timothee chalamet dunking on ballet and opera for being “irrelevant” as if his literal own mother wasn’t a professional dancer for one of the biggest ballet companies ever... as a ballet dancer myself who’s been in the industry for over a decade we ARE a dying art form not because we’re “irrelevant” but because struggling artists exist everywhere. the studios are poor and theatre is at just as much of a risk. writers and painters and actors and dancers and singers and any other kind of artists need to have each others backs in a world where human connection is dying and ai slop is being pushed by big corps. this is your reminder to GO to the opera and GO to the ballet and take a trip to the theatre to watch a movie and give thanks to your fanfic writers and pay an artist for a commission because humans were born to create art and that is always valuable
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.
