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#timothee chamalet
espercognitive · 3 days
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She was a Seamstress, He was an Actor.
Timothée Chalamet x Fem!reader Pt2
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hello everyone! this is part 2 of this series! I'll probably have part 3 either out tomorrow or Thursday! Also this series may or may not include a full smut? I think I might release a smut-shot before I release a smut for this series, but when I do, please remember that adult content is not intended for minors!
TW: Sexual tension, Kissing, Swearing
Word count: 1.29k
From running back and forth from the costume room to the workshop to grab keys to the top of the theater back to the workshop, you had about 45 minutes left to make sure his outfits worked.
"Ok Timothée we have 45 minutes to get this done, so these pants go with this shirt, and if you can't get anything on, don’t force it on, i don't want anything to break ok?"
"Yea yea thats fine. Uhm so do i just strip here or-?"
"Uh yea let me just turn around. If you need anything, uh just call me over and I'll see if i can help."
You turn around to let him try on the first outfit. After a couple minutes you hear a,
“Uh Y/N I'm finished with this one."
You turn around and see him in a crisp suit. ‘Good on you for picking up those slacks perfectly.’ you think to yourself.
"Awesome! Those work out perfectly. Ok, you don't have to try on the rest then cause those are the backups in case something didn’t fit."
"Ok so i just take them off and give them to you now?"
"Yes and then you can go back and do whatever."
You turn back around to give him more privacy when he begins small talk,
"So do we just have a bunch identical suits or?"
"Oh the suits? No, they're used for the orchestra pit performers when they come in. but we have so many extra after each show, that I just figured I should steal a couple sets to see if they'd work."
"Oh cool. Hey um I might need a little help. The zipper on my slacks is stuck on my underwear."
He said mumbling the last part.
"Really? Um, do you mind if I come take a look?"
"Yea no that's fine, I just don’t wanna break the zipper."
You turn around to see Timothée with his button down open and his zipper stuck on his black boxers. You gulp looking at his helpless face in front of you as you walk over to him. ‘Keep this professional Y/N. He's just your hot coworker’ you thought to yourself. As annoying as he was, you couldn't deny that he was attractive, especially now with that dopey look on his face with his chest open. You began to mess with the zipper, but it seemed like no matter what you did to it, it was stuck to his boxers. The more and more you tried the more and more you were afraid to ask for him to remove his boxers in order to detach them. 
"Uh, it's really stuck. I mean I can try a little more? I'm trying not to touch you."
He looks at you and says, 
"I don’t care if you touch me."
Your face began to heat up as you shot your head down to try and get the zipper. After failing again and again, you looked up and asked 
"Can you take your boxers off?”
He laughs and responds 
"Wow. You must really wanna see me naked. All you would’ve had to do is ask apple."
"Timothée that's not what i meant it just might be easier to-"
He laughs again and says,
“I know apple, I'm just playing. I can take them off and hand them to you ok? I'll face away from the door, and you face towards the door, when I'm done, I'll hand them to you, just grab them without looking over here or else I'll have to charge you for what you see.”
"Ok yea that’ll work."
You turn around as you can hear Timothée shimmy out of his boxers as he takes off his pants. There you feel him tap on your shoulder 
"Here. Um please hurry though, its kinda cold."
"Yea yea hold on."
Finally you were able to slip the fabric from the zipper saving the two of you the weird walk of shame back to the costume shop. 
"Ok Timothée here!"
He grabs his boxers, and gets dressed again. He grabs your shoulder and turns around looking at you and kissing your cheek, he leaves the room. There you sit staring at the collection of couches as your phone rings telling you it's time to go. 
You grab your phone, clothes and of course your apple juice as you stumble back into the costume shop. 
You get into your car, and just sit. 
This was going to be a weird show, but as we all know, Anything goes! 
A long week passes by.
The week had gone by very fast. With so many costumes to finish and baseline done, you finally got to work on Timothée’s sailor uniform, which meant lots and lots of fittings. Grabbing 6 yards of white fabric you began working on his shirt first. It needed to be long enough to go past his hips, and then the sleeves needed to be about an inch smaller than his wrist. You took the pattern, adjusting it to his size and you began cutting and marking each piece which you lazily attached together to begin his fitting. You grabbed your phone and texted him using his contact info left in the costume bible
“Hey Timothée, it’s Y/N, can you come over to the costume shop? I know its late, but I finished your shirt and I need to see how it looks before I surge it. Thank you!” 
After about 30 minutes of silence, you get a text back 
“Yes. ill be over in about 15 minutes.”
You smiled, setting your phone down. His antics had begun to slow down over the past couple of weeks. I guess the trick was him always bringing you apple juice. Or maybe it was the fact that his eyes would linger longer than they used to, or how he’d try and make you laugh all the time. Even how he started showing up on time. You didn’t know what it had been, but instead of being annoyed, you felt excited knowing he was coming. 
