleasure, you're ignoring his begging, his choked moans. You've already cummed twice, on his mouth and the second time you had just warmed his cock while you touched yourself till you were shaking, clenching around him so tight he nearly bursted but you know him, you were quick to pull off of him and even the drag of that had him moaning. You've cummed twice and Farleigh still hasn't reached his peak, you smacked away his efforts to try, you had called him names but then kissed his tears, you had kept his hands to your breast so he couldn't change your pace. He was shaking, broken versions of your name falling from his lips.
“Oh, god– please.” He gasps, his hand flying from his mouth and to his side. He knows he can't touch you by now, you always slowed your pace when he tried. “I’m sorry. I'm so fucking sorry– I'll be g-good, I'll be so fucking good baby, I needa– oh fuckfuckfuck–”
You smile, leaning forward with a small moan. “Yeah? Y-you'll be good?”
Farleigh is nodding his head so fast you momentarily fear it'll fall off his neck. But he's babbling, drooling— his eyes on how your pussy swallows his dick. “S-so fucking good, please, please–”
You press a small kiss to the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, baby boy.”
His hands find your waist instantly as he fucks up into you at a pace that has your breath hitching. You grasp for his shoulders as he moans in your ear, he's slurring his words but it sounds a little like–
“Oh, fuck– I fucking love you– Love your pretty fucking pussy, oh shit, o-oh shitttt.”
When he cums it's warm, sputtering and endless. He continues to roll up into you, his teeth sealing over your shoulder and he bites, groaning from his own prolonged overstimulation and you have no choice but to take it, clenching and milking him for all he's worth. When he's done, he gives his hips one last thrust before he leans back, his arms still wrapped around you and lets his back hit his bed with a tired huff. “G-give me like two minutes and I promise I'll make you cum.”
You laugh softly, drawing a pattern across his sweaty chest as you look up at him. “I’m fine, Far’. Are you okay?”
He looks down at you with a wide smile. “We are so doing that again.”
random head cannons about Farliegh to get my page started
pairings; F.S. x AFAB! Reader
warnings; FWB!, some NSFW, weed..?
not proofread bc i’m fucking lazy
𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬…
- When you’re hanging with Farleigh, smoking a blunt, he will lean over stealing your ghost before planting his lips on yours
- 100% acts like he doesn’t care if you finish but is definitely eating you out till you’ve came 2 or more times before anything
- When Felix is giving him a hard time at Saltburn he often drags you away to an unoccupied corner of the manor just to take his mind off things
- In a semi public space he likes so rub his hand across the back of your neck, pulling your head back to just look you in the eyes
- He will purposely be extra mean to you infront of everyone just so he can make it up to you later ykwim
- When you’re talking to someone will stride over and put his arm around your waist before “excusing” you, which ends in you having to remind him you guys aren’t dating (YET)
- When you guys are high he offers to make something divine for your munchies then proceeds to give up half way, which of course you have to finish what he started
- He will try and push his feelings aside cause he “doesn’t care about you” but ultimately fails every time you’re under him
- Will definitely pretend to not be completely mesmerized by your body the first time you guys are at the field together
-All while slowing trying to inch closer to you and Venetia to get a better look, which ends in her calling him a pervert
- He will let you use one or two of his cigarettes to roll a spliff only if u share ofc
- He likes to tease you for being so easy but immediately gets on his knees to apologize after you say you’ll easily find someone else
- He wakes up before you the morning after and just stares at your features, then gets embarrassed if you catch him, brushing it off like it was nothing
- He likes to hold your waist for comfort and grounding if he’s stressed
- Just likes touching you in general
- He likes you to be big spoon, with his head against your chest and you rubbing his back
- He will blow his cigarette smoke in your face just to mock you for saying how bad it smells
- He will let you straddle his waist and pamper his face with skin care like he doesn’t already use 10,000 products
- Will be cocky if you ever confess you developed feelings for him, but will make sure you know they’re reciprocated by kissing you between snarky remarks
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requests are open so please request some stuff🙏
everyone i’m currently trying to write for will be on my masterlist above !
headcanons + drabble tags female! reader. archie! jann mardenbororough. nsfw + sfw content. black reader in mind but anyone can read. kissing. praise kink. riding. pussy eating. a little manhandling. he's mostly sweet throughout.
⟣ having jann as a boyfriend would be really nice. he's so sweet, incredibly attentive, a little shy but willing to have a good conversation, heartfelt and passionate.
before the two of you got together, he was a shy and a little nervous talking to you.
enjoys talking to you even though he thinks he embarrasses himself all the time because he struggles to keep eye contact and stutters over his words.
he definitely rambles on about his love for racing and adores if you listen and ask questions.
if you bring up something he told you in another conversation? he's literally cheesing... hard.
jumps up at any moment to get the opportunity to hang out w you.
really scared to tell you about his feelings for you so you definitely have to instigate the first move.
lean in halfway to meet his lips or lock your hand with his first, anything to get his heart racing and you closer together.
when you finally get together, he is probably just as passionate about being with you as he is about being a racer.
doesn't hangs out with anyone besides you and his friends.
he still rambles on about racing and how bad he wants to visit tokyo.
you sometimes tease him about loving it a little more than you, and he will deny, deny, deny.
with his mom being the only one that supports his love for racing, he adores woman.
believe in treating them right and communicating.
so with you also being a woman in his life that supports him, he thinks you deserve the best. he doesn't even think he deserves you a lot of the time.
he keeps a picture of you in every car he drives. no matter if he has to switch time after time he's bringing your picture with him.
kisses his fingers then puts them up to the sky to "kiss you 4 good luck" if you couldn't make it to his race.
likes to match with you. maybe the color of his shirt to a dress or something. just thinks it's cute.
