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Paul Atreides is having the time of his life. Flying through the night with Duncan, having just completed a long reconnaissance trip alone together, learning and laughing, sharing rations over the pretty flickering light of a campfire? Perfect.
Except...
Except.
He shifts uncomfortably, as much as he is able to. He's strapped securely into the passenger seat of the tiny craft, able to move his arms and his legs but with his torso held firmly upright in multiple places with strong belts. His head is pillowed into a curved headrest that's soft and comfortable, but also functions to cushion his skull from impact due to turbulence or sudden shifts in direction. He's perfectly safe, and clearly not going anywhere.
He needs to pee. He's needed to pee since very soon after they boarded this godforsaken thing, and it's becoming truly distracting. He hadn't really thought about it; they're well-supplied with pretty much everything else they could possibly need, and they'd been able to take regular breaks on every other leg of this journey. When Duncan had explained (after expertly strapping him into this chair, and performing all of the pre-flight checks) that they would be going straight over the whole mountain range and then back to the castle in one long hop, he'd had a brief pang of worry, then forgotten about it in the subsequent never-palling rush of watching the trees, the sky, the birds. Time had worn on, night had fallen softly around them, and... the belt that was riding low on his belly was pressing in on him painfully, and there was no comfortable position to move to. He can only squirm about, which he's been doing every few minutes lately. And... now Duncan's noticed.
There's amusement in his voice as he drawls, "You need to piss, my boy?"
Paul stutters and blushes up to the tips of his ears. "Ah... yeah, yeah, I kinda really do."
"You're going to have to suffer, I'm afraid... there's nowhere we can safely put down between here and home in the best of conditions, and it's looking pretty nasty out there. We'll be a while yet."
"Okay... ah... can I take this off...?"
Duncan's voice sharpens. "No, absolutely not. Every one of those is there for the preservation of your life." Then it softens again. "I'm sorry, though, I should have thought to say something earlier..."
Paul shakes his head, as best he can. "No, that's okay, I probably wouldn't have listened anyway..."
Duncan laughs, but he does feel bad. He's used to this trip, used to making sure he's completely dry before setting out, and Paul's half his size, if that. He'll be desperately uncomfortable by the time they land, and Duncan knows it.
Paul bears up relatively well for a while, squirming and babbling a little too fast, but coping.
And then it starts fucking raining.
Duncan hears the first heavy drops hitting the shell of the craft and curses internally, mostly at the implications for steering and navigation and other such important things... and then Paul goes wild, thrashing in his seat and whimpering and shoving his hands between his legs, and Duncan realises he has another problem.
The sound of the rain becomes a constant torrential splashing very quickly, but it doesn't cover the keening sound that leaves Paul's lips, or the gasped-out rush of words. "Aaaah... fuck, Duncan, I don't... I don't... think I can hold it any more..."
Paul's bladder throbs with every beat of his heart, and all his nerves are so over-sensitive he swears he can feel the rain wetting him, dripping through his hair and down his body, despite the fact that rationally he knows they're completely protected. He squeezes himself tightly but it doesn't help much. "Ooooh, Duncan..."
The words have left Duncan's mouth before they quite catch up to his brain. "If you wet these seats, I will put you over my knee and spank you until you scream."
Paul's head thunks against the back of the seat. He lets out a long groan that peters out into something between a sigh and a hiss.
"Well... that... may be less of a problem, for a bit?"
Duncan snaps his mouth shut before something ill-advised can slip out of it again, like "What?", but in a second doesn't really need to ask the question anyway. It's dim in the cockpit, the lighting optimised to allow him to see out through the windows at night, but Paul's hands show up pale against the blackness of clothes and gear, and Duncan sees the exact moment their motions go from desperate squeezing to rubbing with a different sort of intent. He groans. "Paul. What. The. Fuck."
Paul's voice is strained in every different way that Duncan can think of, and it tugs hard at something inside of him. "Fuck, Duncan , you can't just say things like that, I --" He breaks off, panting, flushed, tilting his head back, clearly enjoying the touch a lot.
"... Paul. Paul, I am flying. Just... manoeuvring a giant machine through thin air, avoiding mountains, trying not to get us both killed? I kind of need to concentrate, and you are not helping."
"It's... kind of working, though? I mean I'm still bursting but it seems like I can hold back better...?"
Another sentence bypasses rational thought. This seems to happen entirely too much, when it comes to Paul. "Not if you make yourself come, though, hmmm? So you'll have to be careful..."
Paul moans loudly, speeds up briefly before seeming to take the advice and slowing down, and... then. And then Duncan's subjected to what he would swear is probably torture custom-made for him: listening to Paul Atreides bring himself right to the brink, and then back down again, over and over. Duncan does his best not to look, does his best to focus on flight paths and obstacles and every other piece of sensory input vital to getting them home safely, as he gets harder and harder himself to the point of utter distraction. Paul occasionally makes a pained, desperate little noise that indicates to Duncan that the urge to piss is briefly winning out over the urge to come, and he's pretty sure he sees Paul clamp down hard on himself at one of these times... and then eventually it's over (maybe when Duncan lets out a moan and palms himself, just once, because he truly can't help it). Paul's body locks up and he near screams as he comes in his pants and the only reason Duncan doesn't as well is because his hands have been obliged to remain on the controls for most of the time.
