#roots writes

The man sits in jeans and a matching jacket, his cap secured firmly on his head. He doesn't seem to be paying attention to the service nor is he paying attention to his sister murmuring along with Pastor Dan in a whimsical tone to amuse his niece. His eyes seem to be roaming the room in faint amusement, not a bead of sweat gracing his skin and when he somehow senses you looking at him, his chestnut eyes jump to yours and he smiles something soft. Before his eyes drop down to your outfit and he snickers.

You are a grown woman. Sure, you still live with your mama but her house is big— you have your own room, your own car no matter how beat down it is and you got a job in the city that pays you a pretty penny. You are your own person, free to make your own choices, to do whatever you want but that all goes out the window when it comes to your mother and church. She had taken one look at your outfit, a pair of shorts and a tank top, and sent you back up to your room like you were a child and told you to change into that dress your grandma got for you two Christmas' ago. Said dress was a hideous shapeless length of orange fabric that hugged neither curve nor lump, it stops just above your knees, and a matching pair of ugly gloves that make your skin crawl just looking at them.

Your mama had said you looked beautiful when you came down the stairs but Arvin bit back a laugh every time he glanced at you. The bastard.

You stick your tongue out at the man and he barks out a laugh that makes Lenora jump in her spot. Just as she turns to nag him there's a loud thump then Pastor Dan's wife Katrina screams bloody murder. The music that was playing along to the pastor's service cuts short as the piano boy shoots to his feet and there's a burst of movement and more screaming. Your eyes snap over to the commotion, leaning over chairs to see past the suddenly standing members of the church to see what happened and… oh.

Cindy Prewitt, the main singer of the choir in all her pretty thick purple robes had passed out. Her piano boy is at her side in the instant, his gravelly voice heard over mothers reassuring their kids everything was okay; “Cindy, baby, are you okay?”

Pastor Dan dabs at his forehead with a cross embroidered handkerchief as he stares on, a frown on his face, “We have to end it here folks, I know–”

You don't hear much else because Cindy stirs and several people exclaim ‘hallelujah!’ or some type of; ‘God is good!’

Arvin has made his way over to you in all of this, his fingers interlocking with yours when he's sure no one is looking and he tugs you a bit closer to him, “Think we gonna head out. Heat's finally getting to Grandma and Lenora, you staying?”

You squeeze his hand in response, thinking before responding. You had rode here with your mother in her car and as much as you'd love to leave with her, you know she's gonna make it a point to stop and talk with everyone and their mother before taking a step out those doors. “I dunno… Your truck here?”

Arvin bobs his head a little, looking over by the altar where Cindy is now sitting up— a cup being pressed to her lips by her lover and he frowns just a bit but the grip on your hand grows a little tighter. “Mhm, Unc’ drove Lenora ‘nd them here. I just followed behind to come see you.”

Your heart does a little flip as you stare up at him. Your lips turn downward in some weak attempt to fight off the big grin growing on your lips, “You didn't have to come here for me, Arvin. I know you don't like church.”

Arvin shrugs and does the thing he does when he's starting to turn a bit bashful— his left cheek sucks in and you can see him chewing on it as he gives your hand another squeeze before pulling away and letting his voice drop into a whisper, “Well, I like you so…”

This time you don't fight the smile. “Arvin Russel, you're a true charmer.” Then, quickly you add; “Go wait for me in your car, it's better if we aren't—”

“Together, I know.” He clips, sighing. He takes off his cap and pushes all his hair back before shoving it back on his head. “See you.”

“See you, Arvin.”

†††

Arvin takes you home before he takes you anywhere else. He doesn't tell you to be quick or ask to come inside— he knows your mother has a nose of a bloodhound and would be able to sniff out the fact that he was there— he simply presses several quick kisses to your lips, groaning when you pull away and asks you to bring him out a glass of water when you're done.

So, you take the quickest shower known to man. You don't bother with shaving because Arvin has said multiple times that hair doesn't bother him, and you lather yourself up in sweet-smelling soap then hop out and slather yourself in a mix of cocoa butter and coconut oil. You twist your hair up and away from your face, put in cute little golden studs, and finally, you pull on a pretty blue sundress. Most girls in town wouldn't be caught wearing something so thin, even in this heat they'd have on their shorts that touched way past their knees or some dress that was much too thick for this weather. You spray one last spritz of perfume on you before bounding into your kitchen and grabbing two water bottles.

You're out of your house in under thirty minutes and when you open your front door, you see Arvin hastily stub out a cigarette and choke on the smoke that filled the cabin of the truck. He tries to fan the smoke with his cap before giving up and stumbling at his car with a guilty look, “Thought you'd take longer.” He coughs, a small puff of white smoke escapes his lips and he fans it away before it blows in your face looking sheepish. “Sorry, baby you look… look.. wow.” He clears his throat, lashes fluttering as he takes you in.

“That’s a good ‘wow’ right..?” You ask, pitching your voice higher in an attempt to make it sound like a joke but you hesitantly begin to pull at the fabric. “It might be a little… much but it's hot and it's not like—”

“Baby, y’look gorgeous.” He interrupts. He's turning bright pink just looking at you, his cheek sucking in as he shuffles foot to foot. “I ain't ever seen a prettier gal in all my life, just…wow.”

You smile lightly but still, you add; “It… it might be a little much for the creek–”

At this very moment, Arvin is glad he lives in a small town with the closest neighbor usually a mile away and hidden in Knockemstiffs’ nature. He's glad because he can pull you close without worrying about prying eyes and gossiping mouths to press a soft kiss to your lips. He smiles when you huff in annoyance but you kiss him back all the same, he's the first to pull away his hands falling to your waist pausing just a minute before he shakes off whatever thought that spawned in his head. “It's a date, darlin’. A shitty date I know but you're allowed to get all dolled up, you're allowed to look sexy if you want.”

You snicker, pressing another kiss to his lips then the corner of his lips then his chin before leaning back with an impish grin, “You think I look sexy?”

Arvin blinks down at you, a smile pulling at his lips.“I think we better get a move on before I drop to my knees right here and devour you.”

Your heart jumps and you swat at him, ignoring the heat that shoots straight to your core. Damn, you think, swatting at your laughing lover again, maybe it wasn't the best idea to go without underwear.

Dates with Arvin usually go one or two ways. The two of y'all were secret, something down low and private to keep you safe in a world full of small-minded folks. So, usually, Arvin would pack a basket full of food he and his grandma made, treats he snagged from the store, and drove you out somewhere deep into the wilderness where you both could be you. You could talk, eat, laugh, and pretend like you weren't sitting on some ratty old blanket but at the diner in town. But sometimes, life gets in the way. Arvin works, you work and sometimes when he's not working he's watching his niece while Lenora finishes up school and you'll be damned if you get in the way of that. So, sometimes, you both go days without seeing each other— weeks really where all you have are secret late-night phone calls and glimpses of each other in passing. Meaning when the both of you finally see each other again there isn't much talking.

No, it's spent in the back of Arvin's truck, clothes barely off and moaning and well, fucking like bunnies. You used to say it's a miracle you ain't pregnant, Arvin snorts at the idea and points out that no matter how hot and bothered he gets about you he'd never forget a condom.

It's been nearly a week since you saw Arvin in person, his presence at church had been a surprise but a rather bold statement to you. He missed you, missed you enough to suffer through church after all that happened last year. It's been three days since any secret phone calls and with the way Arvin is tugging you to the car, he's desperate for you. His driving shows the same— he all but speeds out to the creek, his hand securely on your thigh rubbing small circles into your flesh. It'd be almost sweet if you didn't know him if you didn't recognize the impatient tapping of his fingers on the wheel. Rarely, he's ever this horny and you help but want to tease him.

“I don't see the basket,” You start coyly letting your hand fall over his, “Are we gonna stop and pick something up before we head to the woods?”

Arvin's foot hits the brakes incredibly fast and you jerk forward but are kept from any harm when his hand flies up to stop you from going any forward. He apologizes first, quickly then blinks twice, “You wanna eat?”

“I could go for a bite.”

He looks at you then the woods you're both surrounded by almost incredulously. But, by the grace of all that is good, he doesn't complain about it, instead, he nods his head and puts the car in reverse, “Well, I'm picking what we eat this time, gonna be dark by the time we get back to the woods so might as well get something big and a lantern or somethin–” Your snickering causes him to pause and he glances away from the rearview mirror to look at you, “What's funny, Pretty girl?”

“You are.” You laugh, “I was just joking, Arvin. Ate before church ‘sides, I'm not an idiot. Figured we were gonna be out here the moment I saw you.”

He frowns just a bit, “Don’t say it like that baby. You know you're more than sex, right?” He pulls the car just a bit deeper into the woods. It's not the creek but it's close enough and hidden behind overgrowth, “I ain't bothered by going back and getting us some food and shit, we can just relax we don't–”

You raise an eyebrow, cutting him off, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

There's a pause. Arvin stares at you, you stare at him— your eyebrows raising higher as he swallows down harshly before– “Fuck it.” He curses. He's unbuckling and out of his seat faster than you can blink and you burst out laughing as he scrambles at the car. He's a man on a mission, rounding the car to your side in under a second and your door is yanked open. “I’ll buy you a proper dinner on the way back, bigots be damned.”

Then he slams his lips onto yours, manhandling you till you're facing him with your legs spread and him in between them. You whine when one of his hands comes up to grasp at your throat and he tells you to shut up. You don't but he doesn't seem to truly mind as his tongue slides against yours— it's a messy kiss, you can feel spit slipping down your chin and your teeth clink against each other as the kiss grows more heated then– “Oh,” You gasp as he weasels a hand between your legs, it's a bit of muscle memory on his part, his pinkie and ring fingers settle heavily on your clit pulling it taunt as he positions himself closer to you. “Arvin–”

“Shut up,” He grumbles, kissing you stupid. He makes a show of sucking on your tongue before pulling away to kiss your nose, letting the hand on your throat drop to push your dress up to stare at your pussy, and lets out a low whistle. “Pretty girl…”

“You're the devil, Arvin.” You whine, trying to close your legs.

He keeps your legs open with ease, still eyeing your cunt like it's the prettiest thing in the world, and smiles with bright glinting teeth, “With you baby? All the time.” Then, he puckers his lips and bends down just a bit to spit on your pussy. A gasp of mild disgust leaves you and the man snickers, “Oh, that was disgusting but not all those times I stuck my tongue in ya?”

“At least let me take my dress off.” You huff, “It's new and I like it–”

“Mmm… I like it too. Be a good girl and keep it on for me,” He simpers then he tugs at the fabric around your stomach, “But pop your tits out, I like to watch when they bounce.”

“Arvin.” You hiss, swatting at his hands. “You oughta be nice to me when you're between my legs.”

Arvin only chuckles again but he does fix himself upwards to give you a proper soft kiss. You let him, of course, one of your hands carding through his hair. You hear him fumble with his belt, his knees hitting the side of your seat and causing the truck to rock and creak— Arvin lets out a choked groan when you bite his lip and he carefully pulls away to yank his pants down.

You let out the same whistle he did early, “Pretty boy.” You tease good-naturedly and you watch as his ears burn pink. You laugh and spread your legs a little wider as if to challenge him— there's a chill in the air that mixes oddly against the warm heat of your pussy and Arvin's spit but you try not to let it get to you as you watch your man curse and fumble with the condom. Arvin curses again when he finally gets the material over his flushed cock before closing the distance between you for a kiss.

“Y’know,” He starts, breathless as he rocks against you, sliding against your folds with barely contained eagerness, “You complain an awful lot about me being nice to you when being mean makes you wet.”

He doesn't let you get the chance of replying before he's pressing into you, stealing both your breath and any forming thought. His hands go to your waist holding you in place as he fucks into you. Your startled squeak turns into a sharp moan as you arch your back, meeting him thrust for thrust— “Oh fuck, Arvin.” You gasp and he lets out a concentrated hum, pressing a kiss to the side of your mouth. “Can you– fuck, can you –”

“I gotchu, baby.” He cuts you off with another kiss pulling you closer to his body with a hard thrust and you gasp and squirm— your ass is damn near hanging out of the car, your legs alternating between stabilizing yourself and quivering at your man's thrust. Arvin uses your new position to rearrange your dress some more; he pulls down your dress to your torso and pushes its bottom half up to meet it. “So damn pretty in this thing–” He grunts, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he pumps into you, fingers rubbing messy circles into your clit, “Shit, baby, need to– need to get you another, f-fuck–” He cuts himself off with a moan, “Love this pussy so much…”

When you cum it's sudden, a strike of lightning, a belt snapping— your legs give out and Arvin is quick to support your weight. He all but hauls your limp body up and out of the car, swallowing your moans and whimpers as he continues to snap his hips against yours chasing his high. He holds you easily, your legs barely touching the ground as he humps, his voice pitching into a needy whine to match your own, “Fuck baby, fuck fuck fuck– that's it, you take my dick so well, just a little more, just a little – fuck!”

Your back hits the side of the truck and the vehicle rocks with the movement as Arvin curls himself around your body— trembling fingers digging into your sides as he chases his release. The most you can do is hold on for dear life, taking what he gives and praising him in a soft tone that has him blinking back tears of pleasure. You cum a second time without much sound, just a low moan and your legs and cunt tightening around Arvin and it makes him let out a choked— “J-Jesus, fuck, I'm gonna cum, baby.” The truck rocks in tandem with his quickening thrust. Your hands grip his shoulders leaning forward, hiccuping as you kiss along his neck, and Arvin moans loud and needy, “Oh fuck, baby I'm– please, please I need to– I need to–”

Arvin doesn't finish his sentence before he's cumming. He nearly drops you as he does but instead, he presses you against the truck, panting as he holds you close. He whimpers when you squirm in his grasp but doesn't put up a fight as your feet touch the ground again. Still, he leans heavily against you, his arms tightly wound around your waist to keep you close. “Missed you.”

You snort lightly, pulling your dress back over your breasts, “Missed you too, Arvy. You need to sit down?”

He blinks slowly, “Mmm, nah. But c’mere–” As if he didn't just fuck you seven ways from Sunday, he picks you up— chuckling when you whine and rounds the truck to its bed and quickly opens it and has you sitting pretty on a blanket already set up back there. “This,” He starts after taking a deep breath and kissing you on your nose, “Is where I planned to have some fun but somebody thought it'd be funny to mess with me.”

“I ain't gonna apologize so stop looking at me like that.” You laugh and it brings a smile to his lips before his eyes drop down to your soiled dress. He gives the fabric a curious tug.

“Never seen you wear something like this, you said it's new?”

“Issa sundress.” You offer when he glances back up at you, “All the rage in the city and they're lightweight and good to wear in this heat. All the girls up there are wearing it.”

“Huh,” He breathes. He kisses you once, twice, then—

“Arvin!” You chide when his hands come up to grope at your tits.

Your father does not take his eyes off of you. He does not cry, he does not beg for mercy. He simply stares straight ahead, his lips pulled into a humorless smile. He may not cry but his eyes shine with unshed tears and his gazes waivers ever so slightly to the chains around your wrists and ankles, to the guards that are pinned to your sides. His grin wobbles and he blinks. But he does not cry. Not in front of you, in front of the Duke soon to be crowned King, and not for the supporters who linger in the crowd.

The executioner's blade rises, the crowd's cheers are near deafening, and the Duke looks away; he looks at you. There is a pity in his gaze but there is also fierce determination. The rebellion ends here.

The blade drops. You see it all in slow motion, the Duke turning his son away, his mistress watching on. The crowd jumping— cheering, mothers shielding the eyes of their children. Your father, he lets his smile drop, his mouth opens—

I love–

The sentence is never finished. His head falls, rolling into the crowd. The guards hold you up as you collapse, screaming.

The rebellion ends here.

➫➫➫

“I refuse.”

There's a hiss of annoyance from the servant. She holds your meal and your medicine on a golden tray, balancing them with the prior doses. It's been three days since the death of your father, two weeks since you last heard from your brother and nearly four days since you've eaten or taken your medicine.

It's starting to take a toll on you, the grief, and your sickness. Your mouth is constantly dry, and no amount of water is enough to sate your thirst. Your hands are constantly shaking, aching with an ancient pain, and most times you are confined to your bed because the ache in your bones is too much to bear.

When your bones don't ache, the pain in your chest takes the stage— making each breath feel like it's pinching its way out of your lungs. Your existence is miserable.

You had begged your captors for death, and they had denied.

The servant shuffles in her place, her face pinched. “The King insisted, Lady.” The title leaves her mouth sour as if she dreads to address you as such. “He wishes to remind you that you are not a prisoner here. That you are free to leave your room with a guard as long as you take your medicine.”

You aren't a prisoner, are you? With a room plated in gold and a constant stream of food and water, how could you be considered as such? You even had a servant— a maid who despised your very existence but was eager to listen to your every command if you so much as said it. You had tried to ignore it, to throw a sheet over the truth. You were more a spoil of war than a prisoner of it.

Still, you hold strong. “Tell the King, I refuse. Tell him the only thing I wish for is death.”

The maid takes a breath, you think she'll slam the try down and storm off. She had done so before, only to shuffle back hours later to do the same song and dance all over again, but she didn't. She places the tray down by the door and stalks further into the room, you watch with wary eyes as she sits to the left of you. In a plush green chair, her hazel eye stare is piercing. “You are being childish.”

You scoff and though the action is painful, you sink further into the bed and look away from her. She only sneers at you, continuing. “You are childish, selfish and ignorant of all those that surround you. The King offers a branch and you refuse to take it?”

“Your King killed my father.” You wheeze, your lungs giving a painful squeeze. “I think I'm allowed to be all those things and more.”

“He is not my King.” She spits, her voice a deadly whisper. “And you are not the only one who's lost people. My mother, my brother and my nephews are dead. Leto Atreides refused to do anything about the sickness sweeping across his settlements and my people paid for it.” She takes a deep breath, cooling the anger that dances across her face. “The rebellion is not lost. We still have a fighting chance.”

You give the servant a tired look. “My father is dead. Your leader is gone and even if he wasn't, he was a monster, he killed hundreds.”

“And what is that compared to this King's thousands?” She retorts. “Your father was not a monster, he was a commander. A voice for the scorned and your brother the sword to his cause. You can pick up where they left off, you can fix this.”

A laugh spills past your lips, it's damn near hysteric and it jolts the servant in her seat. “Fix what, exactly? I can not raise the dead, my brother is lost and my sickness threatens to claim my life. Preach your hymns to another light, Lady. Preferably not a pyre.”

She doesn't appreciate your joke, she stands abruptly, her lips tight and her brows furrowed. “Your father would not want this for you. Neither would your brother. They talked of you, constantly. Endlessly. They told us you knew nothing of their plans, that they kept you in the dark because they thought you'd risk everything to join them despite your sickness.” She looks to you, searching your face for the girl they spoke of. She looks away when all that stares back at her is a person rotting away. “It seems they were wrong.”

She doesn't let you get another word in before she leaves. The door slams behind her and your eyes struggle to find the movement. To think he would have supporters hid right under the King's nose— it was probably a backup plan; to have the very girl who dotes on you now, saddle up to the King. For her to get close enough to where his guard drops and she could sneak in the finishing blow, or maybe,it was insurance. Maybe, just maybe, your father knew he'd fail in the long run and to have people inside the castle was another way to protect you when he was gone.

Your eyes flutter shut with a huff, who was she to preach to you? To try to convince you to shove the very thing that cripples you to the side to take up the pipedream that was your father's legacy?

You loved your father, you love your brother. But you are no fool, they did not tell you in fear that you'd join them. They didn't tell you because you'd refuse to do so. You were not blind to the sins of Duke— King Leto, but they were things he could not prevent. The very sickness the servant speaks of was something incurable, something unstoppable and yet when the King tried to close borders to limit its reach, every trader rich and poor had complained. They snuck past guards and bribed their way into areas closed off and so, the sickness continued till all that caught it died and the only ones left were those who were immune.

Thousands died but their deaths were something not even the most talented healer could prevent. Thousands died and their King mourned with them, sending out provisions; medicines, food and clean water. He had offered to cut the land tax and offered the family of the dead a hefty amount of silver to help them in trying times. The King, then Duke, mourned his people and yet, some of them blamed him.

The King has his sins and he atones for them. He has to live with them. But your father? Your father had killed people in cold blood for not supporting his cause, he had robbed the sick and poor to fund his rebellion. Your father had cried; retribution! His people answered in blood.

Your father was not a commander, he was a monster and your brother his teeth.

Still, a part of you clings to the image of them they showed you. It clings to the father who'd greet you every morning with your medicine and a smile, it clings to the brother who treated you as if you've never fallen sick— who snuck you out for your planets first snowfall and showed you how to pet the serpents that laid in your riverbeds. It clings to the family, no matter how small and broken it was. Two truths could exist at once.

Your family were monsters. True. Your family was the only peace and safety you'd ever know. The truth.

You don't want to fall asleep but your body works against you, deciding that your pain will be more bearable if you aren't awake to feel every ache in your bones and stab in your chest. You can't fight, you don't really try to— but, as your consciousness fades, you hear your door open with a click. You can't force your eyes open but you hope it's the King, you hope he's granting your wish.

➫➫➫

Paul tries his best to understand his father. He studies his actions, his words and listens to whatever thoughts he chooses to share. He retraces his steps starting from the very moment Leto Atreides was named Duke and ending when he was crowned a King.

His father has suffered tragedy after tragedy, from the death of his own father to the death of his first wife and son.