⟣ the people around him think you're generally good for him.
his dad really likes you. believes, at first, you can get the love for racing out of his head but once you tell his parents about how you believe in him, let's say he doesn't like you as much. still approves of your relationship though.
his mom is in love with you. cares about you a lot. ask for you to come over for dinner, constantly ask jann if you're coming over. thinks you're good 4 him.
his friends are so polite to you. you're just really good friends with his friends.
"gotta go, girlfriend's here." "ya? say hey to her for me." "will do."
his friends call you his "wife". they know how much he likes you because of how much he runs his mouth about you.
⟣ when it comes to his racing career, he tries his best to make time for you.
you're very understanding about his time and the things he has to do to become good at what he loves so you never go crazy over not speaking to him.
thinks about you a lot once he gets off the track. scrolls through your instagram and your personal photos in his phone when he really starts missing you.
doesn't call a lot of the time because of how different your most likely in different time zones but will spend a text about how much he misses you.
after winning first place against the other gamers.
you're the first call he made. adored hearing your praise over the phone and how you wish you were there to really congratulate him.
after winning 4th place, he surprises you with tickets to see him.
the tickets were jacks idea, of course. he always sees the picture of you secured on his dashboard.
calls him "lover boy" just because of that fact too.
he doesn't hesitate to kiss you in front of the press after signing his contract.
"m' happy to see you." hands cupping the sides of your face, grinning down at you. you can't help but look back at him, eyes filled with admiration. camera's flashing around the two of you.
the two of you enjoy tokyo together. see sights, buys you a really pretty dresses and jewelry to see you in them and make memories.
takes you back to his sweet and really shows you how much he missed you.
when he wins the 24 hours of le mans, you're truly happy for him.
hugs everyone as confetti rans down and when he gets to you, he doesn't hesitate to kiss you and pick you up from the ground. the two of smiling into the kiss.
buys you ticket after ticket to come see him after that. wants you to be there even if he loses.
⟣ when you're getting down in bed, he's very sweet and cute about it.
likes to be verbal: moans, groans, everything, he does it.
whines when he cums.
when i say whine, i mean whine. he puts his head in the crook of your neck (out of embarrassment), hips flushed against yours to make sure he's deep inside.
doesn't get praised often so tell him he's doing a good job. loves it.
eats pussy like he's hungry all the time. sometimes he eats you before he races just so he can taste you on his tongue.
likes when you ride him no matter how fast or slow (he definitely prefers fast).
if you really like to ride him fast he can definitely take it from all the pressure he endures when he's driving. he's said it himself when you're riding him.
"too slow, baby. come on, do it faster. i can take it," he'll say breathlessly. he'll take ahold of your hips and start moving you faster. mouth falling open slightly at the feeling of you.
his hands are a little rough from the steering wheel and you always tell him how good they feel when he's fingering you and touching your sides.
making out. making out. making out. it's his thing. especially when he's missed you.
know he fucks you nice and right. you're always very satisfied.
Farleigh Start! Who had a really lonely childhood. He’s used to being alone so it takes a while for you to get close to him.
Farleigh Start! Who once he trust you enough, he doesn’t leave you. He wants/ needs to close to you 24/7, you’re his lifeline.
Farleigh Start! Who the more his high the more he’s a sub.
Farleigh Start! With whom you share lollipops. Switching with each other once in a while to taste the other flavour.
Farleigh Start! Who will rarely say “I love you” but you know he does by his love language (previous part)
Farleigh Start! Who will leave kisses on your neck and shoulders when you’re doing your hair/makeup.
Farleigh Start! Who doesn’t buy you gift often but when he does it’s expensive. And I mean like Louis Vuitton , Valentino, Dior, Prada, Vivienne Westwood. Anything you want he’ll get it for you baby girl.
Farleigh Start! Who hates taking shower with someone else. As much as he loves you, that’s his moment of peace. He likes to take that time for himself.
Farleigh Start! Who has the longest hair routine ever. While you’re in your bed waiting for him to come join you, he’s putting idk how many products in his hair. One of the many reasons he’s doing it is you; he knows how much you like to pass your fingers through his hair so he want it to go smoothly, without any nots.
Farleigh Start! Who after you have a hard day will gladly give you a shoulder/back massage.
Farleigh Start! Who loves to give you hickey. He will try to make a heart of those bruises on your chest but will fail miserably.
Farleigh Start! Who after a fight will fuck you so good. Going slow and deep, praising you, pulling your body as close as possible to his, but almost never actually saying sorry.
Farleigh Start! Who is a total fashion icon. He changed your way of seeing fashion and your way of dressing.
Farleigh Start! Who hates showering with someone but surprisingly loves to take bath with you. For him a bath his extremely different then a shower. A bath is to relax, fuck, enjoy the warm water, so you’re gladly welcome. The shower ,I’ve said, is for him and him only.
Farleigh Start! Who loves when you’re loud during sex. He’s loud himself so he’s less embarrassed if you’re too.
Farleigh Start! Who when you tease him will punish you later for it. It’s not that he teases you that you can, yes he’s a sub but sometimes you get a little too comfortable for him.
Farleigh Start! Who is trying to convince you to fuck your tits. If you don’t want to, he’ll jerk off to the idea.
Farleigh Start! Who won’t put a label on his sexuality but wants dick once in a while ( if uf homophobic you’ve chose the wrong man, Farleigh is not 4 u)
