hiii! could i please request paul atredies x fem!reader where they are arguing and he uses the voice on her?
PAUL USING THE VOICE ON YOU...
a/n: got a bit carried away with this ask and planned a whole series. I genuinely love this ask sooo much!! I also want to warn that I have yet to watch dune 2...i know I know! So it might be inaccurate in according to the movies but we'll just ignore that...
warnings: dark!paul, possessive, not proofread
You hear it before he even says your name.
Not in the words themselves — but in the way the air shifts.
In the hush that settles over the war tent like a storm holding its breath.
The way his eyes won’t meet yours.
You’re standing just inside the threshold, robes still creased from sleep, dust on your sleeves from the wind outside.
You had come looking for him — for a quiet moment, maybe, or just the comfort of his voice. But instead you walk into a ring of cold-faced commanders, a daughter of an empire gleaming like forged metal at his side, and Paul, standing at the center of it all like a man carved from stone.
Your heart folds before he even speaks.
The room feels too warm. Or maybe it’s you — heat rising up your neck like shame, like fear, like grief not yet formed.
You stand perfectly still, because you know if you move, something will shatter.
And then you hear it.
“I’ll marry Irulan.”
His voice is calm. Detached.
Like he’s stating strategy.
Like he’s not carving a hole into your chest with every syllable.
You don’t wait to hear the rest.
You don’t want to see if he glances at you when he says it.
You don’t want to know if he meant for you to hear.
You turn. You leave.
You slip out beneath the heavy flap of the tent and into the open night like a breath escaping a dying body.
And then—
You run.
The wind hits you first — sharp and angry, dragging sand across your skin like claws.
The air is dry and violent, howling against the rocks like it’s furious on your behalf.
You trip slightly on the edge of a dune, catching yourself on your hands, the sand biting into your palms. But you don’t stop. You don’t even wipe the tears from your cheeks. They’re mixing with dust now — hot and salt-heavy and blinding.
Your robe whips around your legs as you move, the fabric catching in the wind like it wants to drag you backward, like even the desert is trying to stop you from leaving him.
Your feet sink into the loose sand, stumbling over ridges and stones. The land here is endless. Barren. Beautiful in its cruelty.
And still — you run.
Behind you, there’s a sound.
The tent flap slaps against the wind.
Then — boots pounding the sand.
And his voice, cutting through the storm:
“Wait—please.”
But you don’t.
Not when your lungs are burning. Not when your whole body is screaming don’t you dare look back.
Still, he chases you. Of course he does.
He always comes when it’s too late.
He reaches you just as your knees threaten to give out —
just as the wind reaches a new pitch, shrieking across the dunes like it’s trying to tear the world apart.
“Stop,” he says, breathless.
You spin to face him, eyes wild and rimmed with sand-smeared tears.
“You’re marrying her.”
It doesn’t come out soft. It tears itself out of your mouth like it doesn’t want to be held in anymore.
He blinks, caught. His mouth parts like he wants to lie — to reframe it — but he doesn’t.
“I have to,” he says instead. Quiet. Measured.
Like that makes it better.
Your laugh is sharp and broken. “No. You want to.”
He flinches. And you don’t let him look away.
“You already have power, Paul. You already won. You have the empire, the prophecy, the people. You didn’t need to do this.”
he takes a step towards you, carefull, like you're something fragile.
“I did it for the future.”
“No.” Your voice rises, the wind rushing in behind it. “You did it for control. You did it because the throne wasn’t enough. You want her bloodline, her name, her legacy. You want to own everything.”
Something dark flickers in his eyes — not anger, not quite. Something worse. Justification.
That horrible, steady confidence that only comes from believing your own myth.
“I didn’t understand what this path would take from me,” he says.
You take a step back, your foot slipping in the sand.
“Oh,” you breathe. “So you were naive. You were foolish when you said you loved me.”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
“Then what?” Your voice breaks, finally. “What was I?”
He doesn’t answer right away. The wind gusts, hard enough to make you stagger.