Paul Atreides likes to think he gets his father, understands him on a level only a son could. But no matter how hard he tries, he can not, for the life of him, understand why his father spares the children of that traitorous Balliol man. Kings before him would have made examples of them— the death of their father wouldn't have been enough, they would have cut the hands off the son and forced him to fight in coliseums. They would have stripped his daughter bare, cut her hair to her scalp and parade her around their kingdoms till the elements took her. There would have been songs, plays made about the fall of the great Balliol family and the rise of the Golden King. His father, who has always told him to look to the past; to learn the stories of his grandfather and all before him, does not do the same.

He turns Paul away from the sight of his death. He sends his son, a man nicknamed The Butcher, away to a planet whose inhabitants were known to never anger or raise a hand in violence. He rids the Butcher of his weapons and collars him so any violence is punished with a painful zap. He keeps his daughter, a sickly girl, locked away somewhere deep in the castle with servants waiting on her hand and foot. He thinks it's a waste of resources— you were dying anyway, so why not cast you aside and let you rot instead of trying to cure you? He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand.

His father tells him it's because he's not thinking like a ruler. His father looks disappointed, horribly so, when he voices his thoughts and tells him, in a kinder way, to grow up. That he is no longer a future Duke, but a future King. With the defeat of Balliol and all his supporters, came a responsibility much bigger than the planets they left behind.

“It is a cycle, Paul.” His father rasps, his voice thick as he nurses a cup of liquor and a cigar to dull his migraine. His mother, ever diligent, ever loyal, is at his side. Her hands rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “A pattern, even. Of endless hurt. I cut the head off the Hydra. That should be enough.”

“No,” Paul protests, his voice hard. “When you cut off one head, two more grow in its place–”

“A cycle,” Leto says again, his eyes distant. “What shall I do when I cut those two heads and four sprouts in its place? Should I respond with violence every time? When does it end, Paul? Why must my hands be stained with blood endlessly when I can allow the two living heads to learn from the priors’ mistakes?”

For a moment, Paul is speechless. He looks to his mother for some type of support only to wilt when she has her head bowed away from him. She agrees with his father. Paul doesn't get it, endless possibilities run through his mind— his dreams do not hold solid answers, nor does Duncan when he turns to him. He doesn't get it and wants to desperately. So, he tries a different angle.

“Balliol was a monster.”

His father hums, he doesn't disagree. “He was a friend, once.”

“And because he was a friend, you pardon his children? His son?”

Leto takes a sip from his cup, chuckling humorlessly. Jessica sighs. Both sounds make him bristle. He watches as his father places his cup to the side, and his cigar in a tray before looking at him. Truly looking at him. “Would you kill for me, Paul?”

Paul blinks, chest tightening. “What?”

“If I asked it of you, would you?” Leto asks again, “If I told you it was the right thing to do, that if it'd save your mother, that you would never have to hurt again, would you kill for me?”

Jessica makes a noise of protest, her eyes flickering between the two of them but Leto holds up a hand, his gaze never wavering. Paul hesitates, only for a second before swallowing. “Of course, I would.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Paul answers, slowly. He looks at his father unsurely, “I don't–”

“Why would it matter that I asked, Paul? Would you have answered differently if someone else asked?” Leto presses.

“Of course, I would–”

"Why?”

“Because you're my father!” Paul snaps. Jessica lets her eyes fall shut, taking a shuddering breath. Leto slumps into his chair, Paul continues unsteadily, “I would do it because you're my father. I would do anything you asked of me.”

Leto picks up his glass, his hands shake almost unnoticeably but the ice rattles like a snake in his cup. “ Exactly. So, why should I punish another son for doing what my own would do? Why would I punish a girl whose only sin was being her father's daughter?”

Paul doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, Leto's words sit heavy in his chest, on his soul. He squirms in his seat, under his father's gaze then—

“Paul–”

He's on his feet before he can think, storming away like a petulant child. His father grabs his mother by her arm before she can follow him, and he tells her to let him go. It is something he's never done before. But, it is something he is thankful for. He needs to think, he needs time.

He needs to think like a future King and not a boy.

➫➫➫

The air is cool when you wake. The ceiling is a glittering, sparkling silver, and the blankets that cover you are not blankets at all— instead, a thin gray sheet spills over you messily, bunched in some areas and dips to the floor in others. You turn your head just slightly, squinting as a glow orb floats over your head, it pulses at you almost curiously before floating off deeper into the room.

You blink. Your mind is trying its best to shake off the fog that clings to it. This is not your room. Well, not the room you were in before. This room is silver and white, its floor carpeted instead of marbled and every possible sharp edge of the room is rounded. Your eyes fall to your body, taking in the thick white nightgown that now covers your body to the IV embedded in the crook of your arm. Your lips part and your body shivers, for the first time in a long time, your constant thirst is bearable, the ache in your bones is nothing but a memory and your chest doesn't pinch painfully.

You take a breath, a deep one, and let it go. You stir under the sheets, trying to sit up but you struggle— days without food have made your body weak and most unwilling to respond.

“Here,” A voice starts and suddenly gentle hands are helping you upright. You blink at him, in shock, staring at his face wide-eyed and Paul avoids your stare, fluffing the pillow behind you. Though, when you don't look away, his eyes meet yours with a frown. “What?”

Yours snap away instantly and you flinch away from his grasp immediately, “Sorry. I'm–” Your heart pounds, you dare to peek at him again but he's staring above you at a monitor that displays your vitals. He watches the jump in your pulse with the same frown, if not deeper than before. Your hands grip weakly at the sheets, should you bow? Could you bow? There was a prince in your presence, towering over your bed. It was something of romance novels, of fantasy long lost and, it makes you sicker than you are. You wish for space, you wish for the room before and where they left you to rot. “Where–”

Paul steps away as if he was never close in the first place, his gaze trailing away from you and to a tray. It's smaller than any of the other ones, it only has a small bowl of oatmeal, paired with diced berries and a small cup of juice. Your medicine is nowhere to be seen but the sight of the IV in your arms tells you they resorted to other methods to get you to take it. Methods that were always out of reach for you when your father was alive. He waves a hand and the bot holding the tray rises with a whirring noise and wheels till it's near your bed and slowly, lowers the tray into your lap. You look at the tray, the food, and the bot, which lets out a delightful little beep then at Paul who is watching you with a careful look of indifference.

“You are still in the castle.” He answers your unfinished question from before. “We had you transferred to a smaller, safer room when you refused to wake. It has only been a day, you are lucky. They were considering a feeding tube.” He pauses, smiling listlessly. “They still are. Eat.”

You give the oatmeal a look. It's bland, even with the berries and juice. It smells of wet paper and paste and it makes your stomach turn on itself. “I’m not hungry.”

“And I'm not the son of a King.” He refutes. “You will get better food in time, when you prove you can handle this type first. We can't give you big portions or season it– it will only cause more pain.” When you make no move to grab the spoon, Paul considers you for a moment. His eyes search your face, fluttering in thought, “Can you move your arms?”

“Barely.” You admit, you can barely muster the energy to unclench your fist let alone raise your arms to eat. It is utterly embarrassing.

Paul sighs, “I shall fetch your maid and–”

Your pulse spikes, fast enough to make the silent monitor beep in warning. You do not want to deal with that woman again, she'll only rant about your father again or perhaps she'd refuse to feed you till you agreed to help her. She seems like the type. “No.” You hiss. Paul watches you shift in your bed, your face twisting in pain, “I can– I can do it myself, there is no need to get her.”

“You are being stubborn.” He says, his voice softening when you flinch again. His lips seel shut for only a moment, considering his words before he speaks. “She is meant to help you, my father assigned her, himself. She will not hurt you–” Your pulse spikes, and the monitor beeps in warning again. Paul falls silent, his face taunt. His mouth opens but the words catch in his throat, like he doesn't truly want to ask, he does so anyways. “Has she hurt you?”

“No.” You answer but his eyes aren't on you, it's on your pulse.

“You are lying.” He says, not accusing but shocked that you are doing so. He looks away from the monitor and back to you. “Why are you lying for her if she hurt you?”

“Because she hasn't hurt me, not physically. It doesn't matter. You don't need to get her, I can feed myself.” You respond, you urge your arms to lift, your fist to unclench and they're slow to listen. It feels as if you are lifting blocks of concrete but you push through it till your hands rest on the tray, your fingers only inches away from the spoon. “Thank you for the meal, my… my Prince. But I am sure I am keeping you from other duties, you are free to leave.”

Paul doesn't budge, he watches you disbelieving. “Eat.”

“I will–”

“No. Show me that you can bring the spoon to your mouth and I shall leave.” He takes a step towards you, his hair falling into his face. “Eat.”

How stubborn your new prince is. You swallow your annoyance and inch your fingers closer to the spoon, it's a snail's pace but you are moving and that's enough. Your fingers are slow to wrap around the handle of the spoon, even slower to lift— your arm shakes furiously, your wrist nearly gives out, it takes longer than you like to get the spoon in the bowl and when you try to lift it again, your body protests. You clear your throat, and narrow your eyes on your hand and try again, it doesn't move.

Paul sucks in a breath and walks towards you once more, he pulls a chair close to your bed and plops down gracelessly. Your eyes slide to him, ready to question him but he leans forward, snatching the spoon from your hand and pulls the try closer to him with his free one. “What are you–” He doesn't let you finish the sentence before placing a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth.

You blink rapidly and swallow, opening your mouth again whilst leaning back, away from him. “Your majesty–?” Paul leans forward again and gives you another spoonful. He does this everytime you try to speak, looking faintly pleased to shut you up and most annoyed when you try to talk with your mouth full. So, you give up and let the Prince feed you,he makes quick work of it once he realizes you are no longer trying to talk and the bowl is quickly emptied and is placed to the side as he stands and grabs the cup and gently brings it to your lips. Your nose crinkles as you stare through the clear glass of the cup at him and he only raises his brows.

“You are very persistent.” You murmur, taking a small sip of juice. The taste of berries and hibiscus is sweet enough to make your stomach turn upon swallowing. Weakly, you turn and lean away from the cup, allowing yourself to fall back on your pillows. Paul lets you do so, grabbing the tray and handing it back to the small robot who beeps again. He places the bowl and cup on the tray and dismisses the bot.

He watches it roll out the room with his lips pressed together, then turns back to you. “You’re… sick.”

You blink tiredly at him, “Obviously.”

He lets out a huff, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile before he smothers it. Shaking his head and tucking the messy strands of his hair behind his ear, he tries again. “I mean– How long have you been sick? There was no mention of it on any medical records.”

“I’ve been sick since I was a child.” Longer, if you were being honest. You were a sick baby, a sick newborn, sick in your mother's womb. “My father thought it would be best if we kept it a secret. We were a powerful warehouse and a sick daughter is a weakness that can not be fixed. Cured.”

Paul's hands drop, folding behind his back as he tilts his head. “Interesting choice of words. Do you truly believe you can't be cured or is that something your father drilled in your head?”

Your eye twitches, just slightly and you try to pull the sheets higher up your body. Eating food has made you drowsy, you can feel your body urging you to sleep once again. When the sheet doesn't budge, Paul pulls it up your body without much thought, waiting for your answer. You take a small breath, eyes closing, “It's something that I know. My sickness is incurable, I am dying and my medicine only pushes the date further and further out. It is a waste of resources to keep me alive. Something I told my father, something I tried to tell the King.”

Paul hums, considering, then, “Nothing is incurable, Lady.”

A tired snort leaves you. “Do you know how my father was caught?” Paul doesn't answer, your eyes crack open and there's a thin smile on your lips, “He believed he had found it, a cure for me. He wanted me to live, he had already lost his wife, he could not bear to lose a daughter. So he willingly covered his eyes with wool and ignoring the pleas of me and my brother, he went out to secure it. Do you know what he found? He found your father's men.” You sigh, “And now we are here.”

Paul shakes his head. “There is a cure for you, Lady Balliol. We will find one and when we do, I ask a favor from you.” You let out a questioning hum, your eyes falling shut. Paul ignores the way his heart thunders at the sight of you. Truly, you are sickly, horribly so. “Your father left behind files… we can not open them without active DNA from his bloodline. You are his closest living relative with your brother being light years away, will you open them for us?”

You murmur tiredly and Paul shifts, calling your name again. You stir sluggishly, your words slow, “And if you don't cure me? What do I get in return?”

“Well, you'll be dead if we don't cure you.” He snorts, smothering another smile when you chuckle in agreement, “But…but I give you full permission, with the void as my witness to haunt me endlessly. There will never be a day where my thoughts stray from you. Is that good enough for you?”

You can only muster a nod, your chest rising and falling steadily as you fall into an easy sleep. Paul doesn't leave right away, he lingers at your doorway, his eyes trailing over your face. Over the slope of your nose and the hollowness in your cheeks, he pictures you healthy, cured. Plump with fattening foods and with the very existence of life, you were already pretty but that image of you makes a much prettier sight. The robot rolls back in, beeping to itself in a sweet little tune and stops right before Paul, its mismatched eyes flickering up at him.

“Do send me a message when she wakes, Cricket.”

Cricket beeps in understanding and Paul lets him in, watching for only one more moment before shaking his head. He has things to do.

You didn't ask what she'd do with them, you didn't want to know and by the time dinner rolled around, you avoided the freshly caught cod in favor of mutton cooked in a seasoned sauce. It nearly tastes of home and your mother's own cooking and in that moment, it was enough.

Still, as you watch the Saxons hustle about their settlement, you frown. You could do without the constant smell of shit but beggars can't be choosers and the many Gods did not favor those who whined— even if the whining came from the ones they blessed.

“The Thegn will not like you standing about, Lady.”

Your eyes flutter to the ever pale Clarice. At first glance she is a pretty sight, dark hair and bright green eyes with a shapely face and thin lips. But with days at her side, you had started to notice the illness that clings to her bones, the way her fingers shake around the handle of her water pail, her mouth waters and foams at the corners when she talks— as if she was constantly thirsty but always on the cusp of vomiting. When she moves, the Gods whisper and they warn of her death. But, she's a girl, a sweet girl who's only months younger than you and never blinked at the color of your skin or the accent that colored your voice and for that, you will plead with the Gods to spare her. They should, knowing you walk with them and carry out their will in a way no other could.

“I am no more a lady than you,” You reply, your tone playful. “And I don't care much for what the Thegn thinks of me. I fatten his pockets with my stay, he should be happy with that alone.”

Clarice gives a little hum, her eyes falling away from you and to the bustling streets. She regards her people with little care, a careful look of disinterest falling on her face. “He wishes to hump you.”

You scoff, disgusted. You push away the voice of the Gods and turn to the girl completely. “Guthlac can keep wishing, he will never touch me. He wants me because I am different and men like him are no more loyal than a badger.”

“I know.” She says, then pauses, eyes going back to you. Her concern shines bright as she speaks, “I only say so to warn you. There a whispers that he is to rob you of any coin you have and make a slave out of you. I have said this once, friend, and I will say it again, I do not think this is the best place for you.”

The whispers of the Gods come back tenfold. Though, you aren't sure you can call them whispers at this point. The sheer volume of their voices is defeating and you blink several times trying to make out what they say. Destined, Cursed. Priest-Slayer, Oath-Maker. Lord, Dane. Banished, Found.

Clarice calls your name, touching your shoulder but flinches when something sparks against the tips of her fingers. She gasps and it is as she can finally breathe for the first time since she was a child, a splash of color returns to her skin and she's left staring at her hand in surprise. The Gods had grown so excited, so desperate and eager to leave, they cured her of her ailment without a moment's thought. The message it sends however, is clear. They want you to waste no more time with the girl, they know you'd linger the longer she was sick and you did not have the privilege to do so.

The Gods speak and this time, you smell smoke. You see flashes of it, the whole of Crugland in flames because of Guthlac. He forced his hand and Uhtred Ragnarsson had turned to flames. The Gods hiss. As he often does. You see the fall of this land and smell the shit scented smoke it leaves behind, you can not bring yourself to mourn it.

“I must go.”

Clarice shakes out of her stupor, “What?”

“By the time night falls there will be no more Crugland.” You admit, ignoring her gasp. “I know you are of God and I need you to trust I walk with the one you believe. Go to my room, take the sack hidden under the floorboard that creaks the loudest. You will pack what you need and steal a horse if you must, but you need to leave before the moon is high in the sky.” You grip her hand, sliding the key between her fingers. You try to pull away but she holds you still.

“And what of you, friend?” She asks, “I believe you. I know I shouldn't but Lord preserve me, I do– but what will happen to you?”

You squeeze her hand and offer her your sweetest grin. The Gods have guided you this far, kept you safe and alive despite the odds, you wouldn't start doubting them now.

“I shall swear myself to a lord. A good lord, Clarice. Now go, pack your things. May we meet again.”

She searches your face for a moment before pulling your interlocked hands to her lips. They brush over your knuckles and she whispers something— she prays for you and your safety and it makes you warm inside. She is a sweet girl, deserving of life. She pulls away and gives you a sharp nod, smiling.

“Till we meet again, my dear friend.”

✞✞✞

You had not meant to lie to Clarice and technically, you haven't. You are for Uhtred Ragnarsson, you stand for and with him and if a sword should ever rise against him in your presence, you'd spill your blood to make sure he'd survive. But as you draw closer to the town's inn, the Gods begin their newest tirade, you know you are not meant to walk with him and his men, not yet.

You do not curse the Gods, you know better than to do that but you let them feel your annoyance. They knew this from the moment you were born and yet had you sail halfway across the world to do absolutely nothing. They whisper and you have no choice but to listen. Danes. Attack. Two-faced. Strangers. Wedding. Fire. Monk.

You blink at the last one, stopping in your step. A monk? As in just one or monk as in multiple? The God who said it does not answer the question but you know they are still there. Your teeth kiss your tongue. Bastard.

You dodge the falling pile of hay with a scoff. A petty bastard but one that can cause immediate action, you apologize. It's quick and bitter tasting on your tongue but the sunlight on your back as you enter the inn, tells you are forgiven.

You call out to the innkeeper's wife, squinting to adjust to the sudden darkness, your lips fixing to ask for another bath but the words die as a group of men turn and pin you with curious looks. Curious is good, curiosity is not disgust and you could work with that. You clear your throat, eyes sweeping towards the floor and you bow your head, the meeker and more feminine you look, the better.

“Apologies, I did not know she had roomed others.”

A man steps forward and Gods, he is a pretty thing. Pale green eyes watch you carefully but not because he sees you as a danger, no, his eyes dip to your chest and you feel yourself bristle. He sees you as meat, something to hump. He takes another step forward and you steel yourself not to take one back, your eyes snapping to his in annoyance. The Gods laugh, taunting. Uhtred Ragnarsson, The Dane-Slayer.

Bloody hell.

“It is no trouble, Lady.” He says smoothly, his voice mirthful. He takes another step and grasps your hand, pulling it to his lips. “I am Uhtred. Lord of Bebbanburg.” He lets your hand drop and you take a generous step back— it seems to amuse him greatly. “Do you work here?”

The smile that falls on your face is practiced and pretty, disarming yet sharp. You hold eye contact with Uhtred, letting the act of a meek traveler fall. “I will not hump you if that's what you intend to ask.”

The men behind him all but roar with laughter. A man with dark hair and a matching beard steps forward, clapping Uhtred on the shoulder and his voice thick with an accent. “Aye, she's a smart one, ain't she? Saw right through your bullshit.”

Uhtred huffs a laugh. “I mean no disrespect, Lady–”

“I am no lady and I am no whore either. You claim you mean no disrespect and yet, you laugh in my face.” The Gods whisper as you speak. They warn you to hold your tongue, they whisper of his curse and of the woman who did it. They tell you to swallow your pride and hump the great Uhtred, break his curse with your touch and you spit at their feet. You are no whore, blessed or not, you will not raise your skirt or drop your trousers just because the highest bidder demands it. You are to leave anyway, for a wedding and before fire sets. You clear your throat, “Now if you will excuse me, I have to leave.”

The men snicker as you skirt around them and Uhtred's Irish friend pats him on the shoulder. There is whisper shared between the two of them and you do not care enough to ask the Gods to hear. They will not try to make a whore out of you and be so easily forgiven.

A warm hand grasps your elbow before you can fully disappear. Monk. A God, the God says. He says no more when you turn, hackles raise, “Unhand m–”

The Monk gives you a pleading look, begging you to listen but it is not why you fall silent. Does Uhtred simply make it a mission to go around and gather pretty men to fight for him? The Monk dons the very same haircut all young monks do, though instead of curly haired boys you are used to, his hair is straight and a nice shade of red. His robes are a little dirty but no different from the brown garb they usually wear and his cross sits proudly around his neck and rests comfortably on his chest. A monk amongst heathens. No, the Gods whisper. A Monk who is a heathen. King's blood, bastard. Warrior. Monk.

The same God from before merely says. Yours.

“My lord truly means no disrespect, Lady.” He whispers, you open your mouth to disagree, you are no lady. Especially not here but he's already speaking once more, “And yes, I heard you. You are no lady but you look like one. You are pretty like one and I shall call you one.”

“Do not think me a fool, Monk.” You hiss. “You Saxons will never call me such. My skin isn't the right color and my hair is much too different, your words do not trick me.”

The Monk pulls you closer to him, only a breath away as he stares you down. There is no evil in his gaze as he smiles at you, the God seems to rejoice that he is so close. “My name is Osferth, lady. Not Monk.”

The inn has fallen horribly quiet and you look to see Uhtred and his men watching on in interest. Your skin crawls and you yank your arm free from Osferth, “I did not ask for your name.”

Osferth shrugs. “I give it to you, nonetheless.”

Your eye twitches. “I do not care for it.”

A full smile breaks across his face, “You wound me, Lady.” Then he takes a step back and bows his head, “I apologize for grabbing you, Lady. It was very unkind of me.”

