Paul Atreides Fanfic - Tumblr Posts

Having thots thoughts of overstimulating your husband Paul until he cries

He's moaning and on the verge of hyperventilating as you squeeze the base of his cock, preventing him from coming as you bring him to the edge—over and over again.

"Please, my love, please—" He sobs, tears escaping the corners of his pretty blue eyes to wet his dark curls. "I'll do anything—"

You laugh softly and lay your cheek against his naked thigh, softening your grip. He fists the bedsheets as he tosses his head back and forth.

"You're so pretty like this, Paul," You nip at the flesh of his hip affectionately. "So pretty when you're desperate for me."

He chokes when you lean forward with no warning and engulf the tip of his cock with your mouth. "Wait—ng!"

It doesn't take long to bring him back to the edge again—you've been teasing him for what feels like forever. He's heavy and solid against your tongue, his legs shaking with exertion. The intoxicating scents of sex and incense left over from the wedding fills the bedroom and you surrender your senses, preening delightfully when Paul manages to let go of the sheet to tangle his fingers in your hair instead.

"I'm so close—" He grits his teeth, tightening his hold on you. "Ohpleasepleaseplease—!"

You figure you've tortured him long enough so you lower your mouth further down his length, breathing through your nose. The desperate little thrusts from his hips throw you off and you gag, fueling the desire coursing through his veins as you let his other hand come up to cradle your head. Your eyes close as he uses you for his pleasure, forcing you to relax your throat. You feel him swell before he orgasms, sobbing with relief as white light bursts behind his eyelids and the thrum of blood roars in his ears. The salt of his come pours down your throat and you lick away the remnants from his softening cock, cleaning him as he tries to catch his breath.

"Too much," He tiredly shakes his head in protest, his tears leaving tracks on his cheeks as he tries to push you off of him. "It's too much."

You let him settle down even though there's a throb between your legs; coming up and carding your fingers through his curls and kissing away the salt from his eyes.

"Breath, Paul," You coo, stroking the skin above his brow as you lay to one side of him, propped up on one elbow. "You did so well for me. So, so well."

He moans into your neck as his breathing returns to normal, and he looks so relaxed that you almost want to leave him to his rest.

Almost.

;)

Warnings: mentions of political marriages, strangers > friends > lovers, kissing near towards the end, mentat at mind, lover boy at heart

The ordeal is simple — at-least on paper. You and Paul are meant to be wed on the single promise of a shared goal between the two of your houses, which come down to one thing and one thing only: security. Wealth, power and standing do not surmount to what, in Leto’s words, the Emperor has planned for the futility of house Atreides. He knows, Thufir knows, everyone knows, that Arrakis wasn’t branded to be some sweetly wrapped gift that fell into his lap when the time came to reward the duke. No - matters of this sort were much too systematic, especially at a scale such as this. Something must be done, to solidify the house of Atreides upon the rain-swept expanse of Caladan. Something to bind the Atreides to their mother planet long enough, so there might not be strife or conflict that sharpens whatever blade is held against them. So, wed Paul you must.

Simple doesn’t translate so easily against the obscurity that is the real world.

In the real world, the two of you are mere strangers. The only thing that binds the two of you is the responsibility bourne from the insignias that you wear, that are soon to culminate as two adjoining houses; whilst his happen to be two thick lines of silver against his collar, yours take on a different shape, a strange alterity between curves and striking lines, and shot through with gold against the sleeve of your garments. There is it — the mere tellings of your differences, as pure as day. He wonders how the symbols will look like, meshed together and serving as one. He wonders how he will appear next to you - frail boy or able man?

Half of the time, you catch his eye simply because you are there, sitting duly next to your father and ascertaining the weight of such a marriage past paper, when all is said and done. Other times, you are a blurring fragment in the hallways, swathed in your house’s colours and too fleeting to get a hold on, sometimes even flanked by your house’s livery. Mere strangers, he reminds the indiscernible feeling in his chest.