When he walked in, he of course had the same bottle of apple juice he always got for you. He walked in with the same goofy smile and he came up with his arms stretched out. But of course, you didn’t get the memo right away just taking the apple juice and smiling, leaving him hanging. He laughs before he asks about the shirt
"So where is this wonderful creation your about to have me put on?"
You laugh as you grabbed the poorly stitched shirt
"Uh this is it."
Timothée laughs as he takes the shirt, but instead of getting changed in a dressing room, he takes off his shirt in front of you and then puts on the white shirt. You stare at him as he dresses himself, watching as he struggles to button the front portion. 
"Can you help me button these?" He laughs.
You put yourself back in reality and walk over beginning to button the shirt for him as he looks down at you. As you finish, you look up and see him looking at you with a soft smile. Staring into his eyes, he grabs your face and gives you a soft kiss. Nothing forceful or sloppy like you had seen him do to other women. It was comforting and warm. He ran his hand through the back of your hair as you two deepened the kiss. You two separate looking at each other again, going quiet for a moment, before he says
"Do you want to go get dinner with me tonight? You can come back to my place after and we can just hangout or?"
You nod wondering what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.
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chalamet-hl · 1 day
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Love is a masterpiece... ❤️‍🩹
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aintinacage · 2 days
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Timothée Chalamet wandering around Woodstock Nature | @monthly-challenge
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paulsihaya · 3 days
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hover-chocs · 21 days
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Advice of the day: if your man starts dressing up like this be careful
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uzuriartonline · 1 month
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“May thy knife chip and shatter.”
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zane-kun33 · 28 days
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"May thy knife chip and shatter."
Dune: Part Two (2024)
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nonpoppin · 1 month
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BEGINNING OF THE END
Paul Atreides x Reader
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Summary: Things reach a boiling point.
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
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“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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.”
Lyra lets out a near hysterical laugh.
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ghostgirl101 · 7 days
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I just wanna say that I am SO excited for the part 2 to your Paul Destiny fic. I have so many questions and Im excited to see if they get answered. Like if Paul is pledging his love to the reader then is the romance plot with Chani still relevant? Is the reader still the princess here? Very interesting
Imagine if Paul Atreides claimed you as his destiny: PART Ⅱ of Ⅱ
|| Word Count: 1.7K || Fluff ||
A/N: Honestly, I didn't think this would blow up so much- 1k+ likes??! Thank you all, it's sick 🙃 in answer to your questions, I didn't really specify if the reader (you) are part of a Great House or the Emperor's daughter, or maybe someone else, that's kind of up to your imagination. And yeah, sorry Chani fans, I kind of kicked her to the curb lmao; This is all about you, and so enjoy the second and final part of this destiny trope before I work on some relationship headcanons for Paul and Feyd-Rautha... Requests are open for Dune 2, so don't be shy 📩
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You can't escape fate.
It's as real as the Spice that threads through the grains of sand blanketing Arrakis in heavy, warm golden waves. It twists and turns in the air, in the tides of change, something beyond understanding roping together reality and its lives to bond, whether in love or hate.
At least, with the newly ascended young Emperor, you know which side you're on. Since the day of his declaration and claiming of you as his Empress, you've never once left his sight, unknowingly or not. The boy is almost ridiculously close and observant, as if testing the depths of the events unfolding around him, testing to see whether you'll try to run from them, from him. But you can't run from fate, either.
"You aren't resting."
Paul's soft, low voice slices through the silence of the dusk, the only words you hear before you feel his warm, firm arms slipping under your arms and around your middle, pulling you into his front in a smooth, protective motion. His chocolate brown locks tickle your neck and cheek as he gazes up at you from your shoulder; wandering, curious eyes study yours knowingly, his natural hues tainted blue with the Spice.
"What troubles you?"
You hesitate in your response, unsure of the right thing to say. There's no point in lying, not to him, to a boy who could easily use the power of his Voice to make you tell him everything and anything with just a few words. He's done it to the Bene Gesserit, to those who speak out of turn and challenge him cluelessly, but never to you. And something tells you that he never will.
"I'm sorry," is how you answer instead, in a small whisper, trying to read his expression before his reaction.
But all Paul does is give you one of his soft, amused smirks, a brow raising slightly, unconvinced.
"Don't apologise to anyone for anything," he murmurs, his fingers drifting to lock with yours, his hand hot and strong in yours. "We are to be wed, you and I, soon. So what troubles you?"
"It's not you," you tell him as earnestly as you can, his eyes capturing yours and holding them as you blink up at him. "I'm just... nervous."