“I…” You blink, once. Twice. Apologies are rarely given to you. Especially when you respond so harshly, Osferth has thrown you off guard and from the smile passed amongst the group. It is easily seen. You clear your throat— you seem to be doing that a lot nowadays, and nod. Eyeing him warily. “It was. You are… forgiven. Though, a word of advice? For both you and your lord.”

Uhtred, Osferth and his very Irish friend perk up at this. Uhtred is the first to speak, “You offer us advice, even after all the insults?”

“I fear for you if you think those were insults but yes. I offer you advice, Lord Uhtred Ragnarsson of Bebbanburg.” Any humor he holds drains from his face and you watch as his hand falls to his sword, his men do the same and you smile despite your thundering heart. “A curse cannot be broken with split blood. The one you seek is one you know, he is a snake in plain sight.” Your right eye aches and you see flashes of it, a King's mercy and pardon, a red hot poker and the smell of burnt skin. You cover said eye and it is as if the Gods speak from you instead of to. “Know this look, you will realize who slain your kin when the time comes.”

Uhtred bristles. “And what of you? Are you a seer? Another witch like Skade?” The way he spits the name tells you they are the maker of his curse and his molten gaze freezes you in place if only for a moment.

“I am neither, Lord.” You say. “Perhaps, I am nothing but a foreigner spouting nonsense. My words are meant not to harm, only to help. Ignore them if you wish.” You shake your head, the Gods could have warned you of his hatred for people who are blessed with such gifts. You would have gone about this much differently. “I must go now, Lord. Before you set the town alight.”

That shakes him from his anger, though his hand doesn't move from his sword. “I will do no such thing.”

You level him with a look. “You will. Guthlac and the Danes will force your hand and I must go before I am a casualty in your plight.”

You turn before any of his men could stop you and rush to your room. You'll leave through the window to avoid getting caught by them on the way out. Knowing the Gods, they will not stop it even if they have other plans for you. They favor Uhtred more than they should. Your efforts, for thinking ahead, are falling as you climb out of your window.

His stomach rolls and he prays to every star in the galaxy that his dinner stays down as he shifts in his bed– trying to cling to the warmth of his covers before it's ripped away from him. He knows he deserves it— the sickness, the paranoia, the looks he gets from her and his mother. Paul had signed his own ticket to damnation with the ‘i’s in his name dotted— he used to think that maybe if he never swore on the void, the only thing he would be experiencing is guilt– maybe anger but he can't really think past the bile colored lense that forms in his mind.

He's never been so sick before, never felt an illness such as this– the sort that crawls into your bones and settles because it has nowhere to go, the type of illness that becomes chronic because it festers.

He tries to blame it on the void— an age-old superstition, that it was truly a living, breathing, sentient being– the void cursed him because what else could it be. But the void is nothing but darkness— a promised space filled with stars, planets, asteroids, galaxies of untold stories, and untameable possibilities. The void is cold, life-ending, an endless blackness— a corrosive element waiting to eat through the strongest of material, hope, and men. When heaven and hell were always a guess, a dream— the void was an anxiety, a guilt, a promise. An end to all ends; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

He shifts in his bed as his gut clenches and sends a spike of pain up to his head— the void clings to him like a second skin, a punishment of his own making and he lets it. He wishes he could take it back– he never meant to hurt you, never meant to make you cry but he did. He did, he did, he did, he did.

The void consumes him in the darkness of his room, in the farce comfort of his bed and he goes willingly.

He thinks he deserves it and maybe he does.

***

The crying never stops when the two of them are alone.

You curl up into the thin sheets of your bed and sob– sometimes, you'd bury your face into your pillow and wail to your heart's content. You'd cry and cry and cry— you'd cry yourself dry and barren if not for Jyn or Lady Jessica forcing water down your throat almost every day.

You barely eat as well– it's rare you leave the confines of your room outside of your lessons and when you do– it's in a whirl of wispy movement. A swirl of gray or black dresses as you rush to the kitchens and back, you're an echo of the girl you once were and Jyn hesitates to report this back to your mother— that woman was brash, cruel, and borderline insane and lashed out at the littlest things. She had thrown a tantrum of sorts less than a week ago, demanding you come back home over a lesson an advisor was teaching you. It'd take Jyn twelve letters to dull her claws– to go soft on the issue that you were nineteen and not nine, a future Lady of a house and not a decoration in it.

Lady Jessica tells Jyn that Paul is no better when they take a step back from you, giving you space– she says it in passing– a murmur of an afterthought as she watches you pick through your food. “At least she's eating.” Lady Jessica confided, her pale face scrunched in worry. “Paul can not keep anything down when he does try.”

Jyn would be an idiot not to notice the connection– she'd be an idiot not to notice the light in your eyes is gone whenever Paul is mentioned, a fool not to notice that you were angry– and the anger consumes you, molding and shifting till it had a new form. You wear grief and sadness better than any gown in your closet, you wear it better than any anger— and when She and Lady Jessica finally cornered you, begging to know what happened, Jyn thinks you'd make a mighty tailor for the anger that covers her and Jessica billows like a cloak in the cold wind. It snaps at anything that passes by– teeth bare and sharp, ready to protect.

Paul Atreides had made an enemy out of her, while Lady Jessica was slow to anger and quick to forgive– she would never truly turn against her son, but she could hold anger towards his actions. But for Jyn, the very thought of Paul sours the taste in her mouth— A love so pure and sweet turned rotten, it's a sight she rarely sees. So, she lets you– let you mourn the ruins of a relationship, mourn the loss of rose-tinted glasses required for a first love.

She lets you think that this feeling is forever– that your feelings will never change because you are young and need to experience it. Even if it hurts you now, love isn't soft petals and gentle scents– it's thorns, wilting and starting again.

So, she lets you cry until you can't cry anymore.

***

The jeweler was a buggy little fella, his mouth ran a mile a minute and his eyes bugged almost comically out of his head in excitement when you showed any slightest interest in the array of diamonds and jewels in front of you.

“Oh! That gem right there is a favorite of my clients!” The jeweler grabbed the gem with two hands, thrusting out towards you with excited hands. “A pretty thing, isn't it?”

Pretty wasn't the word you'd use – it's a gaudy thing. Fat, red, and shiny, the gem looks more like an eye of some type of beast than an engagement ring jewel. Still, you accept it gently, plastering a smile on your face as you rotate in your hands— it'd make a nice paperweight, a golf ball, a rock to throw at someone's head, but never a ring. “It’s lovely, but...I don't think it's for me.”

The jeweler nods with a pleasant hum and snatches the jewel from your hands. You're left blinking as he bobbles off, rambling about another gem– something blue or maybe green to compliment your skin, you watch for a few moments, and Jyn slides up beside you, her arms wrapping around yours as she pulls you down the row of jewels, “Do you see anything you like, Mistress?”

“Everything is big and expensive.” You huff with a faint laugh, your hand reaches out and your fingers dance across the cool gems; pinks, yellows, and the softest shade of purple. Most of them were pretty in their own ways but none called out to you– if you were going to wear this ring for the rest of your life, you had to at least like it.

“What about you? Do you like anything?”

Jyn blinks, hesitating before she looks behind her and you follow her gaze to a dainty little gem that's attached to a simple silver chain laying on a small blue pillow– pushed away from the other gems like it was supposed to be hidden. The yellow sparkles in the light that weasels its way in through the large windows on the wall— it's pretty, the simplicity of it, probably one of the cheapest things in this room. You nod to yourself before calling out to the jeweler, “Aten, I'll take that one.”

Aten, the jeweler, turns to see what you're talking about and falters, his bushy brows furrowing as he takes the necklace off the pillow. “You want this…?”

You nod.

“As a ring…? I suppose it could be done, it's a small thing and not the type of gem I thought you'd like but–” Before the man could swirl into a mess of hushed rambles, you chuckle as you close the space between the two of you and take the necklace from his hands.

“No, Aten. Just as a necklace–” You smile at him before turning and bouncing towards Jyn, motioning for her to turn around and once she does, you gently place the necklace around her neck. Jyn is horribly silent, her breath lodged in her throat the whole time as you gently clasp the necklace and spin her– her eyes are wide, confusion-filled as you smile at her. “It looks lovely on you, Jyn. Aten add it to my house's tab–”

Jyn is still looking at you with bewilderment when the door opens behind her– meaning she has a full view of how your face falls when Paul walks in.

She knows him by his steps, the strong confident stride becoming hesitant at the sight of you. She turns then, her hand falling on your shoulder as she does and she freezes at the sight before them.

Paul looks downright horrible. He looks a little pale in the face, his cheekbones hollow with his hair plastered to the sides of his face– his outfit normally put together and cleanly, looks disheveled and a day or two old. He looks like a ghost, something long and forgotten. His eyes, a pale and murky green focus only on you, searching your face as his chapped lips part with a shaky breath.

He's searching for so many things; anger, happiness, even sadness.

Paul would be happy with any of them as long as it wasn't a look of disgust.

“Ah, Master Atreides!” Aten exclaims, and both your gazes snap away from each other and towards the man as he bounces towards Paul and grabs him by the forearm, dragging him deeper into the room– Paul's gaze leaves the man for a moment and goes to you.

You only frown and look away.

“I wasn't sure you were going to come– heard that you were ill. I take it you're better?” Aten questions kindly and Paul looks away from you and back towards the short man with a tight smile.

“I’m surviving. Taking it day by day.”

Aten nods and you think, he doesn't really hear Paul as he lets go of his arm and ducks under a clothed table rustling about. “Young Mistress, over here please!”

You cast an uneasy look towards Jyn who only shrugs smally. Just as confused as you but you listen to the man, moving to stand in front of the table and directly next to Paul who tenses– gazing at you from the corner of his eye. “You look beautiful.”

He really doesn't expect you to respond, but he says it anyway– so the thought would stop bouncing around his head. You always looked beautiful, but today, basked in the soft light of the room and dressed in his house colors– the sight of you was heart-stopping, he aches to touch you. To reach out and grasp your hand and pull you close, he wants everything he lost but he only crosses his hands behind his back with a hard swallow.

“Thank you.”

His head snaps so hard towards you, you fear it might fall off– his mouth opens, maybe in shock or disbelief but Aten settles a large black box on the table and pops the top open. “Kept ‘er busy, didn't want to show her without you being here. Forgive me for that, Mistress.”

Curious, you try to lean forward to peek in the box, and Aten chuckles before spinning the box around and your heart jumps to your throat. Nestled in the softest looking velvet laid a ring that sparkles as soon as the sun hits it–an array of oranges, purples, and blues shrouded by a black glassy backing. It looked like a thousand little stars forever plastered in the black hold of the galaxy.

“Strange request you had, Master Atreides. Though not impossible– this inexpensive little gem is a black fire opal with a few minor impurities.”

Aten scratches at his chin, humming a bit. “It’s from Earth, or so rumors claim. Here, here—” Delicately, Aten reaches into the box and passes the ring to Paul. “Put it on ‘er, see if it fits.”

There's a pause, a staggering one where you and Paul only look at each other. Eyes wide and breaths hitched, Paul reaches for your hand then stops– eyes darting between your hand and face, with parted lips. “May I?”

It takes Jyn nudging you gently to stop you from staring at him dumbly– with blood pumping, pounding through your ears you nod quickly, your hands clenching and unclenching as you do,

“Yeah, yeah. Of course–”

Robotically, you hold out your hand to Paul and he takes it gently in his own hand– his hands are freezing, and he seems to know that because he utters out what sounds like an apology as his fingers dance across your knuckles. A chill runs down your spine and you release a shuddering breath as he spreads your fingers slowly.

All of it is strangely sensual, with how soft he's touching you, how gentle and slow he's being with you. It reminds you of the first time he kissed you, weeks before your engagement announcement– he was careful, kind, he treated you more like glass than a girl he just confessed his love to and the thought makes you feel strangely ill.

So lost in your thoughts, you don't realize that Paul had slid up the ring to the base of your ring finger till he squeezed your hand. “Do you like it?”

The ring sparkles as you flex your fingers in the palm of his hand. The silver band is light, warm, and hugs your skin comfortably– “It’s beautiful– it's... it's…” Blinking back tears, the smile on your face falls as you take a step away from Paul, your back crashing into Jyn, lip wobbling. “It's lovely– it's, um, pardon me.”

You turn, bumping into a table, sending gems scattering across the floor. “I'm sorry–” Sniffling, you duck to pick them up but Jyn shoos you away with a swipe of her hand and you jerk back to your feet, tripping over the edges of your dress– your eyes catch Paul's surprised ones and your mouth moves before you can stop it, “I’m sorry.”

You turn and dash out the room but Paul is quick to follow you, jumping over the gems and catching your sleeve just as you leave the threshold of the door, “Wait–”

“Leave me alone, Paul.”

You yank your arm away and continue at a brisk pace, wiping at your eyes as he falls into step behind you.

“If it's about the ring—”

“It’s not about the ring.”

He makes a face, flinching as if you slapped him as you both twist and turn through the halls of Caladan Castle drawing closer to your room. “If this is about what I said–”

You turn then, your dress snapping at the force of it and he nearly crashes into you. Nose to nose, a breath apart– you hiss, deadly serious. “What else would it be about?”

“I apologized.” He protests, his voice is a frail whisper as his brows dip and he crosses his arms– fingers digging into his biceps. “I’ll apologize over and over– till one of the suns explodes, till I'm blue in the face–”

“That doesn't make it okay!” You snap, your voice is shrill and you take a step back to blink back your tears– to swallow the lump in your throat and steel yourself. “You can apologize but you don't mean it–”

He takes a step forward, “I do–”

“You don’t! You don't because you don't even understand why I'm mad— Stars, Paul. Forget that you called me a dog– a bitch! That you think that I begged you for something you wanted.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving and this time you can't stop the tears that spill from your eyes. “You don't even understand what it's like for a girl, for a woman, a broad– whatever the hell you want to call her! You don't understand and you'll never understand! From the moment we're born we are property! Trained— prim, proper, and pretty.

Then– then we're married off— to boys, men, and lords who aren't soft. Men who don't think before they speak– dishing out the cruelest things and we are supposed to take it with a smile— ‘Yes dear.’ Where we become breeding cattle! Nothing but a womb holding a fucking last name!” You throw your hands out, an empty laugh leaving you as you take another step away from him– your back hits your door and your fingers grip the golden handle. “And asteroids forbid I have a daughter and the cycle continues. So no, Paul. You don't fucking understand— you'll never understand till you get your head out of your ass!”

Your door opens and you fall into your room, casting a glare so deadly it makes him feel as if his skin would catch fire and your door slams closed just as Jyn comes rushing down the hallway.

If your glare was fire– hers was ice, chilling, biting and it made his bones ache.

“Look at what you've done— half the castle heard that screaming match.”

Paul sniffles, shuffling on his feet as the void boils crawls in from the shadows of the hall– it taunts him, licking at his skin and nipping at his heels. He feels so sick, a wave of nausea coming down on him in one quick breath. “I didn't mean to.”

Jyn sneers at him, though her eyes aren't unkind— she's teetering between anger and compassion but refuses to go belly up with the boy. “It doesn't matter what you meant to do, you have to live with your actions, Atreides.”

“I know… I just… I don't want her to hate me. I don't want her–” His voice cracks and a tear falls down his cheek and he licks his lips. “I just– I don't want her to fall out of love with me.”

Jyn pauses, scoffing with a shake of her head. “You are a fool to think she'd ever stop loving you, Atreides.” She casts a wary glance to your door and frowns, “She’s hurting this much because she loves you– you want her to speak to you? Then learn. Open your eyes, see where she's coming from and maybe, maybe your marriage won't crumble from under you. Now shoo! You did enough here.”

Paul leaves faster than he likes to admit, sucking up his tears as he does.

***

“Stars, you are so pretty.”

The seamstress circles around you with a squeal. Her calloused hands pluck at the ends of the dress– pulling it out further and holding it up towards the light. She examines it for a few moments before letting it drop and circling you again and you spare her a small smile, “Are you talking about me or the dress?”

She hums, not looking up as she leans forward– fingers digging into your side as she fiddles with the fabric around your waist. “The dress, of course. But you're pretty as well, I suppose.”

Jyn chuckles as she flips through another book and you snort, grinning at the older woman. “Has anyone told you how charming you are?”

The seamstress tips her nose up with a laugh, taking a step back. “I hear bitchy more than anything– Spin for me?”

Left foot first, you step and twirl– your dress shoots out, wispy, light, and sparkling. The cream-white skirt of your dress fades into a deep blue, nearly black as the sewn-on jewels and gems glow a bright white— stars on a night background— the color stops creeping up your dress right before your waist but the longer you spin the darker the color seems to get.

The seamstress squeals again, clapping her hands and she jumps up and down. “This is my best work yet! Oh my stars! Paired with the gloves I made you— this wedding dress will be the talk of the universe! I'll be booked out for weeks!” Her bright eyes snap to Jyn, the older woman grinning at you softly and she snaps her fingers. “You.”

“Me?” Jyn blinks, using her book to point to herself.

“No, your shadow—yes you! Come, you'll help me gather the accessories… the headpiece, the necklaces, the gloves… oh yes, so much to grab–” The seamstress mutters, rubbing her face in thought as she makes for the door, she glances back towards you as Jyn stands with a huff. “Don’t you move, Darling. We'll be right back!”

Giving the two a finger wave as they leave, you wait exactly four seconds before hopping off the podium and rushing towards the large standing mirror tucked away in the corner of the room. You smooth your hands over your chest, biting back a grin as you twist every which way– giggling when the gems twinkle, they truly do look like stars but most importantly– it made you feel like a princess. While your hair was messily done and your face bare as the day you were born; you probably didn't look like one but as you turn again and your dress goes from ombre back to its original creamy white you definitely felt like a princess.

You lean closer to the mirror smiling at yourself before drawing back with a soft laugh and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. It was still so crazy to you– in less than a week, you'd walk down the aisle, you'll be married to one of the most sought after bachelors in the universe, and while Paul had his numerous flaws– you know he loves you, even if his foot found his mouth regularly.

Your heart clenches when you think of Paul– a sudden spike of fear and anxiety threading through because you fear that maybe you were too mean. What would a man know about a woman's troubles? Who are you to shame someone for how they spent their time before committing to something? While you never even kissed someone– let alone slept with someone, you spent countless days eyeing the handsome guards around your home, the pretty noblemen and women at balls and galas. Concocting titillating fantasies in your mind to pass the time— maybe you shouldn't be so mad.

But maybe, he shouldn't have called you a bitch.

Scoffing, you catch your eyes rolling in the mirror. Fine, if for some reason you couldn't be mad at him for his lack of knowledge with women– you'd be mad at him for his words. A bitch in heat– asteroids strike him where he stands because even remembering the words makes your blood boil and your skin itch. You a bitch in heat? When he was a cunt drunk fool? The number of times he eagerly got on his knees for you– you've never asked, he just gave and he liked giving, the very thought of eating you out gave him a boner.

“What an asshole.” You hiss, smoothing the front of your dress again. Though, a part of you missed him… a small part of you wishes you'd just cave and forgive him– welcome him with open arms and let him sweep you off your feet– he'd take you to bed and put that mouth of his to work. But, that was the horny part of your brain— the part of your mind you only let reign control in the darkness of your room. Your fingers buried deep in your cunt and curling, chasing a pleasure only the warm, wet glide of his tongue could provide you.

“Asteroids strike him.” For cursing you to a pleasure doomed without him, for making you miss him, for being a jerk. “Asteroids strike me.” You sigh, for missing him so much, for caring– you give yourself one last look over in the mirror and jump as the door opens from behind you. You turn quickly– excuse ready on your tongue only to meet the wide eyes of Paul whose face goes stark red.

“No, you can't look!”

Paul barely lets you finish the sentence before he slaps his hands over his eyes– he turns and slams right into the door and stumbles back before throwing his right hand out and catching himself on the handle. The hand on his face squeezes tighter as he croaks out, “I didn't– I didn't look.”

A laugh of disbelief leaves your lips as you circle your arms around you and slink behind the mirror. “I saw you look at me.”

“I was looking at your… your… your eyes!” He weakly defends, his voice cracking, “Your beautiful, beautiful eyes and face...and… Stars, you're so beautiful.” He sighs, giving up. His head thumps against the door and while you can't see it, you know he's smiling. You try not to think about it while you try to strip out your dress.

“Why are you here, Paul?”

“I was passing through… I just came from my suit fitting.” Curious, you peel around the mirror to look at him but the two of you make eye contact– his eyes widen and he turns away, facing the door again as you jerk back behind the mirror. “And, um– the castle is on lockdown. The People of Caladan are really excited about our wedding, Duncan said someone got in and it's best if we get to the closest room and lock the door.”

There's a thump against the door as you reach behind yourself and pull down your zipper. You pause for a moment and you hear him clear his throat.

“Sorry, that was me.” He laughs softly, “Hit my head again.”

“Oh.”

“I did mean it– that you look beautiful.” He continues his voice softly as you step out of the dress, careful not to step on the fabric. You lift the dress gingerly, and peer around the mirror– all the movement draws his attention to you because he's staring at you again when you look at him again. You point to a hanger laying on a fainting couch not too far away and he jumps to get it for you, nearly dropping it as he plops it in your hands.

“Thank you.” You finally say, wrapping your fingers around the hanger, then you pause, looking up at him from your eyelashes. “For both things.”

Paul doesn't say anything for a few moments, simply gazing at you while he licks his lips— while you could see yourself in his eyes, you wonder what he was truly seeing to look at you like that. Like you're carved from the finest of diamonds and bathed in gold like if you were to touch him he'd crumble– a careful mix of admiration and fear.