Then—his voice again.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just certain.
"stay."
And this time it isn’t just a plea.
It’s the Voice.
It sinks into your bones, stilling you.
Your breath catches. Your legs freeze. You hate how easily it happens — how quickly your body obeys.
He steps closer, looking ruined. “Please. Don’t go.”
But you don’t look at him. You’re staring out at the horizon, at the endless expanse of sand that could take you anywhere but here.
And still — you stay. Because he told you to.
Because he made you.
And that’s worse than anything else.
.
Time passes.
Not in days or months. Not in anything you can count.
It passes in moments you don’t remember choosing.
You live in the royal wing now — carved in white stone, where the ceilings echo with silence and the floors are too polished to feel real beneath your feet.
They dress you in silk now. Gold bracelets that you don’t remember asking for. Perfume that clings to your skin like a name you forgot how to say.
You never ask questions.
You don’t need to.
He tells you when to speak. When to smile. When to follow.
And you do.
Because when he uses the Voice — that impossible, low timbre threaded with command — your body obeys before your heart can catch up.
Because that’s what you are now: a creature of response, not desire.
He’s never cruel to you. Not really.
He still touches your cheek sometimes like you’re precious. Still looks at you like there’s some version of you he remembers.
But it’s a hollow thing now. A memory of love pretending it’s still alive.
You sit beside him at court, quiet and lovely and always one word away from motion.
The princess sits on his other side — radiant and cold, untouched.
The world sees a golden throne, a perfect empire.
No one sees the ghost sitting just beneath it.
At night, you lie in silk sheets, facing away from him.
Sometimes he speaks your name softly, as if it might still mean something.
Sometimes he doesn’t speak at all.
And on the worst nights — the ones where you almost remember how to want something — he uses the Voice again.
ik you're in a kenji zone but I still can't get over Feyd soooooooooo
Feyd always expects you to come and paint him before he goes to arena. What would he do if you forgot to show up to paint him one day?
savage
pairing ; feyd x gn!reader
wc ; 1.2k
cw ; slightly gore-y description at the end
rating ; general audiences, perhaps slightly suggestive at the end ?
author’s note ; oh no don’t you worry !! feyd is still on my mind 24/7 :3 him and kenji are both my husbands ehehe also wtf this is such a good prompt i love the way your mind thinks ! i don’t particularly think this is very good but i hope you like it anyway 😞 not proof read ^^
feyd is uncharacteristically loud. usually he’s quiet, like a viper, sneaking up on you when you least expect it. he’s calculating and cold, likes to observe before making an important decision. before his fights he’s more often than not calm and collected (well as much as he can be anyway). he’s confident, he knows he’s going to win so what’s the point in worrying? this time however, he’s murderous. he’s yelling and breaking things. he’s barking orders at the maids, veins on his neck protruding dangerously. feyd’s eyes are narrowed in contempt, mere slits as they flit about the room almost in panic. he isn’t able to stay still, can’t look at the same place for more than a second.
the battle’s already been postponed by fifteen minutes and while the general public is too scared to push him, his uncle is not. it wouldn’t be long before the baron is floating down into the staging area, hissing orders and forcing him to get on with the show.
his heavy leather boots stomp against the ground, and he grunts. he’s given you the absolute honour of painting him before his fight and you simply decide to not show up? are you not aware of the hundreds that would die to be in your place? did you not know about the dozens he had to feed his harpies in order to keep them appeased?