"Nervous?" Paul repeats gently, his hands squeezing yours for a moment, his face an inch away from yours. "What have you to be nervous about?" He grins slightly, not attempting to hide his teasing amusement. "A wedding?"
You can't help but smile at his tone, savouring the unguarded moments of the new, young Emperor, his boyish traits lingering beneath the newfound power and promises passed down to him.
You were nervous, because you weren't so familiar with destiny and its quirks, and yet, Paul Atreides seemed to be its master. Nervous, because although there was a strange pull between you and him, a deeper part of you somehow knowing him, at an instinctive ease with him, you had never met him before these past few days, and now, you were going to be joined together for time indefinite by marriage. Nervous, because he didn't just want you to rule with him, but alongside him, as a partner, a second part of him. His second half who's with him in soul, not just spirit, physically, not just mentally. And he's relishing in it.
"I've never had one before," you shake your head with a light smile, "I don't know what to expect. Or what's expected of me."
Paul hums to himself at your reply, pausing for a while as he thinks over his words.
"It isn't just a wedding," he tells you quietly, "it's so much more. This... this a beginning. A new dawn."
"Beginning?" You echo in bemusement, looking up at him in wonder. "Of what?"
"Of a new era," Paul says thoughtfully, his hands moving from yours to run over and down your sides, tracing over your figure absentmindedly, a gesture that makes you hold your breath for a beat as you watch him, "the first of many. You are more than a mere future. You're the future. My future. And the future of my people."
The sincerity and conviction in his voice makes you stare back at him in slight awe, taken by his certainty of what he's seen in the deepest stretches of his mind, the flickering images of you, adorned in all your natural beauty and grace that he could find nothing short of perfect. You were a fantasy and a hope materialised. Someone he'd wished and dreamed for so much, that you came true, just as you should have.
"Anything that happens to you," Paul continues, looking you straight in the eye as he speaks, "happens to me. You have always been mine, and I was yours before then. Absolutely and completely."
And his words make a home in your head, everything he says so poetic and beautifully surreal, but so honest and unwaveringly confident. He didn't need to practise what he said before he whispered the sweet words in your ear, in a voice only you could catch, in the long, warm nights on Arrakis. There was no need for practice. He had been made for this, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
You let yourself relax slightly in his grips, giving him an earnest smile. "That sounds nice."
Paul smiles back at you, a bright, sweet smile that makes him seem so soft and normal, almost forgetting for a moment of his utter strength and glory over the planets, his dangerous darkness that he occasionally allowed to rule over his actions at the tensest of times, until those who stood up against him retreated in bewilderment and fascination and fear.
"It does," he agrees, his gaze dropping to look out at the dunes beyond you, "you can't imagine..."
You couldn't. But every part of you wanted to. And those parts won.
"Won't you tell me?"
Paul's attention shifts back to you after you speak, before you can stop yourself.
"Would it be kind to tell you?" He asks aloud, speaking half to himself as his eyes go to search yours again, studying every inch of you, almost unsettlingly intently.
"Do you dream?" Paul questions you softly, and you dither before shaking your head.
"Not like you do," you answer steadily.
"Like I do. Seeing your face amidst the streaks of sunbeams and every kind of ethereal power that could create wonders, planets, worlds. Waking up, and you're not here, though it felt so real," he goes on, his voice laced with longing, as if it pained him to remember the feeling. "Realer than I've ever felt anything before. Every sense in me was awakened, because with destiny, I saw hope. And I did not know that hope could be so.... beautifully... angelic."
Paul draws closer and closer with each word, pulled by invisible strings to rest his forehead against yours, closing his eyes for a long moment to breathe, breathe you in. The sight of it is almost dizzyingly hypnotic, staring at the little scattered freckles over his fair, lightly tanned skin, cheeks flushed golden. He moves his face to rub his cheek against yours, seeking out affection in an irresistible rare, vulnerable move. Your hand reaches up to brush your fingers against it, and he takes it in his immediately, pressing his lips against your fingertips as he speaks.
"I need you," Paul insists, his voice firm and pressing again as he stares at you with a spark of desperation. "I need only you. More than you can comprehend. By my side, always, where you belong."
"I'm right here," you reply a little giddily, looking away from his eyes slightly bashfully from the intensity and unbridled longing of his gaze. "I suppose I'm just not used to this."
"To what?" Paul questions, his fingers tilting your chin up softly to force your eyes back up to his, his face a little closer than before. "To being an Empress?"
Before you can respond, he's pushed himself closer over you, his warm, damp lips sliding and pressing against yours and parting to encourage you to deepen his affections. It sends hot shockwaves rushing straight through your blood, as Paul crouches over you, all patience and purpose forgotten in the moment where it's just the two of you in the calm, lingering desert night.