-

“Where is your head at? Focus!” Gurney growls out, more harsh tempered than his usual mood, as he crouches and takes Paul’s fair strike for what it was - a clean swipe that was meant for his chest, which now deflects smoothly off of the older, more haggard man’s shield, and sets the room abuzz with vibrations. And so the smell of ozone worsens, Paul calculates in his head, as he shakes his head thoroughly and shifts his grip on his weapon. Gurney isn’t impressed — not in the way he usually is. Paul knows he must answer.

“This is me focusing,” Paul offers, and doesn’t grit his teeth or possess a sudden candour with his strikes because he respects Gurney. But he cannot help the mood that has blanched him - voids, how he wishes he could confess those words, verbatim, to the older man who currently encircles his passes like a seasoned ring-fighter. But the word ‘mood’ had gotten him in line last week, when Gurney had simply upped his antics with the mere mention of it, “I’m just out of breath.”

“No, you’re not.” Gurney smiles, clenching his palm around the ragged hilt of the Kindjal. He knows, Paul thinks bitterly.

“No, I’m not.” Paul confesses. He tests a low swoop of his dagger - ill-advised - and reigns his laugh in when it catches Gurney off his feet, his back staggering against the training table.

Let’s see how you like this, lad, Gurney formalises in his mind, as he presses his defence like a bull and keeps his attacks slow and pulsing through the air, blinding all of Paul’s spots, “Is it the marriage?”

Cornered for tactics, and focusing mostly on not getting cleaved to pieces during training, Paul scoffs, “Of course it’s the marriage.”

“You’re scared.”

At this, Paul counters metal with metal, bounding back when it rings against his ears, rings against the room, “I’m not scared. I’m prepared to fulfil my duty, even if I am given options,” a dull parry, which still creates momentum, and thus space, between the two men, “I’m only uneasy because I’ve never actually met her.”

“You have. Several times. Or have you been asleep throughout your father’s meetings?”

Paul stresses a firm strike against Gurney, which repels off of his own shield by how close the dagger strikes the space between them. But he’s good at catching himself. Gurney, unused to Paul’s strange and newly learnt manoeuvres, falls short. He tries to counter, but cannot, but he is most impressed for it.

“Concede.” Paul breathes, low and attempting a threatening veil, as Gurney’s back meets the floor. The old man grunts, before nodding deftly as Paul hauls him to his feet with one palm alone. They settle in different corners of the room, silence beseeching both of them suddenly - they’re not two men for silence, but in Gurney’s head, Paul is undergoing a strange part of his life. He wonders if Paul fears it in the night.

Paul interjects Gurney’s thoughts.

“Do you - have you… met her?” his voice is meek. Uncharacteristic. Gurney smirks.

“Once or twice, in the hallways.”

“And? How is she?”

Gurney laughs. The boy is eager today.

-

The next time I see her, I will speak, he promises.

Better said than done. With no similar companions his age - a course of action being the very result of his heritage, his mother reminds him - he truly doesn’t know how to properly seek you out. You are more shadow than friend, more idea than person, and the more he sees you, the more he forgets.

“Something on your mind?” Duncan nudges him with the edge of some Fremen equipment, that bothers him well enough to dredge out Paul’s concerns. Not that he needs to. It is written on his face.

“Yes,” Paul confesses, readjusting for comfort, “It’s about my marriage.”

“You speak as though you will marry tomorrow. It is not set it stone. Not yet.”

Paul scoffs, “I know that. I just haven’t met her yet. And I want to.”

Duncan, in the midst of polishing some hardware and solar devices, that smell quite faintly of hot sand and the sun, pauses to glance away from Paul’s face. When his gaze returns, it is almost teasing, a smirk ripping across his face, “You’re in luck today.”

“What?” Paul swivels and —

Oh. Oh.