“where is she.” feyd growls, low and furious. not a question, more so a threat. the maids tremble in a corner, trying not to look at him or at the three bloody bodies piled on the ground. they’d pushed him too far, tried to paint him when he’s made it clear that only you have his permission to do so. his blades were through their hearts before they even noticed what they did wrong.
like a petulant child throwing a tantrum, he doesn’t just walk into arena. no, the pre-battle painting is tradition. it’s important. and you not being here to do it for him is disrespectful. feyd is seething, teeth grinding together so hard it makes the maids flinch. the sparring knife he has in his hand cracks as the wood splinters. he grunts and throws it against the wall, shards of metal and hard wood ricocheting.
where. the fuck. were you. you never not showed up. feyd’s made sure of it, cleared out your schedule and ensured that you’d have the best guards on the harkonnen battalion to escort you. you always came.
the cries and screams of “feyd-rautha!” get louder and he feels his head pound. a headache begins to build at the base of his neck as the his adoring fans stomp harder. an animalistic noise is ripped from his throat and his eyes shutter close, neck rolling in an attempt to calm down. oh he was going to kill you. he was going to rip you apart. he was going to ruin you. he was going to-
the doors to the chamber fly open and there you are. there you fucking are. panting and struggling to catch your breath, your wide eyes zero in on him and you gulp, forcing stuffy air into your lungs. the hair on your arms stand up with static when you see the ferocious expression plastered on feyd’s face.
“i-” you try open your mouth to explain your absence but you can’t speak. he’s enraged, anger pulsing through his blood. feyd’s mouth presses into a tight line and he snarls at you. his teeth are blackened and he looks like a monster.
“quiet.” it’s harsh and a jarring difference from how he normally speaks to you. the room seems to buzz in silence. you shrink back. you have a reason for being late, you really do!
feyd stalks backwards, never taking his eyes off you and snatches the small carafe of thick, viscous liquid from a table. his gaze trails your figure slowly, checking you inconspicuously for injuries, trying to figure out what the fuck took you so long. he strides towards you and you fight the urge to spring back and runaway. you didn’t like him when he was like this. he was scary and vicious, a savage beast.
he glares at you as he thrusts the carafe into your chest, a silent order. you’re smart and say nothing, shaky fingers reaching out and taking it. feyd’s chest ripples when he turns around. he can’t look at you right now, doesn’t think he can stomach it before he’s roughing you up. you see the way his biceps flex with barely restrained rage.
you work quickly, already deeply aware of how far the fight’s been delayed. it isn’t your best. the lines are messy and crooked, splatters spread over the expanse of his wide back because of your trembling. he’s silent the whole time, taking in great heaving breaths. adrenaline is running through him, he’s itching for a fight. needs to feel blood against his skin and the roar of applause in his ears.
when you’re finished with his back you move in front of him. you’re shorter, barely reaching his shoulders. feyd grunts and you sense him roll his eyes. you work faster, dragging inky oil over his obliques and down his nipples. you barely restrain a shiver.
the second you mutter a soft “done,” and your fingers leave his chest, feyd rips himself away from you, shaking his head. he feels his heartbeat thundering and it’s making him restless. you think he’s a lot like a cornered animal right now.
he dresses quickly, throwing his armour on haphazardly. his chest plate is crooked but you don’t have the courage to say something. feyd marches down to the entrance to the arena, not even sparing you a second glance. he doesn’t bother with his dual blades. he’s after gore tonight, blood and guts and agony. you’re shaking, tears welling up in your eyes as you think of what he’ll do to you.
you sniffle just as he pauses at the door. a low, demeaning laugh leaves his lips, guttural and raspy. you shrink into yourself, feeling humiliated.
“chambers.” he mutters after silence takes over. the implications are clear. you are to meet in his chambers the second the fight is over, when no one else will be around to hear what he does to you. you start growing anxious, sweat beading on your forehead.
feyd doesn’t wait for a response before he’s walking through the doors, cheers overpoweringly loud. you don’t make your way to the stands, too afraid of what you’ll see.
(the fight is one of feyd’s longest. instead of playing around with them for a bit and then killing them almost instantaneously, he lets one of his opponents scamper to the edges of the arena while he deals with the other. feyd prances around him, like a leopard, toying with his prey. when he pounces, it’s with his mouth, teeth tearing into his carotid and ripping it out. he’s fuelled by pure anger and adrenaline, nails clawing at his rivals’ chest and face. feyd turns the first body into a mutilated, bloody mess, so destroyed that he’s barely recognisable. he makes the other opponent watch before stalking after him and doing the same. when he finally, after hours of battle, shows up at his chambers, he’s covered in blood and intestines. and there you are. pretty, innocent you, perched in his bed for him. oh, you were in for it.)