Then, you remember that you're naked–save for a pretty pair of panties hugging your waist– naked in front of him for the first time in weeks, and chuckle– placing the dress on the hanger, you hook it to the back of the mirror and slide past Paul, shoulders brushing.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my robe.” You pluck the thin fabric off the back of the fainting couch and quickly wrap it around your body– though, it only stops at your thighs and rides up as you sit down, folding your legs under you. Paul stares at you, you stare at him in return, frowning. “What?”

“I talked to my mother.” He takes a step closer, eyes searching your face, “About everything– about what I said, what you said.”

You blink, folding your arms over your chest. Where was he going with this? Lady Jessica already knew about his comment– knew about her anger long before he did. “Okay?”

He takes another step, closer to the edge of the couch– his fingers dance over the velvet material, he risks a glance at you. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Paul.”

He nods slowly, biting his lip as he hesitantly sits at the end of the couch. “For everything— for not understanding. When I talked to my mother, she… she opened my eyes. She was trained for my father, she wasn't meant to stay, she was meant to have a daughter. A daughter who was meant to marry a noble son.”

You eye him warily, swallowing as he scoots closer. “Oh.”

His lips quirk up, “You say that a lot.”

“Sorry.” You say instead and he nods, looking away from you as he continues.

“My mother… She knew my father wanted a son, so she gave him one. She disobeyed her orders and to this day she's still being punished for it.” Paul takes a breath, looking back towards you. “We may have a war on our hands in the future and my mother– she would rather that than bring an innocent girl into this universe and ship her off as if she's cattle.”

“Well…” You search for the right words, tying and untying the knot in your robe. “Your mother is a very smart woman.”

Paul grins. “She is.”

“Am I… am I expected to have a daughter in her stead?”

“No! No–” He almost launches himself to you, his hand covering yours, “There was a loophole— a distant cousin with nothing but daughters, all willing to get married to a man that's of higher standing than them.” He squeezes your hands, one of his hands comes up and cradles the side of your face– a move that he doesn't seem to realize he's doing as he swipes his thumb across your cheek. Once again, trying to soothe you– your heart hammers in your chest and you swallow harshly. You missed this. You missed him.

“You are free to have a boy or a girl. Or– or no kids if you want, and stars, I'm so sorry for never understanding. Void above and below, I made you cry.” Tortured green eyes meet your own, and his voice breaks as he blinks back tears. “I never meant to make you cry– I didn't think, I threw the first words that came to mind and I regret it. If I could go back in time–”

“You can't.” You interrupt with a watery laugh.

“– If I could, I'd take it all back I'd say I was the cunt-whipped fool who couldn't even think straight unless my tongue was in you–”

The laugh that leaves you is lighter and you push at his chest and he grins, pulling you closer until you are on his lap facing him. “You’re insufferable.”

He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry, truly. I know I can never take back the words I said to you and this is probably one of the worst times to say it— but I am, I'm so sorry, my star.” His hand caresses the side of your face, drawing you closer as his thumb traces your lip– his eyes dart up and search yours for a moment, your breathes mingling as he leans closer and–

You pull away.

“Not yet.” You murmur, you reach forward when he nods, a frown pulling at his lips as doubt flashes in his eyes. It's dark, murky and it only melts away when you reach forward and tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You can kiss me on our wedding day.”

Paul grins.

***

And kiss you he does. He doesn't stop kissing, from the moment the words ‘I do’ are uttered, he can't seem to separate himself from you. Kissing you whenever you were in reach, kissing you in front of your mother who sucks her teeth in distaste, in front of your father who pats him on his back.

He takes the most joy in pulling you away from a conversation with Jyn to spin you around and kiss you– making sure to slip his tongue in as he does. The chaperone only sighs, a small smile tugging on her lips as her bubbly date who hasn't stopped gushing about being booked pulls her away.

“Good luck with that one, Mistress.” She calls, then her eyes flicker to Paul and back to you. A real grin appears on her pale before she disappears into the crowd, “And congratulations!”

You wave animatedly as you clunch Paul's arm— he's taking to kissing up and down your neck, as you do— “We’ll be in touch!”

Paul pulls away only for a moment, gazing at you with mirthful eyes. “Whatever would you keep in contact with that woman for?”

“Oh, I want her to become one of my ladies in waiting.”

The smile on Paul's face drops but you don't let him get the chance to speak or talk you out of it as you pull him to the dance floor when an upbeat tune begins to play.

“Holy shit.” he breathes when he spins you and your dress flares out, fading into the colors of the night sky. Somewhere in the crowd of awed responses, there's a high-pitched squeal that he mostly blocks out as he pulls you close— chest to chest, “You did this for me?”

“Please,” You begin with a grin, laughing as he spins you out and your dress fades back into its original white. “I simply have an infinity for the stars, Master Atreides.”

“Hmmm.” He pulls you closer, placing a soft kiss on your lips as the both of you sway. “I wonder where you gained that infinity, Mistress Atreides.”

You grin against his lips, laughing as he dips you and deepens the kiss, his hand carefully threading through your hair as he pulls you back up and parts your lips with his tongue– grunting when you meet him in kind.

“Erm, excuse me.”

Paul is slow to pull apart, groaning as you spin in his arms to face the mousy servant. He buries his face in your neck, peppering the skin with small kisses as he makes you sway with him. The girl looks absolutely pale in the face as regards the both of you but you only smile– pinching Paul's arm when he kisses the sensitive spot behind your ear. “Yes?”

“I was sent– um, sent by Marigold to f-fetch you but if you're busy–”

“She is,” Paul says, rolling his eyes when you pinch him again.

“Ignore him, is it time?”

Paul peers at you curiously as the mousy servant bobs her head. You only let out a little hum, turning to face Paul again and placing a kiss on his lips. “I have to go.”

He frowns but allows you to kiss him again– your fingers curling around his neck and scratch at the base of his head– massaging his scalp as you trail your kisses down to the corner of his lips, ending on the underside of his jaw. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, a sigh leaving him. “Why?”

“You’ll find out soon.”

You trail your way back up to his lips and kiss him fully one last time, trying to pull away but his hands' loop around your waist and pull you flush against him. “I wanted to sneak away with you sometime tonight, just you and I but here you are, leaving your poor husband.”

Hands planted on his chest, your wedding ring glimmers in the chandelier light– you eye it for a second, a coy grin growing on your lips as your fingers slip down the slope of his chest. You angle your body to block the sights of what you're doing with the poof of your wedding dress– your hands' ghost over the front of his pants, following the faint outline of his dick and your grin grows when his eyes widen and he pushes into your hands. “Trust me.” You purr, kissing the side of his jaw again. “My poor husband would be much more upset if I stayed.”

His hips roll against your palms and he leans forward chasing your lips with a desperate kiss but you only lean away. “You’re horrible.”

“I must go.” You say again, grinning as you wriggle free of Paul's arms. “Do enjoy the party till one of the ladies fetches you!” You blow him one last kiss, laughing as the mousy servant leads you away, deeper into the crowd who part and greet you with smiles.

He stares after you for a few moments before someone settles at his side. He peers at the corner of his eye and sees Duncan, slowly drinking from a glass of what looks like wine.

“Yes?”

Duncan grins, tilting his head to the side while angling his glass down. “Looks like you have a problem, Paul.”

Paul looks down and his face explodes red. Clearing his throat, he pulls his coat over the front of him, his voice cracking. “Pardon me.”

***

Marigold and her maids were ruthless from the very second you stepped into your new bedroom— hands of all sizes and ages pulled you in different directions. One moment, you were in the bathroom– neck-deep in nearly boiling water, a maid at each arm scrubbing you down while two more worked at your legs. The only reason you managed to keep your head above water was Marigold herself had settled behind you, folding her knees under her and pulled your head back until it was settled in her lap as she rubbed mixtures that smelt like coconut and cucumber into your hair, massaged your scalp and carefully cleaned your face with a wet rag.

Then, with the help of the four maids and Marigold, they whisk you from the bath– dried you with too many towels, and rubbed you down with various lotions and oils that smelt of vanilla. A nervous laugh bubbled out of you when the women didn't shy away from rubbing your backside or breast– spraying you with a sweet-smelling perfume as Marigold fussed over your hair.

“Up or down? Up or down– Stars, it doesn't matter, he'll probably make a mess of it anyway.” She huffed, pushing you into your walk-in closet that was filled with even more maids who rushed up to you holding various lingerie sets.

“Don’t you think this is a bit much?” You asked as two maids argued lightly over a pastel blue set that was missing its crotch area but Marigold only rolled her eyes, holding up a pretty green to your bare body– it was filled with little flowers and a hummingbird stitched into the left breast.

“Nonsense. Ladies, what about this one?”

“No!”

Now, forty minutes later– with skin as smooth as silk and smelling like a child's sugar-filled daydream, you shift around on your new massive bed. There's a strange anxiety that bubbles in your gut as you roll back and forth– trying various poses to look more alluring, more beautiful, more tempting before groaning and rolling over and stuffing your bare face into a soft pillow.

This was all so stupid. Stupid to feel nervous– to feel any type of anxiety over this situation at all. Paul had seen you naked before– has spread you with his fingers, he's licked you clit to tit and still, this was different from all those times. Different because if he wanted to, he could put it in. He could fuck you if you'd allowed him to— he'd never force you to agree, never make you feel bad for not wanting to go that far despite the wait. He'd give you that space, that peace without batting an eye.

You groan again as you roll off the bed, landing on uneasy feet as you pad over to the mirror and look at yourself. After forty minutes you, Marigold, and the maids had decided on a thin lace nightgown that hung off your shoulders– the material was basically see-through but it felt nice on your skin, it was easy to slip on and off, something Paul would appreciate Marigold commented on.

“Men are simple creatures.” She said as she carded her fingers through your hair. “We could have laid you here bare and Master Atreides would still think that was the best thing in the universe. But we have more class men.”

It is stupid. Plain and simple, all of it is stupid down to all your newly waxed bits and vanilla perfume.

“How long are you going to stare at yourself?”

You nearly jump out of your skin at Paul's voice, whipping around to face him as he grins lightly. He's already pulled off his coat and is toying with a few of his buttons as he walks towards the bed, his shoes laying discarded by the door.

“How long were you–”

“A while. I was hoping to see a little bit of action,” He wiggles his eyebrows at you as he slides off his shirt, slumping into the softness of the bed with a groan. “I hope I'd come into you touching yourself.”

You make a choked sound, your entire body heating up as you round the corner of the bed. Your knees knock against his as you squeeze between his legs and he gazes up at you softly– his hands reaching out to settle on your hips as you speak. “Thought about it but I got nervous, I'm sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, starlight.” He squeezes your hips– using them as leverage to both pull himself up and pull you down a bit. His breath fans across your lips as he searches your face, “You know we don't have to do anything, right?”

“I want to.”

He nods, leaning forward to kiss you but stops before you or him could deep it. “We could do it how we used to, I don't want you to be scared.”

You stare at him for a moment, your stomach clenching and unclenching in thought as you force out a breath– Paul let you take your time, watching you softly but his eyes widen when you plant both hands on his chest and push him back to the bed. He bounces for a second, scrambling to catch his bearings as you climb onto his lap.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Eyes wide, Paul gapes at you– his lips part and his grip tightens on your hips. “Stupid question.”

You roll your eyes, your fingers ghost the underside of his jaw before clamping down, keeping him still as you lean down and press a kiss to his lips while you rock your hips against his. He groans against your lips, pushing into you—into your hand, into your kiss– into the warmth he felt radiating from your cunt, but you pull back– why did you pull back?

“Answer my question, Paul.”

He whines– truly whines as he sinks back against the bed, green eyes blinking up at you as he gnawed on his bottom lip. You had let go of his face but your hands had found their place on his chest again, keeping him pinned to the bed, you roll your hips, barely rocking into him, barely giving his rapidly hardening dick any type of relief. “Stars, yes. I want to fuck you– I'll take you in any way you want just–”

“Beg for it.” You murmur, pushing him back down when he tries to sit up. You eye him coldly despite your hammering heart, despite your arousal that pools from you in warm, murky waves. You fear if you moved, there'd be a damp mark on his pants but if he had felt it he didn't mention it or seem to mind. Paul blinks up at you mystified as his hips shift– trying to grind up into you. One of your hands leaves his chest and stretches behind you and plants firmly against his legs, stopping him from moving. “Beg for it like you said I did. Beg for it like a bitch in heat.”

His breath catches in his throat, his voice weak. “You can't be serious.” When you don't crack, his face begins to turn a touch pink as he blinks and looks away from you. “Starlight, I apologized.”

This time, you settle your whole weight onto his dick, grinding into him and he moans– hips jerking up to meet the friction. A curse leaves his lips as you meet each thrust of his hips with the roll of his hips– your own soft sigh mingles in the air as jolts of pleasure shoot up your spine, then as his grip tightens and he pulls you down– simply grinding into you, you stop him. Pushing him back to the bed and you hover over him, panting as his teeth dig into his bottom lip and his eyes clamp shut.

“Fuck, starlight, baby– why, why–”

“Beg for it, Atreides.” You repeat, leaning forward you press a kiss to his lips and his hands shoot up to cradle your face– trying to drag you closer but you pull away, grinning. “Beg for it and I'll let you fuck me. I’ll let you put it inside.”

“You can't– this can't–” His voice dies off into a whimper when you bend, kissing your way down his neck and worrying the flesh above his pulse between your teeth. He gasps out your name, a gentle mewl fueled with nothing but want and adoration that sends heat spiraling straight to your gut and makes your head feel dizzy. He was completely intoxicating when he wanted to be. “Stars, fine. Fine, please–” His voice cracks when you trail lower, lips peppering kissing into his freckled chest. Mimicking his past actions, your lips wrap around one of his nipples– teeth just barely scraping the flesh and it sends him sputtering, his head jerking up to stare at you with wide eyes and you stare back, equally as confused.

“You’re sensitive, here?”

“Stars, this is so embarrassing.” He tries to wiggle away from you– but you keep him pinned, your finger ghost over his nipple, and he grunts, biting down on the inside of his cheek– he looks a little mortified as he looks anywhere but you, and his hands come up to cover your own, his cheeks a warm pink as he finally looks back to you. “Next time.” He says, pulling you back up the length of his body. You settle back on his lap as one of his hands disappears between the two of you, working at the buttons of his pants– shoving them down. “Next time we can…we can explore that i-if you want but stars–”

His erection sits heavily between the two of you, hard, pink, and leaking– weeping at the tip. He drags his hand down it, smearing the precum onto his dick– he swears when your hesitant hand echoes his movements and he surges to kiss you. Breathing a shaky sigh against your lips, “–I need to be inside you or on you. Please, my star, let me make you feel good, let me fuck you– let me bury myself in your cunt and get lost in it, please–”

“Okay, okay– ” your laugh is cut off by him kissing you again, his tongue gliding across yours before exploring your mouth– your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when he flips the both of you over and kicks off the rest of his pants and rocks up your nightgown. He pauses for a second before reaching up and pulling the dress off your shoulders and exposing your breast. You laugh as he swoops down, giving each of them a quick peck– Paul grins against your chest, using his knee to part your legs as he settles in between.

“It may hurt.” He starts, his hand settling on your mound, and his thumb circles your clit, you jerk against his touch, heart thundering. “You’re wet but maybe you need more–”

“Next time, Paul.” You whine, rolling your hips to meet the lazy pace of his thumb– his fingers slip down and he carefully teases your folds with two of his fingers– scissoring his way in as you mewl. “Next time, next time– just need you to fuck me.”

And while he'd never want to experience what the void– his guilt and shame had put him through again, he bites his lip as he curls his fingers, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest– His mouth moves before mind could process it. “Void take me.” He pulls his hand free of your slick, sucking them clean and his other hands grasp his dick, using it to swipe through your folds. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won't.” You protest and he huffs. He takes your hands and settles them on his shoulders– it was a rather awkward position and you had to sit up a bit to keep them there but he steals your focus.

“You’ll tap me twice to slow down. Three times to stop.”

“And if I want you to go faster?” You tease, grinning as he rolls his eyes but the grin drops when he moves closer– the blunt head of his dick pushing at your entrance.

“Then, you'll be a big girl and use your words.” He muffles any reply with his lips, slowly pushing into you with a groan and you tense– it doesn't hurt, it just felt like a little bit of pressure, a pressure that makes you whimper as he pushes in further and your fingers rap against his shoulder– only two quick taps and he freezes, breathing deeply through his nose as his thumb once more starts to circle your clit in slow circles. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

You take a deep breath, blinking up at him with a wobbly smile– your hips twitch at the steady pleasure he's giving you and it makes his brow drop as you smooth your hand over your shoulder. “It’s a lot, just– just go slower, okay?”

Paul wasn't sure he could go slower but he'll humor you– you cunt squeezed the head of his cock hungrily– as if it was trying to suck him in, it takes everything in him not simply sheath himself in with one quick thrust. You'll never forgive him– well, maybe you would but he'd never forgive himself so he pushes, slow as a snail till he was fully inside– the pressure blooms into a slight tingle, a burn more than a stress but it was manageable. Testily, you allow yourself to clench and clench around him– trying to get used to the feeling of him and he moans.

“Void above and below.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hairline. He rolls his hips gently, not quite pulling out as he grinds himself your clit, swallowing your moans with a desperate, messy kiss that bleeds with chants of your name off his tongue and your soft whimpers. He hooks your leg around his waist, somehow pulling you closer as he finally drags himself back out and that's when you really felt the burn– it felt like your body was trying to pull him back in, crying out at the briefest loss of him– your hips try to follow the movement but he's already pushing back into, ducking his head to press wet kisses against the base of your neck.

“Fuck.” You cry, scrambling as he sets a steady pace. He rolls into you and with each steady kiss of his dick, it pushes you further up the bed– one of your hands shoots down twisting in the sheets as you try to keep yourself steady. There's a thump in your gut, one that links with each pound of your heartbeat and each thrust from Paul and– “Fuck, Paul, fuck.”

“I know, baby.” He huffs pulling out almost completely before slamming back in. The moan that leaves you loud, needy, and desperate– it's nearly as squeal as he pounds into you, chasing something you can't quite describe. It doesn't feel the same when it was just his tongue, his or yours fingers, that pleasure was slow to build it waited for you– beckoned you too it but this one, it ran from the both of you– no matter how hard or fast he thrust into you– ground himself against your clit till stars dotted your vision, it ran and ran till he cursed as slipped out of you and flipped you over to your stomach. He only gives you a quick apology-ridden kiss to your shoulder before he sinks back in and you shove your head into bed to keep from crying out.

He's babbling now, mixed words of love and lewd comments– fucking love your cunt, starlight. You're doing so good, so good for me– as he pulls you up by your hips but pushes your front down– the position is familiar, so much so it sends your legs trembling as he reaches around to rub at your clinch– pinching it between deft fingers and whatever the thing is, it trips– stumbling and Paul is there, only inches away as he thrust and thrust and– your body goes lax as your eyes roll to the back of your head and your knees nearly give out. It felt like you were floating, drowning and burning all at once– your body burns bright with pleasure, it tingles– it lingers because Paul doesn't stop thrusting, chasing his own release.

His fingers don't leave your clit and it's almost painful, each swipe of his thumb and punch of his dick sends your stomach fluttering with thrills of aftershock, he kisses you– pressing hot, damp kisses behind your ear and neck as you whimper and moan under him, you clench and that sends him over, his space stuttering as he cums. It's warm and it settles deep within you– even deeper when he continues to rock his hips, he pants your name as he rubs his hands up and down your back.

Lazily, he pulls out from you– messily trying to fix your dress as he rolls you over to press a soft kiss to your lips. He grins as you lean into him, biting his bottom lip. “You good?”

“Would you laugh if I said I can't feel my legs?”

He thinks for a moment before frowning and shaking his head. “Last time you said that we fought.” He presses another kiss to your lips before stumbling out of bed with shaky legs. He disappears into the bathroom as you roll onto your back and stretch– cringing when the movement sends his cum gushing out of you. “Gross.” you felt strangely like a packet that burst open and strangely disappointed that it hadn't stayed in. “Gross.” You repeat as you realize what you just thought, you rub a hand down your face as he reappears with a wet rag.

“What’s gross?” He asks as nears the edge of the bed. He reaches forward and grabs you by your ankle pulling you towards him. “Me?”

“Me.” You answer, shivering when he gently rubs between your legs. He pulls your legs further apart, watching you drip a mix of you and him and hums.

“I could clean you up with my tongue.”

“Gross.” You laugh as he grins, he's extra careful as he rubs the rag along your cunt before pulling it away.

“So it was me.” He teases, throwing the rag somewhere in the room as he crawls back into the bed. He hovers over for you a second, pressing a kiss to your lips, then he settles into the crook of your neck, breathing out a soft. “I’m sorry.”

You blink, “For what?”

“Making you cry.” He murmurs, “Making you angry, for everything.”

“It’s okay, Paul.” You laugh, you run your fingers through his hair as he snuggles in closer. “We have our whole lives together, I'm bound to make you angry in the future. We'll be even.”

“Hopefully.” He yawns.

You raise one brow. You had never held your tongue on Hal’s Kingly decisions, in fact, you had made a point of actively disagreeing with him because; ‘Who else can speak the truth but a Queen—a woman from the lands you rule? Who else would speak for the people?’ Still, you humor your husband when he's in this state, if you don't he'll worry himself into an early death. “I will speak to you as if you aren't my King .” You pause, carefully pulling another thread through your embroidery, “But, if you aren't my King. You are my husband, do you understand that?”

Hal shoots you a rather dry look that makes your lips pull up into a smile. It takes less than a second for that look to drop and he scoffs out a laugh. “Yes, well… Pretend I'm not. Pretend for a moment this is the first time we're meeting–”

“Where are we meeting?” You interrupt. “If this is truly the first time we are meeting, it would be horribly improper for us to be in a bedroom alone together.”