You’re standing there. Hands clasped behind your back, yes. Stoic, assessing expression, yes. Clothed in rich colours of your house, as you always are in his passing vision - only this time, it is a green so deep that it comes across as black. Suddenly, realising that you have been found out by not only Duncan Idaho, but by the Duke’s son himself, you uncharacteristically let slip your own embarrassment through wide eyes.

“Oh. My apologies — I, uh, didn’t mean to intrude. I was just curious by the - er - gadgets.” you fumble for words at a rate that would be comical if not for the morbid embarrassment seizing you by the seconds. You’re shaking your head politely, smile strained and legs rooted where they are and ready to melt into the various corridors - back to your own duties, you assume. Away from company. Paul, however, stands linearly and full of purpose, face constructed of hard lines that all smile at you.

“No, please. Join us,” his voice is smooth - you’ve never heard him talk, even around those board room meetings - and his hand is extended to gesture within the space, “I insist.”

Duncan raises a brow in amusement and Paul wants to tamp his feet down with a neat blow. That pulls a chortle out of the man, which only further startles you. Paul invites you cordially to take a seat, where you fit awkwardly, like you were truly imposing. However, in a manner of minutes, that is all erased when Duncan lets the two of you weigh the objects in your hand – sand compactor, weapons, stinted devices that were far too aged to be still of use but gathering attention nonetheless. When Paul passes it to you, he feels your soft fingers pass underneath his own, where a warm feeling curdles as an afterthought.

“This—is a sand compactor?” you ask warily, tilting the device as though it would spring up on you and dissolve to bits. Duncan barks out a laugh.

“For sand compacting, yes.” he humours you. You, however, are too lost on the object, still swirling it around in your palms; eyes peeled downwards.

“Yes. I see.” you reply.

The two men dissolve into a fit of laughter. You look up, eyes helplessly trailing from one to the next. The day is easy.

-

Paul is thankful for the event, and so are you. It doesn’t solve all his problems, and his head is always probing with inquiries and worries, but he can count on the off chance of seeing you in the hallways. He can count on the fact that you will pause, meet his eyes and smile.

You’re walking the countless hallways of the estate - Caladan had so much water to offer, but no one on your native planet ever mentioned the striking architecture, the hollowed out walls and think-pieces painted across rooms. High domed ceilings, with absolutely nothing to offer but soft light. Some rooms contained scintillating glass, chairs of different shapes and mediums, tables too big for just a few affairs. Others were bound shut, but that didn’t discourage nor intimidate you, nor your entourage.

On one such day, you’re caught in your explorations by none other than the Atreides heir.

In actuality, it is you who catches him first, stood perfectly still at the end of the corridor and holding a terse expression. When he spots you, his shoulders relax and he manages to blink once, before his mouth opens underneath the realisation that you were really here.

“Hello.” his voice is strong, and carries well.

That was awkward. This is always awkward. He curses himself.

You smile, and it swipes at the ground beneath his feet, “I didn’t expect to see you here.

“This is my residence, yes?” more jest than anything else. You snort.

“I am aware. Your residence is quite beautiful. I like to wander,” you say, finding yourself fixing a meandering pace beside him, and he smiles softly when he realises that he, too, steps beside you at a similar speed, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Never.”

It is quick work after that – by pure coincidence, that you joke to Paul that is it is methodical instincts and ground-work as a mentat that he is able to summon himself almost anywhere you are present from that point onwards, you two bump into each other more and more in the corridors, and from there, it extends to the rather large library, the training space with Gurney skirting its edges, the ever-blossoming gardens even, which held more water than shrubbery in retrospect. Meetings pertaining to your marriage held an element of amusement now, as Paul actually tries to catch your eye this time, drumming his lithe and smooth fingers against the table in a way that could’ve passed off as a wandering of his mind as his father droned on about security measures and fuel caps, but you notice.

You hadn’t, not before, but you did now. To his pleasure, you even respond in a tiny flickering of fingers against the age-old meeting table, the vibrations a blur against his obvious contentment.