Just about the second that Paul has finished coming, there's the unmistakeable sound of piss hitting fabric, and then leather, and Paul makes more sounds, high and relieved and also just plainly exhausted. When Duncan glances over, he can't see much in the half-light except Paul lying boneless and shaking in the seat. They sit in awkward silence until the castle buttresses eventually appear out of the dark mist, until Duncan can bring them to a smooth halt inside the custom-built hangar. He snaps on the floodlights as soon as he can and stares into Paul's face, then down his body, and... Paul is an absolute mess, clothes soaked from the waist down in piss and come, hair matted with sweat and in total disarray, flushed hot everywhere and eyes struggling to remain open.
Extracting Paul from his bonds is about as efficient as wrestling a cooked noodle, but Duncan manages it, dumping him unceremoniously into the vacated pilot's seat and then grabbing at the pile of stained and oily rags that were a permanent feature of all such small ships. He clears away the worst of the puddle, ears and cheeks burning and trying very hard not to think about it, until Paul murmurs, "Duncan, I'm... I'm filthy...", and Duncan knows that he needs to do something about that, too. He sighs. "Okay... um... okay, you have some clothes that need washing behind your seat anyway, right? And I know we have your coat, and I have... these..."
He fumbles through a detritus of snacks, first aid supplies, and navigation aids until he lands on a package of cleansing wipes, normally just used to feel a bit more presentable or comfortable when he hasn't had time or space to shower.
"Here... get your clothes off, clean up, and shove your wet things in the bottom of the pile. I'll make sure it all gets to Maria first thing in the morning. You can just put the coat on for between the hangar and your room, it's long enough. Your father said he wasn't bringing out the welcoming committee at this time of night, they'll all see us at breakfast, so all we have to hope for is no other stragglers deciding to be overly interested."
Paul takes it with a smile that's somewhere between grateful and mortified. "I... thank you... I'm so sorry..."
Duncan grunts, "Don't mention it," and then settles into the cleaned seat and closes his eyes firmly. He can hear Paul scrabbling and shifting, the sighing sound of the soft shirt being pulled from his shoulders, then the more complicated sounds of heavy trousers being awkwardly dragged off. Paul murmurs, "Urgh". Duncan can see him wrinkling his cute little nose in his mind's eye, and huffs slightly in amusement, but the sweet innocence of that moment is shattered when the next sound is a wrecked little "Oh."
He screws his eyes up tighter, resisting the temptation to look, but his mind can conjure up a pretty good image of a perfect slim white body, naked, in his pilot's seat, and... what is the boy doing? Sitting up on his knees to slide the wipe over his thighs, or right between them and further back? Stroking it over his pretty cock, where he's probably the messiest and also maybe not gone all the way soft again yet?
Duncan can't help groaning under his breath, his own hand twitching towards his lap. Without the distraction of having to pilot, this is all becoming overwhelming. He cannot be doing this, Leto will kill him (no, Jessica will kill him, probably by personal disembowelment, his hindbrain helpfully supplies). But he's already in this mess up to his eyeballs, resistance had pretty much gone out the window the second he'd opened his big fat mouth, and it's Paul. If Paul really does want him, then he has him – whether that's as an additional strand to their already lifetime bond, or just to taste it for a time, or something in between.
A loud swishing next to his head indicates Paul has swept his coat over himself. Duncan breathes out slowly, then searches for his own long duster and pulls it on. He mashes the buttons that activate the doors, and swings himself out into the night air and the familiar scents of the hangar. Paul jumps after him, and looks only a little silly as his legs are exposed for a second. Once they're standing on the smooth concrete floor, Duncan looks him up and down, and deems him presentable enough – only he knows that Paul is completely naked under that black layer, soft and vulnerable...
Paul looks up at him, the hint of a smirk beginning to reappear on his face. "It's not cold, we're under shelter, and you're clean – so why your coat, huh?"
Duncan chuckles awkwardly, then has to confirm what Paul definitely already knows. "I can't very well go wandering around the castle like this for just anyone to see..."
Paul flushes and smiles back. "Well... you don't have to..."
Paul reaches out to curl his fingers into the front of said coat and sways toward Duncan, sliding down slightly as if he's about to drop to his knees, and... the idea is tempting, fuck is it tempting, but it is also a stunningly bad idea in a sparkling constellation of already-bad ideas. Duncan's... not sure if he really has a better one, but still, he catches Paul's shoulders and keeps him upright, then pulls him in to whisper in his ear.
"Not now, not here... but I do believe I said a punishment was in order."
Paul's eyes go wide; he gives a full-body shudder and moans softly. Duncan's fingers slide up to tangle in his curls, pulling hard. Paul whines out, "You... you would do that?"
"Yes... yes, I would. And I won't go easy on you, mind. Never have, and I don't intend to start now."
"But something is starting now?"
Duncan sighs and buries his head in Paul's shoulder. "I... I think so." He shifts so that his lips brush Paul's, exercising every bit of self-control he has left to keep the kiss soft and sweet and barely-there, and Paul responds eagerly but in kind, shivering.
Eventually breaking the kiss, Duncan says, "Come on; we need to make sure you get some sleep. Your father will be wanting our reports in the morning, and I'm sure there will be news to share from around here, too." He walks Paul back to his quarters with seeming nonchalance, but there is a burning anticipation under his skin now, something different from the past months of desperate irredeemable yearning. Paul wanted him, had made that as absolutely clear as it was possible to get, and that felt fantastic. Duncan also knows he now has a responsibility on his hands, one that's probably only going to grow in size and strangeness – but he will do his best to care for it properly.