Neither movies talk about Feyd’s darlings very much. Does he have any personal connections with them?? Does he take pleasure in having sex with them?? How often does he interact with them??
i see them as trophies. in my humble opinion, i think they’re the wives of his toughest opponents in the arena. he’s killed their husbands, left them as widows, and has taken them as concubines to further humiliate their family. i think they’re fairly new, he would have collected them one after the other forming his own little harem. feyd wouldn’t know anything about them other than the fact that he had beaten their late partners, and he wouldn’t be interested in trying to get to know them personally. now he doesn’t collect the wives of every guy he fights, that would be a bit too much. instead he only takes from those that got the closest to permanently maiming him.
i think he would have enjoyed having sex with them a lot, especially when he was a little bit younger. when he’s fresh off the adrenaline from killing someone, the guards would bring them in (sometimes only one, other times all three) and he would fuck them in front of whoever he’s just killed; doggy style with his pet’s head in the sand near the body so she can lap at the blood. fucking them in front of people especially is a sure-fire way to insert his dominance and his control over his pets and those around him. feyd doesn’t go out of his way to pleasure them though. he goes to them for his pleasure. he’d let them suck his cock, bounce on it; he’d use their holes however he wanted, drag sharpened knives down the harsh planes of their bodies. but he wouldn’t go down on them. he wouldn’t offer them the softness of his touch. the pets wouldn’t care for it either way; he’d hardened them, turned them into monsters that thrive off of blood and cum alone. he prefers positions where he doesn’t have to look at them. i think feyd would also use them as an intimidation tactic. ‘oh you won’t give me what i want? guess i’ll just get my harpies to eat your wife’s brains,’ or ‘obey me or i’ll let them have their way with you,’ (which doesn’t mean anything good trust me; his pets are borderline more fucked up than him)
if he were to interact with them on a daily basis i think feyd would go insane and slaughter them. they’re for fun. for pleasure. not for everyday. they have their own little room, and he’s given them the autonomy to kill whoever wanders too close to their quarters. he feeds them plenty of blood and bodies and that keeps them satiated enough until he needs to fuck something. feyd only brings them out in public public when there’s a particularly strong message he wants to convey. i also think that he doesn’t really enjoy fucking his pets. while yes they do everything he says, they were a bit boring. he only fucks them every couple of days, even if it means he’s more pent up and aggressive because he hasn’t been able to cum in a a wet hole.
what if I’m Feyd’s wife but in a fit of rage (due to him being a jackass for the 600th time today) I walk over to his chambers and fuck one of his darlings. I wanna see the pure terror and jealousy on his face. i need a blurb on this btw 😋
see the thing is anon, despite how horrible feyd is to you, i personally think loyalty is something that both of you have to each other. like i know feyd says all these terrible things about going to his darlings when you piss him off or you’re not doing what he wants, but he wouldn’t actually act on it. he doesn’t know what healthy communication is and is often driven by pure emotion (i.e he doesn’t think with his head), and that isn’t to excuse his behaviour because he should be held accountable for the things he says and does to you. feyd expects a certain level of faithfulness to him even if you don’t think he himself is being faithful.
if he was being particularly jackassy and you finally had enough of it and snapped at him, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. i think he would freeze up the same way he would when you tell him to go fuck his darlings if you’re not good enough for him.
while the premise of this situation sounds very very delicious, i just don’t see his pets willing to fuck around with you. like feyd and you, they have a very strong sense of loyalty to him. they only do what he says and what he’s approved. even if he hasn’t fucked them or so much so as touched them since he started getting serious with you, i don’t think the harpies would even want to do anything sexual in nature with anyone else, purely because he hasn’t told them they’re allowed to.
i know this might not have been what you wanted, but please let me know if you have any other thoughts !!