-

“You look glad.” Gurney comments and Paul realises how uninvolved his attention had been on the room before him. He quickly assesses it and whatever lays within it; table, check. Light source, check. Scratchy walls, check. Gurney’s ever-gracing height, check.

When had his habits, trained and chained to duty, begun to sweep towards you?

“Do I?” Paul asks, keeping his voice as still as he can manage. He had swiped at his face to rid the itch off his brow, but he unwittingly catches how warm he is. Not uncomfortable, no. But enough to leave a mark on his consciousness. It was like he was simply losing grip on his own composure when he thought of… something. It was still fleeting in his own mind.

He is too afraid to retrace his steps and find a familiar pair of eyes staring at him in the recesses of it.

Gurney slaps a hand on Paul’s shoulder, seemingly articulate with the latter’s feelings. Old man, Paul would curse out in jest, but he merely smiles. It is strained, and strange. Paul never puts an effort into his smiles, Gurney notes.

“Something is on your mind.” Gurney clicks his tongue.

Paul blinks, swallows, “Something is on my mind.”

“Out with it.”

Paul hesitates, which is strange, because in all his fights he is the first to stoke the flame. He isn’t vengeful – at-least, he doesn’t think he is – that’s why his strikes lack a hunger for blood and instead, settle for calculation. Briefness. No means to an end just yet. Or ever, he thinks.

But with you, it’s different. That’s what he spits out, what he lets Gurney work with. How you were a supposed intrusion into his life – something he had assumed would be awkward, like a stab wound that had scabbed over and began to weakly throb in pain, always to remind itself of its own compromise to work around demise. He thought you would be that; but upon meeting you, you were anything but that. You were curious and brilliant in your own way – similar to him, yet miles apart so that you were the form of a friend he had always wished for in his youth. You talked about your interests and spent double your time inquiring about his. When your hands brushed, his own grew clammy – that’s the strangest one of them all, Gurney – And something was blossoming – was it friendship? Was it trust? Was it fear?

What was this spattering and gooey mess slipping over the swell of his heart whenever you appeared? What was it?

He talks and talks and talks until Gurney squeezes his palm over Paul’s shoulder in a way an uncle would do to his nephew who he might want to reassure. Or a brother would to his youngest companion, as if to say: I see you. I hear what you say.

“Sounds to me like there’s an awful lot of trust between the two of you,” Gurney clicks his tongue again, only this time, Paul scoffs. Ah, there he is – there is the Paul Atreides I know, Gurney smiles, “And something else too.”

“What is it?” Paul asks. His eyes are curious, brows furrowed. Gurney holds down the laugh building in his chest, and the emboldened words in red: you’re falling in love with this friend of yours, boy, and instead, pats him on the shoulder.

“Piece of advice, if you’ll heed to anything I say,” Paul straightens with attention, “Let the truth flow. Do not stop it. Do not push it back. To live with the truth, you must learn its ways and be one with it.”

That night, Paul walks back to his room with the truth beneath his skin, and listens to his own heartbeat against his pillow. The rest of him warms with the realisation of, oh, oh, oh.

-

The next time you see Paul, you think you’d done something to offend him. Or bore him. Or something other.

It had become a pleasant habit; meeting him at the Caladan gardens, opting for a spot and sitting with your backs to the grass, counting the stars as you talked. Before, conversation had tipped forth whenever. Now, there was something in the air – tension. And it is him that brings it.

Paul avoids your eyes, settling instead for the vast colouring of grey across the hallway walls whenever he caught you in it. He had stopped sending you the familiar drumming of his fingertips across the meeting table, and instead always froze up when you met his gaze, whereby he turned red with anger – or was it anger? What was it?

He’d always be staring at your face, and you would wonder if there was a piece of parchment stuck to it, or if he was merely bored around you; most days, you allowed it. It stung, yes, but you had nothing ill to hold against him. But it accumulated, unbeknownst to you, and for him to miss your question yet again made you sigh in defeat – disappointment?