Hal falters, eyeing you oddly before shaking his head. “We are at a tavern and… you are a noble lady. Not a Queen, maybe the daughter of a Duke or Marquess and I'm a…. An earl..?”

You nod for him to continue and he clears his throat. He moves closer to you, pushing your legs up till they curl towards your chest with your embroidery balanced on top. “I sit next to you and–”

“Offer to buy me a drink, of course.”

Hal sinks into the bed, groaning. “My love, this is serious.”

“It is ‘My Lady’ to you, sir.” You say in mock offense. “Honestly, men these days think they can talk to women any type of way because they have a lick of pow–”

“My Lady, you must forgive me.” He interrupts softly, finally giving in. His hand falls on your clothed calf. “My mind has been plagued with… traitorous thoughts. Please, allow me to buy you a drink to make up for my grievance.”

Your eyes linger on his hand for a moment before you look back up to him with a tight smile— Hal's hand briefly grips your calf and you cough. “Right… it's the least you can do. Might as well tell me your thoughts while you're at it– Heavens forbid you stomp off to bother some other poor girl about it.”

Hal only lets out a long, purring hum. Then, delicate as he always is with you and your belongings– he pulls the embroidery from your knees and places it on the night table by your bed. You open your mouth to protest but Hal swoops in to grab your hand and places a gentle kiss against your flesh. “Heaven forbid I bother anyone but you.”

“Do not forget yourself, sir.” You manage to whisper, your pulse fluttering at his gesture. It is easy to forget that before he was your husband before he was your King— Hal was the son not meant for the throne. He was left to do whatever he pleased and he fell into plenty of beds before he fell into yours. Putting him in a tavern and taking away his title— even if it's just pretending, it was like letting a lion loose in a chicken coop. Dangerous, stupid and above all else—

“Forgive me, My lady.” He murmurs in reply, he looks up at you from his eyelashes. His eyes are warm yet dark— swimming with intentions not lost to you.

It's an easy death. To fall to the claws of the lion. You clear your throat once more and pull your hand away from him and to your chest, “Get on with it then. Tell me your woes so I can ease your spirit.”

“I fear the people closest to me are conspiring against me.” His voice is a deathly whisper as he leans closer to you, intruding in your space as he risks a glance around the room— you would be a fool to think that's an act of paranoia when the servants traveled between walls. While they might not have eyes, the walls always listen. Hal continues, “I believe… I believe they wish to trick me into a wa– a feud… I do not want.”

Your brows dip in shock, the pleasant fluttering in your chest turns into a thundering gallop as you process his words. A war? The English empire could not afford a war— they would not benefit from it, win or lose. “What started these… these fears?”

“Whispers, originally.” He admits slowly, finally looking away from you in thought. “Then, conversations overheard– for weeks, I've overheard things… servants sworn to secrecy to hide threats from me by men I thought I could trust.” His hands clench and unclench in his lap, his eyes unfocused as he recalls the events but he leans into you — invading your space just to feel you, uncaring if that means your knees dig into his side. You are a grounding source for the man and he has lost his footing. “At first I was so… angry. Livid. How dare they keep these things from me when I am their Kin– Earl. When I am their Earl. It would ruin me, you see– these whisperings of name-calling like children, threats of assassination–”

Your breath hitches and Hal is quick to rearrange himself— he turns and pulls you into his lap. It's clumsy, both your knees knock together and your sleeping gown bunches awkwardly but trips your pounding heart up. Your fingers clench at the front of his shirt and you open your mouth in shock. You try to find the right words but they all escape you. You could know all the languages in the world, both dead and living, but nothing can put the sudden fear you feel into words. “Hal–”

“Forgive me.” He interrupts, “Forgive me.” He pleads, “I do not wish to worry you, My lady. You know this.”

“I am your wife.” You hiss. “You can not tell me whispers of assassination and– and–”

“Oh, so you are my wife, now?” He muses. “I was under the assumption we have never met before.”

“Henry, this is serious.”

“‘Honestly, women these days get a lick of power and–’” He has the nerve to laugh when you bat at his chest. There's no power behind the hits, more taps than anything and he grabs your hand and brings it to his lips once more when you try to hit him again. “Forgive me, My Love. I couldn't help but tease.”

“This is not a teasing matter.”

“You are right… as always, my love. But there is more.” He lets your hand drop and instead runs a hand through his hair. “I believe… I am meant to hear these conversations. That this is all a ploy to trick me into fighting – funding a war. I am no fool, love, I know the gold I'd put into this war would go into the pockets of the most undeserving.”

He looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes swimming in a fear you've only seen once. It was a time before he was King when the death of his brother was still fresh and the King's illness still deadly— he had pulled you aside and spoken to you plainly, spoke to you truly. ‘I will not pretend I am holy, that I am not a boy. That I am not lost and unneeding of guidance– I stand before you today, with all the manhood I can summon and ask you to guide me. Lead me, love me in a way most holy. In a way, only you can do.’

In his gaze now, you find the same plea. The same trust; Lead me. Guide me. Your hands shake as you raise them to cup his face and if he notices, he does not say. He leans into your touch, eyes falling shut as he releases a deep breath— you hesitate a moment before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He tries to chase it but you turn your head just slightly to speak, “You wish for my truth?”

“I wouldn't wish for anything else.” He replies, leaning forward for another kiss. You allow it with a hum, your fingers pulling at the ends of his hair. Hal groans into the kiss and tries to tip forward and pin you to the bed completely but you squirm.

“Hal– control yourself for two seconds.” You curse when he succeeds in pinning you to the bed— again, the positioning is still a bit awkward. Your legs are dangling off the bed and he presses into your hip but it doesn't seem to bother him as he presses a kiss to your neck and tries to trail downward. “Henry.”

“I am listening.” He murmurs against your neck and you scoff.

“If this is about the King of France sending you a ball–” His teeth sink into your neck without warning — without the gentleness, he'd usually have for you and you squeal, bucking and pushing him away from you. “Goddamnit, Hal!”

“Forgive me.” He says. Forgive me and not sorry because, well he isn't. Even as he watches you rub at the bitten skin with a frown, he can't summon the pity he should have. Was it stupid of him? Of course, but to hear you mention another man in bed while he was sweetening you up was an unforgivable sin in his eyes. Then he blinks, his mind clearing from the momentary blast of lust he frowns, realizing that; Christ. He was the one to bring it up in the first place. He says your name, sings it in a soft remorseful tone— “I’m–”

You hold your hand up to silence him, your brows drawn right in annoyance. “Listen to me because I will only say this once.” He falls silent and you pull your hand from your neck to pin him with a look. “You took him sending you a ball as him calling you a child. A boy King. A fear you seldom tell me– tell me, husband. Who else knows of this fear?”

“Sir John, of course. He is my most trusted man, you know this.”

John Falstaff is a man that would rather die than go against Hal, let alone arrange a plot to trick him into war. He has known Hal since he was truly a boy, he's more of a father than the late King was to him and most of all, Hal trusts him with his life, with your life. It's implausible but is it impossible? You nod your head sharply, hoping to shake that thought loose from your head. You trust John, Hal trusts John. That has to be enough for now.

“And?” You urge, your voice is tight. “Did you share this fear with anyone else?”

“You and…” His voice trails off, his brows pinching as his lips pull into a thin frown. “...Sir William.”

You try to speak again but Hal pushes to his feet with a loud scoff, your heart lurches as you jostle and fall to the bed— your hand just barely catching the end of his night sleeve. “Hal, come back to bed.”

“I can not.” He forces out, trying to shake your hand free from him. You only hold on tighter and it makes his eyes roll. “I must speak with him.”

“And what? Accuse him of unfounded nonsense?”

Hal tenses, whirling on you as quick as lightning and it rips your hand from him. His hackles raised as he pins you with a molten glare, “You believe I speak such? That all of this is a lie I conjured in my head?”

“Did I say that?” Your voice comes out quick, and loud snapping at him even without meaning. The both of you flinch, you're quicker to recover with a shake of your head. “You asked me to speak plainly– do not get mad at me when I do. I only implied if you speak to him now, you will have no evidence but these whispers you were meant to overhear.”

You and Hal stare each other down— waiting for the one who will turn belly up first, for the other to apologize. It's too bad, you think as he finally sighs, anger melting from his face and replaced with a sad look that makes you want to coddle him. He turns his head to look away and bares his neck to you and that's how you know you won, as usual. I am never wrong.

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“And… you're right.”

You give him a look as he settles back on the bed— well, he settles more so on you than the bed, pinning you to the bed with his whole body, his face nuzzling against your neck. Your hand cards through his hair and you sigh, relenting. “I know.” You pause for only a moment, “If you think you are being made a fool, remind the jester who's court this is. Who's castle he stands in.”

Hal hums, “And how will I do that?”

“Well…”

↓↓↓

“I believe this is idiotic.”

Neither you nor Hal looks in the direction of the irritated whisper. Your eyes stay solely on the large oak doors, an empty smile on your face as your eye twitches. Hal smoothes a hand down the side of your gown— you don't know if it caught the twitch but if it did he doesn't voice it as he inclines his head in the direction of the voice.

“Yes, you have said that multiple times now.”

Sir William shifts foot to foot, his face twisting with displeasure. “Your Majesty, I do not know who suggested this moronic idea but they clearly wish you unwell and the Kingdom.”

Hal snorts, his hand still running up and down your arm as he looks back to you, leaning into your little personal bubble. “Is that true, Love? Do you wish unwellness upon me?”

“Apparently.” You drawl, fighting back the urge to smile as his nose ghosts the cusp of your ear.

“And my Kingdom? Do you wish for madness and unrest?”

“Of course,” Your voice keeps the same dry tone as you finally pull your eyes away from the door. Your eyes land on Hal briefly before flickering to Sit William where he stands pale in the face. “As Sir William said, I want nothing but the worst for you.”

Somehow, the man gets paler. “My lad–”

“Your Majesty.” Hal corrects quickly, his voice hard. “Do remember your place, William. Her prior standing no longer matters when she stands before you as your Queen now.”

William audibly gulps and the sound is enough to make you smile— a smile you have to hide because it would be highly inappropriate of a Queen to find joy in her people's sufferings…. No matter how annoying said people are. “I mean no disrespect–”

“And yet, you continue to address me instead of her. My patience is wearing thin, William.”

William turns back to you, looking forcibly apologetic, “Your Majesty–”

There is a saying you heard long ago when you were a barmaid haggling patrons about their unpaid tab. Saved by the (church) bell(s). When penniless men and women would scuttle off to church at the sounding of its bells— false promises would fall from their tongues, followed by some type of comment about the Lord. ‘I’d pay you, lassie, I would but– the Lord calls my service and it would be a sin not to give him my coin first.’ You would always wave them off with a smile but the annoyance lingered. What a load of horseshit. Now, as the doors slowly swing open, you can't help but think of the saying. William, the git, is saved by the bell— or rather, the giant oak doors opening and revealing the King of France and his family.

You pretend you don't see the man sag in relief as Hal slaps a practiced grin of happiness on his face as he greets the king.

It's easy to let your mind go blank then— to fall into the role of the Queen of England and not…you. You offer smiles and nods, and half-hearted hums of acknowledgment— these people are not here for you despite it being your idea to invite them. They're here for your husband, for peace and to settle the growing tension between two nations. So it is a surprise— for everyone, might you add— when the Prince of France bows and pulls your hand to his lips.

The silence in the hall is staggering and you're sent blinking rapidly as the man pulls away. You chance a glance at Hal and see his lips have thinned in subtle annoyance. “I have heard stories of…of your beauty. But stories do not compare to the real thing, no?”

He lets your hand go gently, allowing it to fall back to your side as he resituates himself. Once he's standing tall and proud, he tucks a single strand of blonde hair behind his ear. “I am the Dauphin of France, your majesty.”

Summoning the composure that was so quickly snatched away from you, you plaster that same sickly sweet smile on your face and take a step away from the prince— it makes his brow twitch just slightly but you feel the heat of Hal's body behind you and ignore the action. “Ah… The eldest. A pleasure…?”

“Louis,” Hal says before the prince can. His voice is flat but strong, “Prince Louis and his sister, Princess Katherine.”

At the mention of her name, your eyes flicker over to the girl no older than you and Hal. Her pretty face is framed by the same shade of blond that floats wildly around the prince's head. For a moment, a mere second really, her face is twisted with annoyance as she glares at her brother but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared and she nods to you, curtsying with a grace that took you months to perfect.

“Your majesty.” Is all, she thankfully, says. You smile and curtsy in response before stepping away from your husband and around the prince— his brow gives that subtle twitch once again— and hook arms with the girl. She sputters, her accent thick but you're already turning back towards the grand oak doors and pulling her along. “Where are we–?”

“We will be doing anything but standing here, my friend.” You grin, you glance back at Hal who's already staring after you with a sweet fondness that warms your insides. “Send a servant for us when lunch is ready, won't you?”

Both the King and Prince blink hard at the order and Sir William bristles but your husband only laughs, nodding. “Of course, my love. Do have fun.”

↓↓↓

Princess Katherine was nothing short of a delight once she left the company of her family. She had laughed and joked with you as if the two of you had known each other for years and showed a genuine interest in your upbringing. Hal had broken more than several rules and standards to get you by his side, a fact, his court of old stuck-up nobles threw in your face regularly— But Katherine had called it an act of love she's only ever read about. She had told you in a stage whisper, about how she reacted when the news first reached France about your union. How she had thought it was a joke.

“But it wasn't,” She had said. “Your love is pure and true. I see it now, in the way he looks at you. It is truly the thing of fairy tales.”

You had tried to wave her off from the subject but she remained steadfast, her firm voice reminding you so much of your beloved husband and King. “I do not know why the King wished for us to be here but if it meant getting to meet you, I would not mind crossing the sea several times over.”

The two of you weren't… friends. Not yet, but it was a friendship you'd hope to build. Your walk back to your chambers was filled with an innocent cheer and bounce to your step — you had, had a good day. With her, during lunch where the Prince made it his mission to get you to speak more than two sentences to him, and at dinner, where you laughed with the King. Your day was so great in fact, it had slipped your mind that it was possible that Hal may have had a horrible one.

Though, you don't get the chance to think about it because as soon as you slip into your chambers, you see him lying face down on your shared bed.

You hum in a way of announcing yourself before shutting the door behind you and shedding your clothes as you make your way towards your dress. There's a brief shuffling behind you and you look, only to see that he has now shoved a pillow over his head. Smiling, you ask, “Can you breathe under there?”

He grunts.

Laughing now, you chose to wander closer to the man still bare of any nightclothes. Your hand brushes along the length of his calf, stopping to squeeze the cusp of his thigh. He shifts then, turning over to stare at you— but as quickly as his gaze settles on your face, they sink to take in the nakedness of your body. Where he'd usually smile at the sight of you in all your glory, he only frowns; a gentle hand raising to wisp over the slope of your breast and settling on the plane of your stomach. “Hal?” You start, your other hand raising to cup your own, “Is something troubling you?”

“The King did not send me the ball.”

Your eyes search his face— waiting for him to continue, to give you something other than a crumb to lead on but his lips do not part again. Instead, he keeps his eyes on your belly, his thumb rubbing a steady circle into your flesh. It pulls a shiver from you as you ask, “But that's not what's troubling you, is it?”

He lets a hum of agreement leave him before he shifts again. He throws his legs off the side of the bed and shuffles closer to you— pulling you between his legs. You go easily, willingly as he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast. He does this twice for each, then he trails down, heated kisses stop just above your pubic bone as he glances up at your squirming form. “I do not like the Prince.”

“You do not like many people.” You try to tease and he again hums in agreement. His arms settle on your hips and his hands on your ass— tracing faint patterns on your skin. “But, please, tell me what the Prince did to earn your discontent.”

Hal takes several moments to answer you, and you allow it— basking in the gentle affection he seemed dead set on showering you with. His kisses slowly begin to turn into gentle nips, opened mouth kisses turn into latching and darkening skin between his lips and teeth, and, the gentle brush of his hands on your body turns into an incessant kneading that leaves you panting. “Hal,” you whine, your knees knocking together as he pulls you closer to his body. “Henry.”

“I’m working.” He says, his voice muffled as he drags his lips to your breasts. He goes to latch onto your nipple but you jerk away from it and he groans, snapping his teeth almost playfully.

“You are not working.”

“I am working.” He persists, one of his hands leaves your ass in favor of dipping between your legs and you whine— bucking against the fingers that slip effortlessly past your folds. Hal preens at the sight of sound, “Working on getting you nice and wet for me. Seems I have what I want.”

His fingers slip inside you with little resistance and his thumb settles against your throbbing clit. He presses against the bundle of nerves at the same time he curls his fingers, smiling brightly when you moan out his name. “Yes?”

“You are being mean.” You whisper and he has the nerve to nod, a faux look of sadness settling on his face.

“I’m downright cruel.” He agrees his voice as soft as yours as he continues to pump his fingers into you. “But for you, I'd do worse. I'd tear the world apart for you.” He pants, his other hand snaking around your neck to pull you into a desperate kiss, he pulls away— his face deathly serious even as you whine for him. “I’d tear him apart for you.” He swears.

You clench around his fingers at the promise— your mind already too far gone to think about who this mysterious 'he' is but the feeling has him smiling as you fuck yourself against the pattern his fingers set. His name leaves your mouth in soft chants— Hal knows it's impossible, but he hopes the windy halls carry the sound of him pleasuring you all the way to the prince's chambers. Hal was never a saint, never one to boast about what he could do in bed— most nights of passion were spent pinning you to the bed, muffling your sounds with kisses and his hand. Your sounds were usually, only for him. Your husband, your King. But that same childish insecurity—jealousy had flared something vicious today.

It was clear to see if The King of France did not see Hal as a boy King, his son did.

A son that became starry-eyed at the sight of you. A Prince that had felt the need to comment on your body the moment you disappeared with his sister. A nuisance that had uttered something so… so…horrible, Hal had spent his dinner in silence letting you entertain both the King and Princess with humorous stories in order not to leap across the table and strangle the Dauphin.

‘Surely, a woman like her would bear good heirs. Have you not humped her good enough, my lord?”

Heirs. Heirs. It was a topic that never came up between the two of you — though, it was an unspoken rule of sorts. Hal knew that one day, his and your offspring would be the ones to continue the English Empire. He knows that you don't hate kids, in fact, you adore them. He remembers the months before your courtship hearing you go on and on about having one.

And yet, the conversation of children of your own never came up. Why hasn't it come up?

“Hal… need you.”

He blinks out his thoughts, falling back into the feeling of you around his fingers — the taste of you in the air. “You have me.”

You shake your head rapidly, disagreeing with him as your breath quickens. You're jerking away from his fingers now, trying to run from the pleasure he's freely offering. “Inside me, Hal. I want to…I want you…”

If he wasn't hard already, that sentence alone would have done the trick. He pulls his fingers from you, slipping them into his mouth as he stands— making you stumble back, you nearly fall but Hal is quick to catch and turn you so you fall back against the bed. He licks his fingers clean and smiles at you before dropping between your legs. “No, Hal.” You protest, pushing his head away before he can get any closer to your cunt, “We don't have to tonight.”

“I want to.” He argues. “Need to taste you.”

“Suck on your fingers some more.” You say. Smiling when he scoffs, “Or you can tell me what the Prince did.”

His face darkens. You're once again committing that same unforgivable sin. You aren't giving a warning as one hand pushes yours away and the other comes crashing down directly on your clit.

For a moment, you're seeing stars as a curse sharply leaves you— your back arches off of the bed and directly into another strike of his palm against your cunt. “Fuck–” Your voice jumps an octave as he delivers another blow, but this time he keeps his palm there applying pressure as he grinds his hand against your clit. Your mouth hangs open as the pleasure rapidly builds, the band in your belly coiling — pulling tighter and tighter. Your hand darts down to…to delay him maybe, your original goal had been to get him inside you. For the both of you to achieve pleasure at relatively the same time but that plan had gone to shit and Hal merely bats your hand away. You're right there, so close to teetering off the edge and plummeting headfirst into your pleasure, if he would just—!

Hal pulls hand away. A sob of pure frustration tears through you, your body jerking— writhing at the loss of pleasure as he returns his fingers to his mouth once more, sucking them. “Taste good,” He says, “Taste better if you'd stop mentioning other men when I'm about to hump you.”

“Hump me?” You echo, your voice airy as your brow dips in confusion. Hump you? Surely there were better ways to say it. Hell, Hal had found better ways to say it time and time before— hump you? When had he become so primal about it? Where is the man who'd make love to you till tears leaked from your eyes, till your voice was raw from pleasure? Hump you? What are you, an animal? A bitch in heat, ready for pups? Your eyes narrow as Hal shakes himself free his trousers, letting his erection spring free and slap against his stomach. He tries to get closer to you but you kick your leg out, keeping him at bay as you repeat, “Hump me?”

Hal’s hand hooks on your ankle and yanks you closer to him, you're halfway hanging off the bed as he takes his cock and rubs it through your folds. “Yes, is there a problem–?”

“No.”

Hal blinks, looking away from your cunt to take in the sour look on your face. In seconds, whatever persona he had been putting up falls and you're looking at your husband again— your confused and hard husband. “No?”

“No.” You confirm, Hal nods slowly and tries to pull away from you but you shift, wrapping your legs around his waist and pull him closer. Your arms reach out to loop around his neck and you pull him down to press a soft kiss on his lips. “You may not hump me. But you may make love to me as a husband would to a wife and not a King to his subject.”

His eyes flutter close, a look of shame passing over his face. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs, kissing you again. “I became lost in my head and wasn't treating you fairly.”

