MY TALENT IS MY TALENT

—NAVIGATION

icarus; 20; she/her; EST. sideblog. ↳ inbox: open.

this blog is intended for an 18+ audience only. minors do not interact

recents | candy-coated raindrops

I understand if not since Reisman was a real person but I think I heard Marty Supreme is going to fictionalize Reisman’s story anyways?

Timothee just looks so good with that mustache 😭

Paul should have known.

When the quiet servant offered to have the chefs make something special from Fremen culture to celebrate your wedding, he should have assumed that spice would be included. But the euphoria from the entire event clouded his judgment, making him forget where he was, especially when he stared in your eyes. He should have remembered when he took the first bite, fed from your hand while he fed you. He should have remembered when the sweet cinnamon flavor hit the tip of his tongue and then traveled all the way down the gullet. At the very least, his suspicions should have been raised when the servant stressed that the cakes were only intended for the bride and groom, and not for any of the esteemed guests, especially if they were unwed. He should have considered just how powerful the substance could be for him, let alone you.

But Paul was so happy to have finally married you that he didn't consider anything until the negative effects were worn off and pushed out of his mind to make room for the elation and desire.

Until he had led you to his chambers—your chambers now—in a fit of mutually shared giggles and stumbling over your feet. Your shoes were gone now, your hair was slightly undone, and you were glowing. You looked so beautiful, bathed in colors of the Atreides family with the tan from Arrakis along your shoulders and cheekbones.

Paul wanted to take his time with you. He wanted to go slow and unravel you just how he had dreamt . He wanted to take you in ways deserving of newlyweds, but instead he finds himself rushing.

His kisses are heavier and hotter than they were before marrying you, when you were just his fiancée and the innocent young lady of the house. You are still just that, the youngest lady of the house, but the title of his wife and the wedding band on your finger makes you look different in Paul's eyes. You're laying back on his silk sheets, your legs exposed since Paul's wandering hands have lifted your dress to sit around your waist, and you look sinful.

Maybe it's the spice flowing throughout his bloodstream, but Paul truly thinks you're glowing right now. He rubs at his eyes with the backs of his hands, but the image stays.

"My pretty wife," he whispers. Is his scratchy voice a product of spice or arousal?

You grin up at him and Paul feels like he's staring straight into the sun.

"My pretty husband."

paul knows all about you.

he doesn't know much about your family. he doesn't know nearly anything about your background. but he doesn't want to. he doesn't need to. because he knows you in the ways that matter.

he knows you're a formidable fighter. he knows you're an exceptional listener. and he knows you're absolutely obsessed with him.

it's obvious because it's different. the disparity between your obsession towards paul and the other fremen's obsession with him is large. it's stark and blares in his face with an intensity similar to the arrakis sun.

you're not devoted to him and paul doesn't know if that's good or bad. you have not pledged your life to him in ways more extreme than the duties of the fedayakin. you do not look at him as if he is the one. you look at him with something different in your gaze.

paul doesn't know exactly what until it comes to him one night. a dream as hazy and brief as the lightest sandstorms, the effect remaining like spice carried in the wind.

a visual of you on your back, wearing your thinnest garments, allowing the morning light to seep into the fabric and illuminate your body. he had never seen you in that light before, but it truly was a beautiful sight. what you were doing was even more beautiful—your legs spread to make way for your hand. your delicate fingers—fingers he's seen kill harkonnen without any mercy—stroke your most sensitive parts with a gentleness he has never seen from you. your head tilted to the sky, your blue eyes hidden beneath sun-kissed eyelids, all as you moaned out his name.

"muad'dib," said like the voice of an innocent.

"usul," carried in the tone of birdsong back on caladan.

"paul," spoken with assertion and desire, above all.

in then in the day, when paul's eyes opened and his dream made way for reality, he wondered how much of it had been true. had he really been this blind, so focused on leading the way that he hadn't even allowed himself this pleasure, pleasure that was so easy to take. sitting right in front of him the entire time, permeating every single room the two of you existed in.

you wanted him, so bad that paul didn't even know how you were carrying out any other duty. he wondered because he was now in the same position.

he couldn't stop thinking about you and he wondered how you put aside your base desires and focused on anything else. how did you command the battlefield when you had been thinking of paul between your legs? how did you suggest ingenious changes of plans when you had your hand between your thighs just mere hours before, trying to satisfy yourself before you had commands to take?

honestly, they just KNEW what they were doing with that casting. UGGHH !!

scissoring, oral, r described as a girl & PRINCESS IRULAN + PAUL ATREIDES MDNI 18+

you represent different things for both of them.

for irulan, you're an outlet. you're not as much experimentation as you are familiar territory. her teenage years were spent with girls like you. girls who looked at her with stars in their eyes and kissed her entirely too gently. girls who fawned over her beauty yet appeared just as beautiful beneath her.

so when she's with you, when you start to behave like the girls she left behind to marry the emperor, irulan falls back into her old pattern. it's dizzying to finally be wanted again. it's addicting to feel a pretty girl shiver and shake beneath her fingers, with assurance that the courteous and honest act of admiration will be returned onto her soon thereafter.

for paul, you're a different form of familiarity. you're familiar in ways of a dream, deja vu, or perhaps a memory slipping through his fingers. you remind him of chani in small ways. the way your chin tilts up when he addresses you. the way you'll teach him something, but only if he asks you to. the way you can be headstrong, usually when you're in his quarters, stripped of your responsibilities and your clothes.