“You seem distracted,” you say, not bothering to shield the hurt in your words, though you couldn’t begin to understand why and when you had ever begun to crave expect the attention of his earthen-dusted eyes, “Am I boring you?”

He straightens up, his eyes wide, which in turn surprises you, “Bored? Seven hells, no. ‘Course not.”

“What did I just ask then?”

He cringes, “I promise I’m not bored. Just…”

His fingers flex in his lap, before curling into themselves, and his cheeks warm slightly. Is it happening now? Is he doing it now? The weather was right; a typical Caladan breeze, heavy with the wetting of the sky from the day, and now shrouded with clouds and a darkness that was impenetrable. Even as the two of you laid against the bare grass, no one outside could tell either of you apart from the ground itself. In the moonlight, you were almost one with it.

“Just?” you ask. You were curious of this now, “Just what?”

“Just!” he sucks in a harsh breath, his sharp face now boyishly soft and pliant in a way you hadn’t seen it before, “I… Just promise you won’t take offence to this.”

How ironic.

“I promise, Paul,” you smile, shoulder bumping against his as you glance at the side of his face, the way his nose shapes perfectly against the dampness of the Calandan wind, “Tell me.”

Be one with it. Be one with it. It is a mantra in his head.

“I realise that I have begun to grow a certain, uh, affection for you. Yes, I like you. I don’t know how it had begun. And I know it’s foolish of me to even act this way when we are set to marry. But I know, in my heart, that—“ a breath, as he nervously glances at your now surprised face and oh, he shuts his mouth. He opens it again, panicked, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—let me—”

“Paul.” you stop him, hands against his one arm that seems to be quivering ever so slightly – how much of it can he hold?

He waits. Bated breath.

You smile, shy and sweet and it whips against him in a way that the wind of his mother planet had never managed to. Here is my dear friend, he thinks, my dear friend who was but a stranger a long time ago and is set to marry me once talks have been concluded. Here is my friend who I have poured my stupid, ill heart to and who still looks at me with kindness.

“I like you too.”

He blinks. He looks at you when you speak and watches, really watches, how your mouth forms against the words. I like you too.

“As a companion? Or friend, at best? Is that what your ‘like’ refers to?” he asks, nervous in the face of your admission. It makes you smile, as he rambles slightly, and though his countenance is that of poise and grace, beneath he is a a boy of tender heart. Smiling, you grab the front of his thick coat lapel and watch his words die on his tongue as you place a feathery, warm and soft kiss against his mouth. It was so unbelievable, he thought he’d conjured it all up – that you weren’t here, timidly kissing him with a sheepish smile on your face, and the stars of his home glinting against your skin. He lets his finger brush your cheek, still dumb-struck.

“Again.” he whispers. His heart hammers at the sound of your breathy laugh, as you repeat the action, conviction in your palms as they lay upon his cheek, “Again, please.”

“Again?” you ask, voice soft and muted as he hoists you atop of his front, chest to chest, and gazing at him like he was everything. Within the action, your golden insignia brushes his own, silver ones so briefly that he can make out a shape bourne from the contact of either two, before they separate. You wanted him, as he wanted you. And soon, you would wed, and the image of gold upon silver won’t be so unclear anymore. Maybe, somewhere warmer and less unbelievable, he could let himself grow familiar with the reality of you. But for now, he could settle for this to be a mere dream he had grown to relish so very much. Even now, he could almost believe none of this to be real, just a trick of the mind. Maybe fatigue or delusion.

He says your name so quietly, a plea, and it has never sounded sweeter, “Please.”

And yet, the soft press of your mouth upon his convinces him that it is so much more.

-

i wanted to incorporate some inferences of paul’s character from the early novel (mentat, solitude in terms of companions, great fighter), as well as the film, whilst wanting to stray away from the destruction of house atreides after the gifting of arrakis, which would explain why the marriage needs to take place. sooo no one dies! HURRAH!!!!!!!!! enjoy :]

© 2023 qvrcll. Do not repost any of my works on any platform.