“No. You weren't.” You agree, smiling into the kiss. You shift against him till you feel his cock press against your cunt and roll your hips down to only take the barest inch of him in. It leaves the both of you gasping into another kiss and just as Hal slips his tongue into your mouth you pull away. “Tell me what's bothering you.”

Hal pushes more of himself into you, grunting as you clench around him. “Later.” He mutters, “I’ll tell you later.”

“You’ll tell me now if you don't want to finish in your own hand tonight.”

Hal groans, his eyes rolling in both pleasure and annoyance as he fully sheathes himself inside you. He allows you a few moments to adjust, taking in your expression as your arms go lack letting him lean away to look down at you. His hand ghosts down the plane of your torso, stopping at your stomach once more. Then he says, “The Prince wishes to hump you.”

It's like the words instantly dry you, your face twisting in disgust as you picture the blond Prince. “What?”

“He wishes to pump you with his seed and have french pups with you.” He continues, his voice flat. “He questioned why we didn't have heirs. How could I let a woman like you walk around with her womb empty.”

Your mind is reeling. That french bastard, how dare he speak of you that way? Especially to your husband out of all people— You're ready to push yourself up and redress yourself just to storm down there and give you a piece of your mind then have him thrown out of the castle. Make him stay in the stables if he wishes to act like an animal.

“Stop thinking about him when I have my cock in you.”

“Are you really saying that to me when his words got you this far?” You snap, “Hump me? Are you serious, Hal?”

He frowns, looking away from you. “I’m sorry.”

“Is that what you intend to do tonight? Pump me full of your seed? To make heirs?” Your voice is tight but it doesn't stop the way Hal twitches inside you at your words. “Do not make me a mother because another man played on your insecurities. Make me a mother because you want to. Make me a mother when you're ready to have kids.”

He doesn't look at you, his bottom lip now pulled between his teeth. “Hal,” You call and he turns his head, finally looking at you. “You must tell me what you want because I can read your mind.”

“I do. Want children with you, I mean.” He takes a breath and rolls his hips into you and chokes slightly when you tighten around him. “But not now, not when that french bastard is still in the castle. I don't wish for our firstborn to be born out of petty jealousy.”

You smile up at him, your whole body warm at the revelation. Your arms hook around his neck once more— the movement lets his hips roll into you again, setting a steady pace as your lips meet again, and again and again. Your tongue dances across his and he moans into your kiss, your fingers dance across his scalp as hips snap up and grind against your clit. Your gasp is swallowed by him and for a moment, he grins. “Ride me?”

“I need to walk tom-oh-rrow–” A whine leaves you as he picks up the pace of his hips, your fingers clutching to the strands of his hair. It only makes his grin brighten. “Hal–”

“If we continue in this position, I swear to you we'll have a child whether we're ready for it or not.”

“You're cr–”

“Cruel, I know, love. Now brace yourself.” Despite saying it, he doesn't give you time to do so before your body is pulled upwards and he slides under you. No words are exchanged as he resheathes himself in you, a hand on your hip to set a rapid pace while the other rests against your pubic bone, his thumb against your clit. “Atta girl,” He finally moans as your rut against him, your bed shakes and steady; twack, twack, twack, sound amongst your moans at the headboard hits the wall. “Christ, you take me so well.”

You tighten around him at his words, your pace faltering as the band quickly retightens itself, coiling rapidly as Hal fucks up into you. “Hal, I'm close.”

“Me too.” He pants, “Just a little more, just a little mor–” His voice chokes off and his back arches, he's quick to raise you from his cock, letting his seed splash against your cunt. You think for a moment he forgot about you but he drags his fingers through his spend — finding your clit and rubbing it at a rapid pace. Your body goes limp, but he holds you steady as you cum, a moan of his name and your fingernails indented into his arm.

“Next time,” He starts, still panting as he presses a kiss to your forehead as you tremble, coming down from your high. “Next time, I'll fuck you. I'll do it so good you'll be with a babe without a doubt.”

The Atreides estate has been abandoned for months now, the soldiers have left, the workers who survived raided most of its goods– you watched it for days, weeks before coming here. They took most of its gold and silver— rooms now stripped bare of sheets and bed mats, some even took stools and chairs; the wood could be repurposed, firewood or weapons. Though the raiding of the estate had left it most bare, most avoided the halls that reeked of death. Call it smart or call it fear, but past a certain point the halls were no longer picked clean– the further you walked the more the clock ticked backward, rewinding to the time when this place was alive, filled with bustling workers and possibly nobles.

Months had passed since the attack and it made the scent of death easier to handle. The corpses– now skeletons dressed in pale greens and dark greys with blotches of red staining various parts of their body no longer had faces and it made the sight of them bearable, still, you mumble small prayers as you pass them and will them not to rise or for their spirits to haunt you. You were only there for the water.

Sighing, you take a deep breath before dunking your head under the warm water. It bubbles around you, scurrying up your nose but you don't inhale, dangerous, you remind yourself. Given the chance water would take your life, it does not care for any life other than its own– so when the pressure in your chest grows and begs for air, you come up from the water, blinking the droplets of your lashes and wipe at your nose. There's a faint hum, a dull thump and you turn your head and—

A crysknife is pressing against your jugular.

The boy regards you with cold, red-rimmed eyes. He is dressed like your people, the people you've left behind long ago but he's not one of them. His skin is far too light, far too pink and blotchy. He had the complexion of a freshly born baby, he held the blade-like one too.

“Who are you?”

You don't answer him. You only stare and it makes his teeth grind. The blade presses into your neck and the skin splits. You can no longer tell if it is water or blood spilling down your chest, it's all the same warmth. You don't know if you cared if it was either. You were going to die. Your neck slit and left to bleed out in the water and a part of you brightens at the thought of it. Your death would be sacred, surrounded by the very thing people worshipped. But another part of you burned with a wave of fierce anger, you hadn't come this far just to die by the hands of a palm-colored boy.

“If you are going to kill me.” Your voice is faint, your eyes meet his hazel ones– unwavering, challenging, and faintly smug. “Make sure you do it right, I will not let you get a second chance.”

The boy bares his teeth, white on white, his arm swings back with the force of a trained soldier and you picture your death vividly, your head swiped clean from your shoulders, the water turning red. Your death– if he managed to kill you would be as beautiful as the setting suns, it'd be powerful in only a way that matters to you. Just as it was about to connect to your neck again, a person flew into their voice high and full of panic, “No!”

Chani holds his arm back with all her might. “She is one of us, Muad'Dib! She's one of ours.”

The warm water does nothing to stop the chill in your bones this time. The past, just like sand, sneaks back up on you in unexpected ways – clings to you in ways you thought you had washed and clawed off. Your lips thin, your head bowing as you let your eyes close with an annoyed sigh, “Sister.”

There was no blood shared between you and Chani. Sisters only in bond, you remember the times when she was younger, glued to your side – always questioning, forever curious behind her permanent pout. She had been a princess in your eyes, her features were delicate, her skin dark but lighter than yours and unscarred by the sun– even then, she had admirers, offers for her hand when she was barely thirteen and you fourteen and like any good sister, you fought them off, tooth and nail.

You remember the nights after fights– the pain of blades stabbed into your sides, your nose broke twice over, your knuckles split. You remember Chani–Sihaya, a name you only called her in private– would sit by your side and patch you up, mumbling about wasted water and her worry for you.

But in your absence, your desert flower grew and blossomed– her roots long and deep, she's finally made a connection in your absence. A connection you didn't quite understand with this boy– Muad'Dib, the Messiah people used to whisper about, Paul Atreides the heir to this fallen house, a God in his own right has entrapped your sister with his soft features and even softer words– with the power that lingers at his fingertips, but still out of reach.

Paul Atreides decides he hates you from the second he lays his eyes on you. He knows of you– Whispers from the Fremen and conversations with Chani swirl within his mind fueling false images and rocky doubt. You were one of their greatest warriors, you were as dangerous as a sandworm, as beautiful as flowering cactus– sharp, unpredictable, and vibrant and you had left your people in the night. He doesn't understand it, he doesn't understand you and he hates you because it's the only thing he can do.

“Many moons,” Chani starts wistfully once you stand from the water, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Many moons, you've been gone, sister. I feared I'd never find you.”

You only give her a small hum, the palm of your hand now cold as you press it against the broken skin on your neck. You don't flinch, you only blink at the pain. “You shouldn't have looked for me. I would have returned to you eventually.”

Chani shakes her head softly, she casts a glance at Paul, her eyes twinkling in a way that sends his heart skipping beats. “Many moons have come and gone, Sister. Things have changed, we have a chance. He is the one.”

When your gaze cuts to Paul, his mind blanks. You don't look older than him or Chani, but your eyes give you away. They remind him of Duncan, a soldier even away from the battlefield, your eyes always calculating– picking him apart piece by piece. He tells himself that his mind blanks because you are new and different, not because you stand before him nude without care. Dressing at a snail's pace as Chani is talking to you in a whisper and you answer in hums– Paul keeps his eyes on your face, the back of your head, your hair– anything to keep from looking at the scars that dance across your figure.

When he blinks out of his thoughts, you're fully dressed– dressed like him, like Chani, like a Fremen. A shawl is wrapped tight around your head, a frown pulling at your lips as you regard him. You know the answer to your question but you ask her anyways, “This is him? The one you've prayed for?”

Chani nears from behind you and your shoulders tense, then relax as she runs a hand over them. “Yes, Sister.”

You give him a once-over, your lips curling into a humorless grin. “Then I fear we are doomed, Chani. For your Messiah is still wet behind his ears.”

Paul tried his hardest not to bare his teeth at you.

***

Your return is acknowledged with a grand party– as grand as any party as the Fremen could muster. They gather you in their arms, hugs are traded, spit spat at your feet before laughter rings out. They ask you of your travels– if you managed to get off-world, you did. That sparks several cries of disbelief and Chani tugging at your sleeve to get to tell her of it but you give them all a whimsical smile and keep your lips sealed.

Paul notices that about you in the four days it took to reunite with the tribe. When you didn't want to answer a question from Chani, you would only smile– soft, secret, and filled with an adoration only an older sister could hold. You'd smile and change the subject, weaving questions into tales that took her mind off of it– you had done the same thing to him multiple times, just less endearing, your voice tart and distant. You didn't trust him, didn't believe in him or his cause– you made that much clear from the moment Chani had disappeared out of the room for something.

“I think you're leading my people to their deaths.” You hissed, your eyes were blazing. “I think this war is another trick to play into the empire's hand.”

Paul's lips had thinned, if Chani's gaze made his heart skip beats, your gaze made his heart thunder and his head swim. “You made it very clear that they aren't your people.” Your lips curled into a snarl, looking outwardly mad for the first time he's met you. He disregarded it with a title of his head and a jerk of his chin. “You’ve run time and time again, Juban, you don't get to lecture me.”

In truth, the language of the Fremen was something he was still learning– between practice battles and war plans, he barely had time to pick up any material but he had heard the word, Juban, thrown around in jest during hand to hand combat, he's heard it hissed and spat when men left the cause, he's heard it whispered about himself. It means coward, or some alliteration of it if said in the right tone. A great insult and a direct blow because you had nearly lunged at him in fury but Chani returning had stopped you.

Paul wasn't sure he could take you in a fight, not with the things he's heard.

“Sister!” Both your and Paul's heads snap towards the voices, men the size of ox– their skin riddled with gifts of war and defeat, are rushing towards you– their lips split into wide grins and they look more like excited boys than anything. You are swept into a flurry of arms, squeezed until you're laughing and patting at their backs for mercy.

“She raised most of us.”

Paul jumps at Chani's voice. She stands beside him, arms crossed behind her back– watching the interaction with a small grin. “She’s only a year or two older than most of the children at the time and she raised us while raising herself.” Chani pauses thoughtfully, “For some, she's all they have. Sister is more than blood, it's a title, a respected one.”

Paul eyes her curiously, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Do not make an enemy out of her, Muad'Dib.”

The boy bristles, your light laughter is still floating through the air as the men pester you – sister, we've missed you! Sister, when will you cook for us again? Sister where have you been? It does little to calm him, in the past week he's known you, you haven't laughed– you didn't smile and now you give it out endlessly here. To people you didn't even know– he watched in shock when you had bowed your head towards his mother, speaking to her quietly before her lips quivered in amusement. You had offered a stranger warmth and kindness when you had deprived him of both. It makes him angry, bitter, it makes him– he shakes the thought away with a scoff. “She’s already made one out of me.”

Chani gives him a knowing look. “You held a blade to her neck. You drew the first blood,” Then she drags her eyes away from him, “She’ll warm up to you soon if you let her.”

Paul doesn't let up. “She called me wet-eared.”

The look on Chani's face reads; she isn't wrong. But she doesn't say it, she only purses her lips in thought and it makes that flicker of anger, of jealousy, grow brighter in him. Only a few days back and she's trusting your word– only a few days into his life, you had seen him for what he was. A boy stuck in a war far too young, a boy set on a path that isn't of his own making. A boy and not a man.

“The point is,” Chani begins, her voice gentle as if to soothe him and he realizes that his jaw had clenched shut and his nails are creating crescent-shaped indents in his palms. “If you make an enemy of her, you'll make an enemy out of them–” Chani nods her head to the group of men around you, “–and them.” This time, she nods toward a group of older warriors watching the reunion with warm eyes but serious faces. “Where she goes, now that she's here, they'll follow. You may be the Messiah but she's a leader even if she doesn't realize it.”

“And you?” Paul can't help but ask, “Would you follow her? Would you leave-?” His voice catches, but the question is clear; Would you leave me?

“I... I believe in the cause, I believe in my people. I wouldn't pick a side when both want the same thing.”

But deep down, Paul knows Chani would choose her sister. She'd choose you and he couldn't blame her, not really. Your eyes connect again only this time, they're light and happy, your lips twitch, maybe a frown– maybe a smile, but you nod to Paul, a brief sign of peace between the two of you. He finds he couldn't bring himself to blame you either.

***

Being back home after months away is a weird feeling. You are still greeted with smiles, even after a month of being back– people take time out of their day to acknowledge you. You're sought after for every training session, your thoughts are valued and for once, wanted. It's an odd change, something you're still getting used to but it fills you with warmth– a warmth that is stolen away when you catch wind of rumors.

She killed somebody without honor, their water wasted. Was a popular theory, but when you asked just who you killed, people would stutter and stammer. Another was a kinder one, far nicer than the first – she fell in love with someone from a village, she ran off to be with them. As if someone would whisk you away, you are far too old– only nineteen and too scarred to ever be considered pretty, and far past the marrying age. You had spent your childhood fighting away suitors for your sister, your beauty wasted away on fists and swords– someone falling in love with you was a fool's tale, a joke they must have come up with it to make themselves laugh, to make you feel like shit.

Your favorite rumor is– she left because she doesn't believe, she left because she needed to– because it was true. In the simplest of words; if you would have stayed with your tribe, you would have gone rogue, insane, even. After years of blocking out the sun and fighting off its efforts to corrupt you, you would have finally let your guard down and let the sun sink into your mind. They would have called it sun madness, they would have called it anything than what it truly was because they didn't understand your need to be free.

But you're now caged again, your cage is bigger with other birds that tweet and sing to you, but a cage is still a cage no matter how pretty– no matter what's in it.

You swallow back a sniff as you reposition your feet. The night air nips at your bare legs while you bring up your hands in front of your face– the dummy stuff full of sand and rocks doesn't even creak at you. The dummy, Qadim, is older than you– than most of the people in the tribe but it still stands strong, swallowing hit after hit without protest, it shows no signs of wearing or tearing and it sparks a fit of childish jealousy in you. “If only I were you, Qadim, maybe I could handle it all.”

Then, a voice questions you dryly, “Do you talk to inanimate objects often?”

You crack your neck in response, bouncing on the balls of your feet as you throw a strike at Qadim, “Fataa mubalal,” You stop yourself just as your hand was about to crack against the dummy's stone skull, your eyes cutting over your shoulder to narrow at him. “What do you want?”

“To speak to you.” Paul says, then he pauses, looking around the dark chilly room. Only the moon lights the space casting a ghostly hue over the dummies and weapons. He then looks back to you, freezing to take in your clothing– a pair of thin brown shorts that end right above your thighs and a tight white camisole. He clears his throat awkwardly when you shift, “And to train if that's alright with you.”

“I can't control you.” Is all you say before you draw your hand back just a bit. Paul is still watching you, his eyes leave a hazy trail of warmth on your skin– he's questioning you, he won't ask you what you're doing but you feel the confusion in his gaze. You connect your hand against Qadim's head, a sharp quick jab that has its head lobbing to the side then–

A pop. A deep crack dances across the dummy's stone face.

Much to your amusement, it doesn't break any further and by morning you're sure the dummy will be good as new. The legend of Qadim would continue.

“Chani trusts you.”

Not a question you note as you back off the dummy, you turn towards the rack of quarterstaffs. “She’s my sister.” You take a staff in hand, testing its weight with a twirl, “And I raised her when her parents couldn't, trust forms easy that way.”

Paul comes up from behind you and you tense but he only plucks a staff off the shelf. You think he's going to pull away, to test like you did but he doesn't, his warm breath fans over your neck, his voice a whisper in your ear, and your body shudders without your permission. “You left. That trust should have been broken.”

You turn your head just slightly and hold his curious gaze with weary eyes. “Maybe.” You turn back to the rack, pushing away from both it and Paul with a sigh. “Or maybe, trust such as that can't be broken.”

Paul turns when you do, angling his body towards you as your bare feet pad towards the thick mat in the middle of the room. You risk a glance over your shoulder and find, like you, he's wearing some semblance of bed wear. A baggy white shirt with arms rolled to the elbows is paired with a slightly tighter pair of white pants and tan slippers. The material is pricey, it looks princely even and you have to remind yourself you're standing in front of your people's Messiah. Of course, he'd have the best of the clothing.

The staff twirls in your hand for only a second before it jerks out, you do a half spin aiming at Paul's neck and he jerks away just in time. His eyes are wide and his voice comes out in a choked gasp, “What–”

You don't let him speak. The staff swings again and you let your body move with the motion of it– this time it aims for his side, just below his ribs but he blocks it, parrying with his own move that makes you grip your staff harder.

The dance you and Paul engage in isn't pretty. It's jerky, fast and all blows are aimed at some type of vital part of each other's body. You fight like wolves, teeth glinting in the moonlight as you snap at each other– Paul brings his staff down over your head, you roll out of the way– you try to jab your weapon into his chest but his hands are faster and stronger than you realize, they grab the end of your staff and shove. The force sends you flying away from him but you slam the staff into the ground to slow yourself.

Paul is already on you by the time you look up, his staff sweeps under your feet and you go down, your eyes widen as you catch yourself before your head meets the mat and you try to turn but your staff is kicked away from you and his staff shoved under your chin. “Yield.”

You don't, with how close he is, you jerk your leg out and kick his kneecap with all your might before dropping your feet down between his and turning like a crocodile in a death roll, Paul has no choice but to slam into the mat like you do but you are faster to recover and you throw yourself at him. Straddling him as you grab his staff– it's awkward in this angle but you hold it to his neck and with a sardonic smile, you can't help but tease. “Yield.”

And for the first time, he smiles at you. In the dark of the night, light by only moonlight, Paul's eyes twinkle something bright and pretty and it makes your heart thump louder than it ever has and your body betrays your mind because you smile too.

Then, he flips you. With a sharp jerk of his hips, your body is sent flying upwards– a thrill of pleasure flies through you as a squeak leaves your lips in surprise. Your eyes are wide as you gaze up at him, full of panic, “What are you–”

Then the strangest thing happens. The Messiah, Muad'Dib, Paul Atreides swoops down and presses his lips to yours. It is only for a moment before he snaps out of whatever makes him do it– his face is a bright peachy pink and he's stuttering out something but it's lost in the thunder that pounds within you. He had taken your first kiss and it felt good. Your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt stopping whatever he was trying to say– he utters your name in a soft way that makes your stomach clench. You yank him down before your mind can talk you out of it and smash your lips against his–

Paul groans into the kiss, tasting of sleep and faintly of mint, he kisses you like it'll be his last. He doesn't tease you when you fumble, when you're so obviously a virgin in this territory– he only smiles against your lips, nipping at them, licking them– pulling you into a game where he has the upper hand. After a particularly hard nip has you gasping against his lips you gasp against his lips and he slides his tongue gently testing the water as his hips roll against yours and you moan. It's a light airy sound that doesn't sound too much like yourself but Paul swallows it with a near-feral grin and rolls his hips against yours again and again and again– his tongue sliding against yours almost lazily as he pulls more sounds from you.

Paul Atreides, you decide, was not a Messiah set to save your people, no. Paul was a devil in human skin, sent to drown you in the pleasures he could offer you. He angles his hips against yours and grinds against your clothed clit and the whine that leaves you is high and needy, you jerk away from his lips– your own glossed with his spit and your own and he grins down at you all prettily. No wonder Chani likes him.

That's when your mind comes back to you. Chani, Chani, Chani. Chani likes him, it's in the way she acts around him– shy and girly, Chani likes him and here you are, under him allowing him to make you feel good. What a horrible person you are, a horrible sister. Paul tries to kiss you again, his head ducks down but you turn away and push him off of you. You feel weak, sick, you feel disgusting.

Paul blinks at you. “Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head rapidly, stumbling to your feet. “This– this can't happen again.”

He's on his feet now, trying to reach for you but you smack his hand away with a sneer– blinking back tears and ignoring your shaky legs, you pin him with what you hope is a devastating glare. “Stay away from me, Muad'Dib.”