you're not supposed to deny the emperor anything, especially as his concubine, but disobedience comes naturally to you. like the time you'd visited him on arrakis, away from corrino and irulan for just a bit, and paul's overzealous attitude had you on the brink of releasing copious amounts of fluids along his lithe hips and short tuft of pubes.

you weren't a layman, you understood the necessity of fluids on arrakis. so you refused and refused, trying to push paul away as you neared the brink. but paul ordered you to release all over him. he assured you that you would be fine, and it wouldn't be a sign of disrespect to unnecessarily lose this much fluid in one go because you were doing it at the hands of their leader.

paul won't lay with irulan, but he'll lay with you after her. when your skin still smells faintly of flowers and greenery. when you still have her fluids combined with yours between your legs.

you see the way he revels in the evidence of irulan on your body. you notice the way he nuzzles his head between your thighs when irulan's arousal still coats your skin. his tongue, warm and flat, runs along your skin, cleaning you up. and he'll groan afterwards, allowing himself a moment to rest his forehead against your inner thigh, just taking it all in.

he'll seek you out when you're with her, uncaring of the way your naked bodies writhe against each other atop irulan's bed. and he can just come join you two. you always give him a few moments, stretching longer and longer each time he does it. you won't stop, your hips still gliding to and fro, dragging your cunt against irulan's all while you stare at the emperor.

but paul will stand still. his hands clasped behind his back, his curly hair hanging over his hardened face, his expression stoic even when you can see the way his throat bobs and his eyebrows twitch.

he'll often say the same thing. "must you finish here, first?" or something along the lines. and then he'll leave you be, waiting in his own quarters with a rock hard dick nestled beneath linen fabric.

but there's one time—just once where his cobalt eyes appeared weary before morphing into desire. he licked his lips, his fingers twitching against his sides as he hungrily took in the sight before him.

irulan noticed it as well as you did. she began to put on a show.

the empress has always had melodic moans, but she began to emphasize them. with your mouth latched onto her cunt, irulan made sure paul knew how good you were making her feel.

you've caught her off guard.

standing alone in the center of her private chambers, princess irulan stares you down. she wears nothing but her night garments— a long ivory slip that sinks down to her feet. she is backlit by the moon penetrating the glass of her bedroom, and the lighting allows you to see the silhouette of her body fitted in the dress. you try not to notice the way her breasts graze the thin material.

irulan says your name fondly and only with slight hesitance. you expect it, it’s been years since you’ve seen her.

“what’re you doing here?”

you see the way she steps back to hide in the shadows in the typical ways of the bene gesserit. you advert your eyes to the ceiling out of respect. she might have been your lover once, but she isn’t now. now she belongs to another.

“i wanted to see you and i couldn’t wait any longer.”

so much hangs in the air between you two. it might have been a while since you've seen each other, many things might have changed about the known universe and your personal lives, but you and irulan ended things amicably, a mutual understanding that you two would never be able to marry. still, there has been things between you both that has always existed, the pulsing energy being the main point.

it's no surprise that after drinking the water of life, paul atreides has become a different person.

harder, more rigid, more demanding. he sees the way more often than he just sees you. he hears the voices of those who came before him more often than he hears you. but anytime you try to walk away, when you attempt to leave him with the burden his capable shoulders should be able to carry alone, he turns his focus to you. he sees you. he hears you.

and it's good for a while. you two are good for a while.

until he falls back into the pattern.

all the while you're trying your best to be there for him. you're trying to satisfy all of his needs, even when he's detached from this world and on another one.

still, somehow he's receptive. his hips pushing up into your mouth even when his cobalt eyes are watching the ceiling of the tent for nothing in particular. his hand still buries into your hair, rough palms pressing into your skull until your nose is buried in his pubes, suffocating you with the faint scent of musk and a familiar burnt cinnamon. these are the times where he pleads that you be with him, whether he's here with you or not. when you'll climb onto his lap and sink down onto his cock which stands at half mast, softly riding him until he's hard within you. when you'll scratch at his shoulders, pull his hair, sloppily kiss his unreceptive lips—anything to try and get the attention you so desperately crave.

but paul is gone, burdened with visions of the way, distantly watching your breasts bounce with your effort through the haze of visions. sometimes, when you cry and plead for him to come back to you, he'll sink a hand between your thighs and rub your clit and you appreciate the one touch so much that you're letting loose without much warning.

then there are the times where he's here. and his presence is too much. he's too much. he forgets that while he is the supposed prophet, you're just you. with no part in a fabled prophecy, you carry just as much weight as the next fighter. you don't have whatever it is that paul has weighing him down, doubling the gravity of arrakis until he's too firm and still upon the desert. you also don’t have paul’s strength. his durability.

it's the times like those where he's slightly merciless, shrouding his insatiable desire and his almost forceful attitude with praises designed to placate you. designed to mislead you.

forcing his hips into yours with a little too much enthusiasm. he sends you up the cloth beneath your back each time, friction from the barely covered rocks rubbing against your back uncomfortably. your eyes sting, the feeling bleeding down into your nose and throat with a threat you don't want to come true. you can't waste your water like this, to do so would be shameful and disrespectful.