A sickly Paul Atredias with Chani or female reader as caretaker plz 🥹

The night has your name

Warnings: NSFW SOFT

Pairing: Paul/female reader.

A/N:Maybe not exactly what you wanted, but I always thought about what happened after Paul first confronted his mother's mentor. And he needs to be consoled, he is still only a young man…

What a strange night. The noise of the supply ships in the loading docks of the ducal castle of Caladan, as well as that of several visiting ships, had kept me awake at night. So much was happening.

The Atreides family was being shaken to its foundations. The announcement of the family departure to Arrakis was a move by the Emperor, and although we could not interpret it to its full extent, it had shaken the lords.

We, the servants had toiled for days to prepare for the move. While his parents were organising everything, Paul had spent his time walking on the beach, training, and processing the situation in solitude.His natural melancholy had deepened.

I knew that he hated this situation, because he sensed the evil intentions that the emperor harbored. Paul himself had told me about it, when he came to my small room some nights.

And, maybe, if anyone discovered our romance, they might think it was just a bit of sexual relaxation. But it wasn't just that.

We talked, we read together, and sometimes he asked me for certain opinions. He had told me about the war of assassins he had witnessed in his childhood. About the horrible executions he had to witness in his own home. How he had to run away.

His first direct contact with the Harkonnens. Only twelve years old.

He spoke about it in a cold, dispassionate tone. Those nights almost always ended in silence and hugs.Hearing him sigh when I stroked his curls warmed my soul at that moment.

He was a good boy, and he would make a admirable duke, worthy of the house of Atreides.

A heavy cranking of the engine brought me back to this reality.I couldn't tell what time it was, but given the turmoil of the night, I doubt anyone could sleep. I stared sadly at the ceiling. 

I turned over, trying hard to sleep.

The minutes slid down the clock, desperate grains of sand. One hour, two? At some point, between the noise and the silence,maybe I fell into a torturous dream, without the slides stopping passing by my closed eyelids.Images,places,fears…..

Three silent knocks on the door.

Dazed, I opened my eyes and snapped out of my reverie.It was like someone was calling me. Was I still dreaming?

The blows were repeated. So I didn't dream it. Someone needed me, earlier than usual.Oh, it seems, the day started earlier than I predicted. I barely bothered to light my room, leaving only a faint yellow globe in the gloom.

I Opened the door carefully. The hallway was in shadows and I barely noticed my visitor at first. I inspected the shadow, searching, when an unmistakable green flash made me stop my words.The remnants of my drowsiness were instantly extinguished. I didn't think it was him, but it was Paul.

Almost merged into the dimness.Fully dressed. I was instantly alarmed and gasped his name. He simply nodded and pointed inside, giving me a needy look. I let him in immediately.

I could only close the door silently, welcoming him.Still not saying anything, he wrapped his arms around me and sighed, pressing his face against my shoulder, the buttons of his jacket digging into my chest, making me shudder, through my simple long nightgown.

He inhales deeply like a long private sigh. His long, silky eyelashes brushed against me, as he rubbed the tip of his cold nose under my chin.I shivered, even more when I felt his warm breath on my chest.I stroked his hair,offering him soft caresses between the brown waves that made him sigh with pleasure.

At the moment, he only seemed to need silence and a long hug. I slid my hands up his sides, trapping his waist.

It took him very little time to collapse.I felt something wet on my neck. Paul was crying silently.I whispered into his curls.

"Oh,Paul,please....."

I didn't want to pressure him, I knew that sometimes he preferred silence and touch.

Finally his voice, muffled against me, was heard.

"Sorry, I didn't know what to do."

"Paul....it's okay, it's okay. Please tell me what happened"

He shivered softly.