Your chaperone knows this and yet, she still pokes and prods at your face– trying to pull at the corners of your lips up and whispering jokes that just don't land – trying to make you smile. Look happy, she whispers as you both walk through the castle halls of Caladan. The two of you are guided by guards who only bowed their heads once they recognized you. You should be happy your mother is allowing you back here at all, Young Mistress, at least conjure a smile.

You had tried– but whenever you did, all seventeen slashes along your back started to tingle, burn– like the very notion of happiness slowly pulled the wounds back open and rubbed salt into them. Two weeks away from this planet, away from the Atreides family– from Paul – happiness seemed to become only a child's dream: foolish and impossible.

Your chaperone’s fingers poke into your side, right above your slashes and you flinch away– a whimper catching in your throat at the pain that it sparks. Her hand drops as soon as she does it, her face pulling into a frown – you would think she feels bad for you, and maybe, somewhere deep down she does but her frown is directed nervously at the guards who snap their heads to you at the sound – they both takes steps closer, gazing between you and your chaperone with questioning eyes.

They get brownie parts for being ever diligent, for being loyal to the Atreides family and you— a future Lady Atreides, by default. It turns your stomach, the thought is no longer as comforting as it used to be. “I’m fine.” You finally whisper, you force your lips upwards into a delicate smile you spent years practicing. “She just surprised me is all, but thank you.” You pull farther away from your chaperone and closer to the guards as you lay a hand on their armored arms. “The both of you.”

They only take a step back, their heads bowing in the briefest of nods– so quick, you think you might have imagined it. Turning back to your chaperone, your lips twitch downwards for just a second, your body aching– but it passes as you clear your throat. “Now… let's not keep them waiting, shall we?”

***

Paul is trying very hard to get you to acknowledge him.

His fingers tap across the dark oak table of the Atreides meeting room. Something that could be passed off as a nervous tic– a young man too excited to see his fiance again after weeks apart. But it's more than that– there's a pause between taps, sometimes his fingers hover about the table and other times when it holds down longer. Are you okay? It spells, and when you don't answer or even blink in his direction, it continues; My star, my love, my light, are you okay? Are you well?

Paul Atreides has no shame, you realize. No hesitation, nor fear– his parents can understand the taps, you know they can because Duke Leto pauses whatever conversation he was having with your chaperone to look– at Paul, at you, then he frowns in concern. It happens quickly like all things in this castle but you catch it because you're watching him instead of his son.

Lady Jessica at one point reaches out to her son and stops his hands– her dainty hands press into his and flatten them into the table. The command is there– hidden in the look she barely spares him. Enough.

He doesn't listen, when his hands are tied– ever resourceful, he turns to his legs. His shoes tap, tap, tap– the tune of taps were different– not frantic but pleading. As pleading as the repetitive tap, tap, taps could sound. Won't you look at me? Please, look at me. Look at me, look at me, look at me—

You shift in your chair, your hand falling on the table in the passing movement as you let your gaze fall on your chaperone. Quit it. Your hand raises as quick as it falls, going back to rest on your side as your back throbs. Lady Jessica's eyes dart to you in mild surprise and her lips lift into an amused grin— the two of you make eye contact and she holds your gaze, tilting her head as she studies you. It sends your skin flaming, it's more out of embarrassment than anything else– the last time you saw each other you were half-naked with her son pressed against your body, a moment she seemed to forget while it plagued your mind daily.

Forget the punishment your mother dished out, remembering that Jessica Atreides saw you in such a manner was punishing enough– you wanted to throw yourself into an active volcano.

My beautiful star.

Your eye twitches as your attention is brought back to Paul – you drop your gaze to your hands, clenching and unclenching your hands as he continues to tap. My beautiful, beautiful love, I've missed you. Your chaperone says your name in a sentence and you incline your head towards her as if you were listening– was she explaining your situation? A chaperone to watch over you like a child, a chaperone because your mother didn't trust you not to stay out of Paul's hands, his mouth, his bed.

Maybe she was right to worry. Not right to hurt you, break skin or to scar her way into your very being, but right to be afraid for you. Just last week, a young girl– younger than you– had fell from grace because her lover came forward about their affairs– she was left burning, cradling the ashes of what she could have been close to her chest –her family name in tatters while her ex-lover was rushed away to be married to someone else of power, grace, and innocence.

I've missed your touch. Your legs jerk out in surprise, what is he playing at? I've missed the taste of you on— A choked cough forces itself out of you and your eyes finally flickering up to Paul who grins at the attention. He sits taller, trying and failing to smother the all-out smile that pecks at his lips–

“Are you alright, Mistress?”

Your chaperone pauses in her conversation to Duke Leto, gazing at you with narrowed eyes filled with concern and slight annoyance. You realize, all at once, that every eye is suddenly on you. Lady Jessica looks on in amusement– her lips fighting back a grin too similar to her sons’ while Duke Leto coughs to hide his laugh. In a room filled with people who could understand the meanings of the taps— your chaperone is the only one who is clueless. How mortifying.

“Yessss.” You drag out, tearing your eyes away from Paul who blinks innocently. You place a gentle hand on your throat, fainting weariness with a pout. “My throat is just a tad dry.”

Duke Leto nods, grinning, “We shouldn't keep you two any longer,” He looks to you kindly, eyes twinkling. “Your room is the same place as always, your chaperone— Jyn, correct? Your room is right next door. You must forgive the dust in the air— we don't usually use that room.”

Jyn smiles– unable to hide the giddiness that a Duke– thee Duke Leto Atreides remembers her name. “It’s fine and thank you again— for understanding and being so accommodating.”

Duke Leto rises first, followed by Lady Jessica and Paul, then you rise and Jyn is the last to stand to her feet. Rankings, you muse to yourself, even in passing it still seems to matter. Jyn huddles to your side, fingers ghosting your arm as she leans in to whisper to you, “All that tapping that boy does.” She clicks her tongue in disapproval– tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear as she does so, “Better you than me, Mistress. It'd drive me insane.”

You chuckle soft, allowing yourself to lean into her– she supports your weight easily, her hand moving from your arm to back. It hesitates and then hovers– she doesn't touch you this time and for that you're grateful. “You couldn't bear it even if it meant advancing ranks?”

But to your surprise, she only shrugs. “I don't care for ranks when it comes to marriage. ”

You blink, you blink hard at her. That was surprising– considering she was a chaperone hired to stop ranks from falling too early.

“Oh, wait.” Duke Leto calls out before the two of you could get too far out of the room, “Jyn, I would like to have a word with you. Privately.”

Jyn blinks slowly, unraveling herself from you with a nod as Lady Jessica sinks back in her seat. Jyn turns to you, eyeing Paul as he continues out the room without a glance in your direction. “It’ll be quick, I'm sure.” She caresses your cheek almost motheringly before patting it. “Do not wander. I'll be back.”

And with that, she disappears back into the meeting room, leaving the doors to click shut.

***

To be fair, you did as you were told. You didn't wander away from the door– you hadn't planned to begin with, all you did was turn and he was there and his lips were on yours.

Paul kisses you like it's the last thing he'll do– his hands cup your face and drag you closer, kissing you between rushed breaths and whispers of; I missed you, I missed you, I missed you. He licks his way into your mouth and you become undone– melting into his touch and meeting his kiss in kind.

“Did you think of me?” He asks between kisses, peppering your face with sprinkles of his love and the very act fills you with a gentle warmth that has you smiling at him.

“Everyday.” You admit and you swear, he swoons before your very eyes. He crowds you then– forcing you back as his kisses grow more frantic, his hands drop from your face in favor of dancing up your sides, he kisses you a bit harder– more teeth and tongue– and you break away just a bit to smile against his lips, peering up at him through your eyelashes, you whisper: “I’ve missed you terribly, Paul.”

Paul Atreides growls, deep and throaty against your lips– it sounds strangely like a curse or a prayer and you only make out; stars above. Before he kisses you again and you giggle or, you try to before the force of his kiss has your back hitting the wall. It's as if lightning strikes you then and there, the white-hot pain bubbles, it boils under your skin– it zips, zaps and like there's livewire touching your skin you seize with a sharp cry that's only muffled by his lips before your hands snap up and shove him away from you.

The slashes on your back mock you, snapping their fleshy rips of teeth at you– fool, they hiss, throbbing and withering like they're alive. Fool, you're doing the very thing that gifted you us. You don't look at Paul as you blink through the pain— you can't, you don't want to see his reaction to you like this. You don't want to be reminded of the reason you have them but he reaches for you, you can see the movement from the corner of your eyes but before he could touch you, the doors to the meeting room swing open.

Jyn doesn't look at him either, she quite literally pushes past him to whisk you away with hushed whispers and hesitant hands. Neither of them looks at him as they leave.

Paul wishes you would though.

***

For a week, you have a whisper of peace. Away from your family home and your mother, your wounds heal slowly— they still ache when you move too fast or shift suddenly but they don't tear open at the slightest things.

For a week, you are rushed around the halls of Caladan— you're receiving lessons from one of Duke Leto's advisors in the morning; he teaches you how to run the castle, how to check inventory and how to greet people who are less than favorable with a smile on your face. By the afternoon, you're dragged away by Lady Jessica's ladies in waiting, you're supposed to be planning for the wedding, for different events to come– but talks of cloth shades are far from any of your minds as you all huddle together and gossip between whispers and giggles.

“You must tell me,” Begins one of the ladies one day, you don't remember her name but you know it's something soft, something flowery. “You and Master Atreides… you too were inseparable and, well..”

When her voice falters, another lady jumps in. Her name is a little rougher than the former, she's from a different planet and despite her heavy accent, her words are clear. “She is asking if you and the young Master ever slept together.”

You freeze at the question and Jyn, thank the stars for her– jumps to your rescue from her spot near the door, not even looking up from her book. “If we are worried about who slept with who, I did spy Marigold leaving the room of one of Duke Leto's best men. Duncan, I believe?”

The reaction is immediate, the women in the room turn to the flowery woman in surprise, their voices tumbling over each other in question. You throw Jyn a grateful look and she only turns another page in her book with a small grin.

And when night falls, you and Jyn are hauled off for dinner. You sit across from Paul, not meeting his questioning eyes or answering his persistent taps— and for a week, you are given peace.

A peace that is quickly pulled away as you walk out your bathroom, drying your hands on hands on your nightgown and and see Paul sitting on your bed, toying with the stitching of your duvet.

“What are you doing?”

Paul looks up frowning. “Sitting?”

A small laugh leaves you as you shake your head. “No I meant– what are you doing here? In my room, on my bed?” You linger close to your wall and cross your arms over your midsection. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything is.. is okay.” He stands from your bed and goes to your dresser, messing with the perfumes and other trinkets that lay there. “Have you always had this?” He holds up a glittery black handkerchief– it's embroidered with your initials and little stars that twinkle when moved– stars for my star– He said the day he gave it to you, how could he ever forget?

“Paul, you gave those to me.” You lean against the wall, frowning as you hug yourself tighter– eyeing him curiously as you speak. “It was a courting gift, remember?”

He nods almost numbly, swallowing harshly as he blinks. “Oh, yes. I remember.” He places them down where he found them and moves to your vanity and your eyes follow as he picks up a pair of earrings, pretty star shaped things that dangle lowly– also, from him. “And these? Where did you get these from?”

“Paul…”

“Or your nightgown?” He continues, gesturing vaguely towards you, or rather, your nightgown— an off grey dress covered in little stars, again another gift from him. “Where is it from?”

“You, Paul. They're all from you.” You whisper.

“I would give you every star in this galaxy, you know? Every single last one of them– and– and you won't even look at me.” He lets out a shaky sigh, taking a step towards you as he runs his hand down his face. “And I'm not trying to make you feel bad for all the things I gave you— I'll give you a dozen more if it meant you'd look at them and think of me. I don't want your thanks, or– or your praise, I just want my fiance to speak to me.”

Words seem to fail you. Hell, proper thought seemed to do the same— it all escapes you at the look Paul gives you. He looks tired, so, so tired– he's laid his heart bare on a silver platter and hands it to you with trembling hands and all you could do was stare dumbly at him. “Okay.” You finally answer, “Okay we can talk but we must do so quickly because Jyn checks on me—”

“She's distracted.” Paul interrupts absently, his eyes trail past you in thought like he's reliving whatever scheme he came up with. “I made sure she was busy before I came here, I made sure of that last night after dinner.”

“Do I want to know…?” You venture and he only shakes his head, showing you a sliver of a smile.

“No.” He pulls away from you and makes his way back to your bed, sinking down almost hesitantly. “You don't want to know–” he pats at the spot next to him and peers up at you,“Sit with me?”

You do so, knees bumping as you turn to him. “I’m sorry for worrying you. I am– I suppose I got into my own head and I began to worry… What if my mother called off our wedding, what if your mother called it off?”

Paul bristles, “My mom–”

“Would never, I know, Paul. It's just… what if.” You sigh, “And it's not just that— just last week, a girl was left in ruins because her lover exposed what they've done and that what if starts to nag me–” You take a shuddering breath,you begin playing with your hands, twisting them and bending them as you look anywhere but him. “And what if you're only using me for my body– what if after, after we had sex you'd leave me?”

“I wouldn't do that–”

You laugh shakely, rubbing under your eyes. “I know that, Paul, I kn-”

“No, no. You have to hear me say it—” One of his hands grabs yours and the other takes hold of your face. Green eyes go misty, almost teary eyed as he stared into your eyes,“—I'd never say that–void take me, My star, you are so much more than sex, so much more than your body— I love you for so much more, for your mind– you say the smartest things, sometimes it leaves me stumbling. So smart that I know that my family legacy is in good hands.”

He leans forward then, resting his forehead against yours, the hands on your face tightens just a bit, his thumb swiping at your cheeks as he continues, “And your humor, you make me laugh at the most inappropriate times— you make me feel my age. We're only nineteen, My star, nineteen and our world is changing– but you're here, you're grounding and void swallow me whole for making you feel anything less than loved. Anything less than the star, you are.”

You raise a hand, ghosting his face as you sniffle. “Void take you if you hurt me, Atreides.”

He grins softly, nose brushing yours as he leans for a kiss. “Void take me.” he whispers.

And in the shadows, the void rumbles.

***

The barrier that was between you and Paul was quickly torn down after that. So quickly, Jyn was actually forced into doing her job; chaperoning you both at a moment's notice— something that she complained about the second the two of you got a moment alone.

“He kisses you too much.” She gripes to you over lunch, “And has the nerve to ask me beforehand, or apologize for it. ‘May I kiss my fiance, Chaperone Jyn?’ or ‘Sorry, was I supposed to ask before kissing her then too?’ and you're not even listening to me because you're staring at him.”

You chuckle, tearing your eyes away from the door where he lingers talking to some soldier. “I wasn't staring.”

“Right, you were gazing. Asteroids strike me, you two make me sick.”

The reply is quick on your tongue, but as you go to answer, a warm hand slides under your jaw and angles your head up. Paul gives you a soft, slow kiss than borders on sensual— or down right sexual, and Jyn groans again, throwing her dinner roll at him.

“Enough! Go bother someone else!”

Paul chuckles, dodging the roll to give you a peck on the lips, “I’ll see you later? For tea?”

Jyn takes your roll then, and lobs it at his head, hitting him dead on. You snort, biting back a grin as Paul jerks back, eyeing Jyn warily when she reaches for a basket of rolls. “You will. Now go,before the floor is covered in rolls.”

“She should be scared of me, I'm a future Duke.” Paul jokes, bending to kiss you one last time and Jyn scoffs, readying another roll.

“All I see is a brat who won't leave. Shoo!” She throws another roll and this time, Paul catches it before it hits him and laughs as he scampers off to his duties.

***

Jyn tends to leave you alone during your morning lessons. She actually tends to leave you alone a lot— while she doesn't watch your every move, she watches most of them. Writing back to your mother that you were doing well, that nothing inappropriate has happened, and that you're healing.

She was mostly around you whenever Paul was, it was like a secret sixth sense she developed after you and Paul made up. Where before, when you avoided Paul like he bred the plague and he followed after you like some type of puppy— he now lingers outside your lessons, hoping to catch you alone to steal a kiss or more from you before Jyn comes to fetch you.

But Jyn wasn't an idiot, as soon as she saw that you didn't shy away from Paul's nauseatingly tender gaze, she took to waiting outside your lesson doors as well. Eyeing Paul from over her book with a frown— and Paul, bless his heart, tries to smile at her, blinking his puppy dog eyes at her and hopefully crawl his way into her heart.

But Jyn hates dogs, puppies, and all canines of any sort– her lip twitches into a scowl and she flips her page like he isn't there.

But at the end of the day, Paul didn't care. He was happy to be back in your good graces and he'd kiss you with or without an audience of one, it's just…

“Alright, enough with the face sucking and spit swapping, we have to go.”

Jyn made it impossibly hard to kiss you the way he likes to. Impossible to worship you with his lips– to build you up between tongue and teeth and have you come undone against his lips and your sighs of pleasure flood his lungs. He is being blue-balled or something similar to it—he took his pleasure into his own hands. He's already spent the past week with his eyes screwed shut and his hips canting up into his closed fist with the image of you in his mind and the memory of you on his tongue.

But it wasn't that simple, not really. He's always left feeling empty afterward; empty, sticky, and horribly gross— it wasn't the same when he dropped to his knees for you almost a month ago. Where you let yourself go and just ground yourself onto his tongue– your fingers tangled in his hair as you bucked and bucked and— “Asteroids strike me.” He muttered, his still cum slick hand slipped back between his clenching thighs and he set a steady pace. The very thought of your pleasure set his nerves alight– it was bad, no actually, Paul has it bad. Had it bad for you, for your touch, your scent and– “Stars.” he cried out, his fingers clenching around his dick and his thumb swipes over his throbbing head, pink and pearly– spouting cum like some type of fountain.

Paul has it bad for you and he makes it known, he never tried to hide it but now it was hard, hard to hold back under watchful eyes, to sneak you away from Jyn’s lock and key but he tries— Stars, does he try because if he was having trouble breaking past that barrier that guards his high, you must have it worse. Right?

“Paul.”

He grins up at you from between your legs, pausing to kiss your thigh softly– his cock twitches at the sight of you, dress pulled to your belly and panties soaked and ruined pulled to the side as you drip, it leaks down your thighs and to his mouth– he licks his way back up to where to came and gave you a soft, delicate kiss before sticking his tongue up your cunt. Your whole body jerks against his mouth, you're gasping and swallowing back your moans– blessed out little sighs leaving you as you twisted and rode his tongue with a vigor that makes his hips buck up against the tightness of his pants.

He'd cum in his pants at this rate but he thinks that's okay, as long as you got pleased he could live with that. Burying it into his memory for when he was alone and yearning for you— call Paul whatever you want, but he could not wait for your wedding day when he could finally slide you down his cock and take you the way he wanted, and a part of him hoped you wanted it too.

Somewhere along the way, he had fallen deep into his thoughts and pulled his tongue from you, only offering kitten licks and open-mouth kisses to your pulsing cunt.

“Paul, please… we don't have much time…” You whimper, canting your hips down and trying to latch onto the escaping pleasure. You were so close, so close and he kept pulling away to gaze at you like somehow your pussy held all the answers to the universe, “Paul.”

“I love when you say my name like that.” He murmurs, giving your cunt another kiss. Your hips jerk but he runs his hands over your legs, gentle at first– then after a quick rough squeeze, he throws one of your legs over your shoulder. “Love it when you beg.”

Your brows furrow, “I'm not be— oh my stars.”

He latches onto your clit with a vengeance, not bothering to let you finish your sentence— his tongue twirls and it laps one of his hands disappearing between his legs to free his dick from his pants before pumping unabashedly.

It goes on like this for a while, Paul somehow manages to distract Jyn— him never telling you how, and then he spends time with you. Be it talking, kissing or what barely counts as sex– he uses his time wisely, quickly, and most importantly he puts you first, always.

So yeah, most of his time spent with you without Jyn watching is spent between your thighs.

“Oh my– Paul, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your grip on your silk sheets is white-knuckled tight as you thrash and whimper under the unyielding pump of his fingers. With your thighs clamped around his hand–your nightgown pushed hastily up and the glossy fucked out look in your eyes, Paul thinks you look beautiful but, he'd think you beautiful caked in dirt and soot.

“Need you.” You whine, gasping when his fingers curl up. “Need you, Paul, need you inside of me.”

And Stars did that sound tempting. Letting his head drop against your neck, he noses your pulse. “You know I can't do that.” He bites into your tender flesh, not hard enough to draw blood or leave a mark but enough to draw a desperate whine from your lips as he soothes his tongue over the mark. “We can't go that far, my love.’

“I won't tell.” You babble, his fingers pick up an unsteady pace then– they twist and go a little deeper, it's a pinch uncomfortable but his fingers ghost something spongy inside of you that makes you choke up, “Please, please, please– I won't tell, I won't.”

Paul curses softly, he knows you won't— but he also knows this is just the pleasure talking, your mind is too garbled, too mush and mess to think straight and while he wants to take you, he can't. He won't, knowing that when you come down, you'll just regret it. But maybe – maybe he could pretend, maybe…

“Void take me.” He curses. He leaves the spot from your neck and kisses you hard, your noses smush and his tongue slides past your lips and your fingers just barely tangle in his hair before he pulls away, panting against your lips. “Turn around, on your hands and knees.”

You ignore the spark of anxiety that flares through you as you listen— you trust him, you remind yourself, he won't fuck you and leave. Your nightgown must have fallen back over your ass when you turned over because one moment, he's kissing a spot under your ear pushing your nightgown up slowly and the next, he's freezing up behind you, a choke catching in his throat.

“Paul?”