You fit together perfectly, too perfectly for his words to be untrue, and his head tilts keenly where your fingers skim his neck, his lips parting from yours as they tangle in his hair with a short gasp. He loses none of his confidence and persistence, his azure blue eyes a shade darker as he watches you with an open trace of adoration.
"A queen?"
"Paul," you start shakily, as he smirks at you fondly, his head ducking to trace his tongue briefly up the skin of your neck, with a faint chuckle.
"To being desired?"
You glare at him weakly, hanging onto his hands tight to find some sense of grounding. "You're just playing with me."
"I intend to do so much more than that," Paul grins at you, kissing your cheek before burying his face against your shoulder. "And so should you. Test the depths of our connection. Push it to its limits. Push me. Please."
You find yourself speechless again at his way with words, simple and truthful, but full of passion and unthought romance, a sensation he's been craving since the first shadows of your being in his hazy dreams and visions.
"Give into your destiny, sweet girl," he croons to you in a whisper, his lips brushing against yours and pressing down against your skin needily, hungrily. It takes almost inhumane strength not to crumble and shiver under his touch and desire radiating off him and his dark glare, the wanting over years of dreams and prophecies building up to its peak. "Give into me."
"I think I will," you whisper back in awe and giddiness, your arms having to hold tightly around his neck to stay upright. "I think I want to."
"That's good," he praises you with a soft smile, as his voice lowers. "And besides," Paul mutters in your ear, nuzzling against your cheek breathlessly, with that subtle, teasing look in his eyes, "I plan on taking you as mine well before the wedding."
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Taglist (lmk if you want to be added to this for my future Dune fanfics): @minaxcarter @milaeth @ennycutie @weird0o0 @aoi-targaryen @jindongdongie
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starfall-xo · 13 days
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Timothée Chalamet as Paul Atreides photographed by Jack Davison from the set of Dune: Part Two (2024) for M Le Magazine du Monde + charcoal drawing by @sergiart5_
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gh0stsp1d3r · 3 months
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Ooo can I please request a Wonka x fem!reader where she’s his wife and she gets trapped in the laundry mat as well and Willy is really upset and feeling like an awful husband because they don’t have a lot of money and now are also stuck captive🥺 Y/n reassuring him that they’ll get through this and that she’s just happy that they’re together 🥺 They’ve been together for years, and Y/n has been by his side through all of the adventures with getting all his chocolate ingredients and making chocolate, and she’ll always stay by her SWEET husband’s side 🥹
Also I LOVE YOU
oh m gee I love this idea AND I LOVE u!! my reqs r open for wonka now (;
𝒯𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓅ℯ𝒹
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
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“Willy.” You groaned out when your head hit the bottom of the chute. He said your name, looking at you and quickly grabbing your hand.
You both then looked in front of you guys, at the others. They introduced themselves, but he wasn't having any of it. He got up and you both quickly tried to find an exit.
"There's a dog over there-" someone said, but it was too late when you realized, and the dog barked, so you backed away.
He was frustrated with himself- In his mind, it was his fault. He felt like a terrible husband when he looked at your face full of confusion. You were trapped.
You both listened and watched as they explained what you both would be doing- for God knows how long. You noticed his unusual behavior and quietness. And at the end of the day, you stood in his room with him.
"Willy, what’s wrong?”you interrupted his thoughts.
"I'm sorry. I'm... so sorry," he said, his voice barely audible.
“It's not your fault, willy.”
“It is. I should've known something was wrong."
“You shouldn't blame yourself, Willy. You couldn't have read it. You couldn’t have known.”
He sighed and sat down on the bed. You sat down next to him, and he turned to you, taking your hand in his.
"All I've ever wanted since I married you was to make you happy. You've been with me every step of the way. I love you, so much. And now, we're stuck in the basement of a hag all because I wasn't careful. You are the best thing to ever happen in my life. You deserve better.”
You laughed at the last sentence. "I'm happy. I'm happy anywhere I am as long as it's with you. I love you, and I promise you we'll get through this. When we get out of here, we'll start the best chocolate business anyone's ever seen." you said, he looked at you with a small smile on his face as you talked.
His eyes were full of adoration, with a twinkle of hope as he listened to your words. He leaned in and closed his eyes, hands moving to cup your face.
"I love you." he said once more, his words a promise of a better future.
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chalamet-hl · 2 days
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artemistics · 15 days
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Paul swallowed. The figure in front of him turned into the moon's path and he saw an elfin face, black pits of eyes. The familiarity of that face, the features out of numberless visions in his earliest prescience, shocked Paul to stillness. He remembered the angry bravado with which he had once described this face-from-a-dream, telling the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam: "I will meet her." And here was the face, but in no meeting he had ever dreamed.
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paulsihaya · 2 days
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margoterobbies · 11 months
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DUNE: PART TWO (2023) dir. Denis Villeneuve
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