"Gom Gabbar"

I nodded silently, understanding. I had read many manuals, codes, history of the universe. I knew what this cruel test consisted of.

I shouldn't have hated his mother, it was not in my power to judge Lady Jessica.Or the Bene Gesserit sisterhood, although now, with the sad product of their crosses in my arms, I would only wish to see each and every one of them die.

I held him to my chest, letting him cry. I caressed his back, and hugged him tightly in my arms. I wish I could make him feel like I was by his side, whenever he wanted.

I cry until I wet my nightgown, in silence.

And when I noticed that his sobbing had stopped, I was able to talk to him again, without forcing him to look at me.

«Paul......let's lie down on the bed.»

He nodded, and only whispered:

"Will you let me stay with you?"

"All my life, if you wish."

We undressed, without shame, seeing our bodies in the yellow light of the lamp filters, almost extinguished. With a graceful kick, he kicked off his boots. The shapes of the room were reflected in his body, so pale and thin, as he undressed.

Opening his jacket later, unbuttoning it. He quickly took off his white linen shirt, finishing messing up his hair. He opened his belt.

I slipped under the sheet, keeping it open, waiting for him.

Approaching the bed, he slid his pants down his thighs, along with his underwear. I swallowed, affected, repeating to myself that it was not the time.How could I not feel my whole body react, longing for the proximity of that flame of pale fire, naked before me?

Paul kept his gaze lowered, his eyes veiled by his eyelashes, half closed and hidden.

I could still make out the wet traces on his cheeks.

His soft, calm male member swung between his thighs as he leaned over my table, laying his clothes neatly next to mine. I was waiting for him inside the bed and I opened the sheet for him.

At times, I had joked with him about my uncomfortable bed, while he had a luxurious bed, with fine sheets at his disposal. 

And he always smiled, talking about his terrible suffering to visit me. We got involved in tickle wars, which ended in extremely adult games.

We made love sweetly and other times, we made it so wildly that it was not unusual to find traces in the form of bites or bruises on our bodies.

But aside from erotic thoughts for now. I offered him my arm as a pillow. He immediately leaned on me, bringing his cheek closer to my neck, while I hugged him.

His chest against my side, close to me. He always told me that I was much warmer than him, a little stove. He used to feel cold, and I was always caressing his hands and feet when I could. His leg slid over mine, trying to touch his foot with mine, while he put a hand between my breasts, holding them, caressing their tender softness. 

I laughed fondly and felt him smile against me.

Paul moaned softly as I wiped away the traces of tears that remained on his cheeks.

With my fingers, sliding my finger along his delicate and elegant nose. Paul came even closer,taking me, hugging me tightly against him. 

I buried my nose and lips in his forehead and hair, allowing me the pleasure of caressing him like this and getting excited with his aniseed, woody smell,deeply masculine.

Our breathing deepened, they matched each other.

With one finger, I lifted his chin, putting at my disposal his lips, pink like the corals of the Caladan sea, now still stained with tears. I kissed him tenderly, and he responded to me, happy for the first time on this terrible night.

He moaned when I kissed him, while he pushed my hip with his boner, his warm cock, increasingly ready and full.

His tongue, so fine and soft, slid safely between my lips,tangling with mine, moving sensually over my face.

We sighed together, moving under the sheets, looking for each other with increasing haste, between gasps that increased,making me as wet and ready for him as he already was for me.

There were still good things in the galaxy, there is still comfort and love in this strange life. And as long as we could meet during the night, the arrival of morning would not be so difficult.

And.....there was still the night.

**********

@kteezy997 I owe you a giant coffee with caramel.☕☕

tag list: @daydreaming-peach

The Union of Two Houses

Paul Atreides x Reader

Warning: Arranged marriage

Summary: To strengthen the connection between your family and House Atreides, you are to marry Paul.

“Lady Y/L/N.” came the voice from the entrance, letting everyone inside know that you have arrived.

Paul waited anxiously, often looking at his mother as she tried her best to calm him.

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