But he doesn't answer you, your nightgown falls against the upper half of your back and he's touching you– if you could call the feather-light ghost of his fingers a touch– the scarred skin jumps under his fingers and he's wrenching his hand away. Oh stars, how could you forget? Anxiety builds in you where the pleasure once was and all at once, you're ripped from the cusp of a high and thrown into a frying pan.

You try to pull away from him, hips dropping as you reach back to pull the nightgown back down over you or you try but his hand shoots out and stops you.

“What happened?”

You would not cry, you didn't cry when it happened and you didn't cry when it healed— you would not cry because Paul asked in a pained voice. “It’s nothing. Just– maybe you should go–”

He shoots you an incredulous look like you just said something stupid and maybe it was but this situation was suffocating and you want out of it.

“This is not nothing.” He lets go of your hand and you let it go limp to your side. He hesitates for a moment, another ghost of a touch before he lets his fingers– his hand touches you fully, running over the raised ridges of healed skin. Soothing, he's trying to soothe you even though they're old and the moment has passed, he's trying to make you feel better.

You would not cry.

“My mother…” You start and his eyes snap up towards you instantly, a frown etching onto his face. “She didn't… she didn't like what we did… it was unbecoming of me—” You swallow and look away from him, dropping your head onto your pillow and mumble. “A slash for every minute I was gone. Seventeen minutes isn't a lot of time but in pain, I thought it'd never end.”

“My star…”

“I don't want to talk about it anymore.” You whisper, burying your head into your pillow, you try to pull your legs away from him but he keeps you there and you sigh. “If we aren't going to… to, you know. You should go, it's late.”

It takes a few moments for him to reply to you, he simply runs a hand up and down your legs softly. He hums, just barely before he squeezes your calf. “I can't have sex with you–not like that, I want to wait for our wedding day.”

You peer up at him from your pillow, confusion lining your features as his hand slides up higher– kneading at your inner thighs. “Okay.”

“But I can give you something else, okay? If you want to.” He mutters, his hand slides higher and his thumb slips through your folds, still wet and needy. It's a lazy stroke but it has you pushing back onto his hand nonetheless, you nod eagerly and he grins, leaning forward to kiss your back. “Hands and knees.”

This time, you are quicker to respond. You do as asked and Paul shifts behind you, pushing your nightgown up– he runs a hand over your scars in thought before letting his hands fall to your ass and he pulls your cheeks apart with a laugh.

Shimmying your hips in his grasp, you frown looking back. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re just so drooly.” He says, one of his hands leaves your backside and he dips his fingers into your folds collecting your slick with eager fingers. “You really love me, huh?”

“I can't believe you called it drool.” You moan when he wiggles his fingers a bit. He only chuckles as he pulls them free from your gaping cunt– he shifts again till he's towering over you, his chest pushing into your back and he rubs his soaked fingers across your lips.

“Taste yourself.”

Your lips part and he slides them past– Salt. Not overly salty, not overwhelming or underwhelmingly so, there's a still tang to it as you swirl your tongue around his fingers but you're sure that just comes from him, it's just fleshy tasting, not unpleasantly so but you didn't understand why Paul was so addicted. So lost in your own thoughts of your own taste and Paul's addiction to said taste, you don't register that Paul had shifted you– forcing you to cross your legs almost awkwardly.

You hum around his fingers in question and he presses them down against your tongue before pulling them away from you– your gaze follows his hand and your lungs nearly collapse at the sight of him running his hand over his dick. Maybe it's the angle, you pray, maybe it's the angle that makes him look big.

Paul squeezes around the base of his dick and shoots you a smile. “I’m not putting it in.”

“I kn-know.” Stars, were you stuttering?

He only chuckles, tapping your side as he shuffles closer. He takes his dick in hand and ever so gently, rubs it across your folds – hips jerking backward you let out a whine as he taps it against your cunt, rubbing the head of it against your clit. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Paul– Just– just do something– oh my stars.”

With a roll of his hips, he slips between your closed thighs, and he rocks. It's a slow and lazy pace at first but it's enough to send both of you moaning. Paul bends, his hands planted against the base of your back, just above your scars – his breath is warm against your ear as he rolls into you.

Each roll and rock of his hips sends you further up the bed, your fingers curling deeper into your sheets and he throbs against you– pulsing and dripping down the length of your thighs as he chants your name. Reaching behind you, your fingers catch the cusp of his neck and drag him closer to your face and you kiss him– a kiss he meets with a desperate whine as his hips instantly pick up the pace.

There's no rhythm to the madness, the endless chase of his hips– the slip and slide of his dick along your folds. Sometimes he pulls back too far before rocking back into the tight space of your thighs but it's too fast and his cock catches the rim of your needy cunt and there's a shared sharp breath of 'he could.' He hesitates, panting– he could, he could, he could. But he doesn't, he never does– he just slips back between your thighs like his life depends on it and his hand slips between your thighs, thumb on your clit drawing tight circles as a steady pressure grows in your stomach and he whispers soft encouragement in your ears.

So good for me, so pretty, so soft. His hips start to stutter and he presses down harder on your clit, mouthing his way across the back of your neck. My pretty star, you're doing so well— your hips give a wild jerk here and he grips on to you tighter, a high-pitched whine just barely muffled by your pillow. You can take it, don't run from it. You can take it–

Something in your stomach snaps then and there when you cum and you're vaguely aware of Paul clamping a hand over your mouth as your eyes roll back and your body gives out— it feels different, different when it happens naturally and it's not pulled from you by The Voice. It's different because there's drowning this time– you're not drowning, you're not burning— you weren't even sure you were in your own body at this point.

Faintly, you are aware of Paul pulling away from you and releasing himself on your back as you slump forward and close your eyes.

***

“Are you okay?”

“Can’t feel my legs.”

Paul grins, pressing a soft kiss to your head. “You said that last time too.” He pulls away from you– disappearing to your bathroom as you groan into your pillow.

“Meant it last time. I'll probably say it every time.” You turn just slightly, watching as he returns with a rag and sinks back into the bed. It's warm as he starts with your legs, wiping them delicately. “How did you… how do you know how to do this?”

Paul does look up as he swipes over your ass, humming to himself. “You aren't my first.”

Oh. Oh. “Oh.” You whisper.

Clearing your throat, you pull your legs up and out of his grasp and throw them over the side of your bed. Oh. Of course. Of course, you aren't his first, why would you think that? Every experience you had has been led by him, guided by his careful hand and tongue and oh. It shouldn't feel like you were suddenly back a thousand shards. You feel sick, a little light-headed, even and the thought rings in your head; you aren't his first.

And yet, you were expected to give him all of your first. You have been giving him all of yours.

You push from the bed and almost instantly, he's at your side, smiling. It shouldn't have made you mad as it did. “Hey, you just said you can't feel your legs maybe you should sit down–”

His hand nearly falls on your shoulder but you shrug it off and grunt out. “I’m fine.” Sidestepping him, you go to your dresser and roughly yank open one of the drawers to look for nightwear.

“You clearly aren't.” He muses, he steps closer to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to his chest despite your annoyance-filled whine. “What’s the matter and don't say anything, I know it's something.”

“I’m not your first.” Somehow, saying it out loud was worse. The truth of it is hot– molten, and it sinks to the bottom of your stomach and pushes the contents upwards, bile threatens to climb up your throat but you swallow it back thickly and slip from his arms grabbing a plain pastel green nightgown and begin to shimmy out of your sweat-soaked one.

Paul only blinks. “Yeah. You aren't but it's not the biggest deal.”

But it is. It's the biggest deal when they live in a world where daughters are whipped and shunned for loving boys or girls how the boys love them. For a girl, a young woman – kissing before her wedding day was taboo, frowned upon, and downright shamed but for a young man? You didn't want to think about the praise they'd get. The praise Paul probably got.

“Okay.” You whisper, still not looking at him as you slide into the new gown. You straighten out any wrinkles, pluck out any stray threads. This gown is starless, simple but pretty. “Maybe you should go before it gets late. We both have early mornings.”

“Don’t do this. Don't start shutting me out because of this.” Paul grabs your hand but you shake it free and hold it to your chest with a frown. Paul only shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, “Would you rather I go in blind? A virgin that bumped around and hurt you?”

You pause, dropping your hand and you run it over the front of your nightgown before taking a step back. “Yes. I think… I think I would have preferred that.”

Paul blinks, throwing his hands out. “You can't be serious.”

“We would have both been virgins, Paul.” You explain softly, trying to keep your voice level and steady as you pluck at the front of your gown, anything to keep from looking at him. “We both would have been new, both would have been clueless. I would have been your first and you would have been mine.”

Paul can't help the scoff that leaves him, his voice toeing the thin line of disbelief and – was it anger? He's never been mad at her, not like the growing feeling he's beginning to feel in his chest. “So this is the taboo you chose to care about? The first? Why does it matter who's my first if you're going to be my forever?”

“It’s more than that.” You begin, you take a step away from him but he's quick to follow– more of a reflex than a conscious action, forever your shadow as you back up a few more steps and he only inches closer to you. “Daughters like me—”

“Do not give me that.” He hisses so sharp, so loud – it slices through the silence of the room. Your eyes widen and you risk a glance towards your door and a warning glare at him. Paul knows he should be quiet, while Jyn was busy if they got any louder she'd surely pause whatever she was doing to come check up on you. “Do not give me the same speech your mother does—innocent daughters and unholy sons, you are not innocent.”

The flinch that it draws from you is heart aching but it's already said, and you frown up at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that day I asked you–”

A flicker of disbelief floats across your face. “You begged me–”

“I asked you!” He snaps. “I asked you and now it's bothering you, it's bothering you that you humped my face like some– some bitch in heat!”

You gape at him for several long moments, your eyes wide as you blink– you're processing. Processing what he said and it hits you the same time it hits him that he fucked up. His face falls first, however. “Stars, I didn't mean—”

“Get out.”

He keeps trying, even taking a step closer to you. “I didn't think–” But you're pushing against him, shoving towards the door.

“Get out, get out, get out–!” Your voice is breaking now and your lips wobble as you continue to push him out. “You fucking dickhead, get out!” You shove him out of your room and catch his gaze just as you do. “I don't want to see you again– I don't want to speak to you–”

“No, no I didn't—”

“Screw you!” Your door slams shut, leaving Paul in the dark of the castle hallway.

That night, the void consumes him.

“What?” Your voice was choked, the air being stolen from your lungs with the single sentence. There was a pinch in your chest as you wiped your hands off on your apron– an attack? What type of attack? Your lips pursed as you took in all their forms. They looked frantic, terrified, and most importantly; they eyed you carefully. Their gazes were sympathetic, too sorrowful to be normal. Your heart thundered in your chest when you took a step forward– your arms wrapped around yourself. “An attack? Against who? Is– is everyone alright?”

Your mother had seemed to come to her senses then because she hesitated, her face falling into a brief consideration. Her mouth opened then closed– a choked sound that sounded a little like a sob catching in her throat before she rushed forward and pulled you into her arms. “Oh, my sweet girl.”

She held you close as she sobbed, her hands carding through your hair as she did. Your eyes met your father's who was whispering to a few servants and he swallowed, before standing tall.

“House Atreides they… they have fallen-” His voice cracked and he coughed, his expression crumbling into something meek as you began to shake. “–There are… there are no survivors.”

Looking back on that moment, you are thankful your mother had you in her arms because you had collapsed. Your legs had given out and someone screamed– wailed, in disbelief. Your father quickly abandoned all senses of a nobleman and rushed to you as well, you realized now, it was you that wailed. Shrilled, loud and deathly– the sound of it even sent the servants into hysterics.

Looking back? You wish they never told you.

***

“It’s been four months.”

“Yes.” You drawl weakly, “One hundred and twenty-one days.”

Your eyes slide up, weighted down by dark eye bags and furrowed brows, focusing on your advisor by your bedroom door and the man jumps. It sends a brief flicker of amusement through you and you let your eyes slide away from him with a huff. “You haven't come to quiz me on the number of days in a month-” Your eyes go back to him, thoughtful. “-Have you?”

Henri purses his lips for a second. “You have… suitors.”

“Tell them I'm not interested.”

Henri shakes his head, a frown ever permanent on his lips. “I can't. Your father– your father thinks this would be good for you. A new start.”

The laugh that leaves you is hollow and sharp– it makes Henri flinch again as you push yourself to your feet with an unsteady stumble. “Then my father can come to my room and tell me himself.”

“You know he won't do that,” Henri says, he's eyeing the way you move– it lacks all the grace you were taught to have, your limbs swang, heavy and lumbering as if they were made from stone– your feet drag and your eyes to the back of your head at certain points. You are just trying to get a chalice of water and it seemed like you just pulled yourself from the dead. Henri hesitates for just a second, his mouth drying. “You've been abusing henbane again.”

It's not a question– the statement rolls off his tongue in heavy disappointment and it pricks your skin. “I’ve been using it– Diluting it with lavender oils, with peace lily seeds and valerian root.“

Henri shoots you a look as sharp as a dagger, marching towards you– he snatches the chalice of water from you, sending little drops splashing on you, him, and the floor– the sight makes your throat clench pathetically. “What is this?” He smells it and jerks it away from him in surprise, “Why does it smell sweet, it is more of-”

“It’s honey water.” You answer blandly. You pull the chalice of water from him and he shakes his head in disbelief.

“You have to stop this. Henbane kills-”

“It helps me sleep.” You interrupt tiredly, the rim of the chalice pressed to your chapped lips, there's a faint pressure behind your eyes and you try to blink it away. Henri ignores you.

“–It curdles blood, causes hallucinations– manic episodes! Never mind the fact that it can cause restlessness.” He takes a breath, a loud rattling one that hurts your ears. You try to look away from him but he doesn't let you– his callused hands pull your face towards him and he's tired. So, so tired– only twenty-four, he looks much older with this weight on his shoulders. “I know you loved him, I know but he wouldn't want this– he wouldn't want you to kill yourself over this– henbane will cause your heart to beat out of your chest. It will enlarge and burst and you'll die– you know this, you know and-”

“It stops the voice.” You hiccup, you press the chalice harder against your lips and they split– copper dances across your tongue as you blink back tears. “There's a voice, Henri. It's only his voice and I can't– I can't stop it– it calls for me, begging me to go to Arrakis. To look for him-” Your voice breaks and it doesn't take long until you're sobbing, the water falling from your hands. It splatters across both of you and the floor but Henri didn't pay it any mind– he pulls you close, his nose digging in your hair as you begin to cry.

“You poor, sweet girl.” He coos, his hands run soothing patterns into your back, his voice soft. “I know this is hard– that you loved Paul. But he– he would want you to move on.” You jerk in Henri's arms, trying to pull away but he only tightens his grip. With your ear so close to his heart, you can hear his fluttering pace and each breath of air he takes, you struggle again but he holds steady. “He would want you to love again and maybe that love is closer than you realize. With a suitor… or a serva-”

You bite him. Your teeth sink into the cloth and sink of his shoulder and you bite– bite until he lets go, bite until you taste blood. You are so tired of hearing what people think Paul would want for you– they wouldn't know. They would never know.

Henri shrieks– shoving you away from him and into your dresser– there's a clatter of movement, him slipping on the spilled water. Henri curses you– spits vile curses no servant would ever utter unless they want their tongue cut out and their skin flayed and you smile. Teeth tinted red and delirious in the after-effects of henbane– you smile as he runs from your room, your decision has been made.

***

Though you've heard a hundred tales of Arrakis– about it's heat, how it robs the body out of any of its moisture and about it's sand that squeezes into any crevice. But there's something completely different about being there for yourself– there are no servants to greet you, no mothers to worry over you and no fathers to lord your every action.

As much as Arrakis steals, it's freeing– no one turns to stare at you as you bunker down with it's common folk, no one knows you as the girl who just lost her fiance. They glance– ask if you want water for half the price as a competitor and smile when you say yes. They're friendly to a fault, you hadn't come to Arrakis unprepared but they treat you as if you did– your pack is filled to its brim with water and rehydration packs, dried meats and fruits and sand colored scarfs for your head.

‘This way… this way….’

The voice has gotten stronger since you fled the comfort of your planet. Before it was muffled, distant– like a faint whisper in the wind but now? It's as if Paul is right next to you, murmuring directions in your ear– you had gotten stares the first time it happened. He had sounded so close but when you whipped around– his name falling off your tongue, you were met with confused,almost judgemental stares. Whispers that the sun was getting to you and maybe it was.

‘Desert… you must… get to the desert.’ His voice protests as you wrap a scarf around your head and you snort- faint amusement dancing across your features. “This whole place is a desert. You have to be more specific.” His voice doesn't reply to you so you busy yourself with your things– pulling and adjusting your stillsuit, stumbling through the sandy ground and pass the people trying to enjoy the evening sun. You had gotten the stillsuit for a cheaper price because it was made for someone bigger than you, with a fuller figure but you hadn't bothered to ask the merchant about his haunted look. Maybe it belonged to his son or brother.

‘There… there… there.’ Your feet slow to a stop, there's a faint tug in your head and you turn– eyes falling on a small dragonfly shaped ship parked outside what seems to be a pub. ‘Take it… take… it.’

“You want me to steal?” Your voice jumps a pitch higher, and again, you gain questioning looks from passing people. Your lips snap shut though it doesn't stop the slight panic that buds through you as you walk towards the ship, your voice drops into a whisper. “I can't… I can't even drive one of these things.”

‘Find...me… find me..’

“I know, Paul. I know. I just–” A disbelieving laugh leaves your lips. The reality of your actions catching up on you. You had drugged half your estate to be here, forcing them into a long slumber they should be waking from about now. You have stowed away on one of your father's trade ships and now– now because of your dead fiance's voice; you're about to steal a fucking ship.

The pub door slides up with a creaky little shutter and out stumbles a man– not too much older than you. His scarf hangs off his head messily and his skin while sun-kissed is scorched, pink and bubbly on his right cheek and a part of his forehead. He stretches, yawns and then freezes when his eyes land on you standing in front of the ship. His ship, you quickly realize.

“What are you-”

“One hundred solaris for a ride to the desert.” You interrupt and he blinks, scratching at his ashened hair.

“What do you need in the desert?” He asks instead, his voice is accented, a slight drawl you can't place with any planet you heard of. “I can easily just get it for you, Miss. It's not exactly the safest place with the sandworms and all.”

Right. The sandworms. You heard tales about them as well– bigger than life man-eaters. They could sense patterns, a rhythm in their sand from hundreds of miles away and reach you in ten seconds flat. You had spent half your trip to this planet drilling yourself on how to do the sandwalk and asking the first person you saw if you were doing it right. Thank the suns, that you were.

“One-fifty if you don't ask questions.” You answer and the man huffs, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Two-fifty. Since the ship is small and you have a rather large bag.”

You grumble, digging through your pockets you throw him the rest of your smaller pouch and he . “Fine. Let's go.”

***

“So, are you a princess or something?”

You give the man a dry look and he smiles the same smile every other time you give him the look. The no question rule was thrown out the window the moment the two of you got a mile into the desert and stars, could he talk.

“Or something.”

He nods, looking pleased with himself – his hands shifted on the controls and he peers back at you with a slight grin. “Figures, you’re bossy like one. Smell like a princess too.”

Your brows lift in faint amusement, “You go around sniffing princesses?”

He nods, his face falling into a mock seriousness. “Of course, make it my duty to. Nothing like the smell of chamomile and jasmine you princesses wear first thing in the morning.”

You snort looking away from him to dig through your bag. “I'm a runaway Duchess on a quest to find my supposedly dead fiance led by his very much alive voice.”

There's a pause and the ship jerks as he laughs impishly. “You’re taking the piss outta me aren't you?” He shakes his head and turns back to the endless dunes ahead, guiding the ship into a gentle cruise. “Keep your secrets, princess. It makes you interestin-”

‘Here… I'm here…’

“Stop the ship.” You murmur and the man looks at you with wide eyes.

“What?”

“Stop the ship!”

He gives you an odd look as he quickly lowers the ship to the ground with an uneasy frown. You, however, pay no mind to it as you hastily throw on your bag and fix your scarf. “Thank you,” You utter, pushing the glass cover of the ship up. “Thank you for taking me this far but your services are no longer needed.”

‘This way… this way..’

You give your head a quick shake as you hop out the ship, and begin to do the sandwalk as quickly as you could. There was a mass of rocks not too far from you– like a floating island in a mass of waves and the voice wants you to go towards it, urging you there with an eager tone it's never taken before. It's too bad you picked a rather nice driver who couldn't let you go in good conscience.

“Look–” The sound of his feet hitting the sand would make your eyes roll if you weren't so focused on your walk. “Wait in the ship, I promise I'll get whatever you need from those scary nightmare rocks–”

“You stay in the ship if the rocks are so scary.” You hiss, you throw the man a narrowed look and he throws his hands up in defeat but doesn't turn back to the ship. “You don't even know what I'm looking for.”

“You paid me not to ask questions.” He replies. “So I didn't ask the important ones…” His voice trails off into a whisper and he freezes, his hand latching on to your forearm. You go to jerk it away but he stills you with a grunt. “Do you hear that?”

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

The ground gives a mighty rumble and through the darkness– you can see the dunes riple under the force of something moving under it. “Shit, shit– Go!”

He pushes you forward before taking off into a dead sprint towards the rocks as the sandworm rears its head up in the distance. Your heart lurches into your throat as you take off into a dead sprint towards the rocks– a scream tearing through you as you both run for your lives. The man is only a few steps ahead of you– looking back at you, at the worm every few seconds and when he gets within feet of the rock platform he turns– grabs you by the waist and all but throws you onto it before jumping after you.

You land on your ass while he lands on his back, panting like a dog. With wide eyes, you watch as the sandworm swallows the small ship like it was nothing.

“My name is Soren.” He says after a few moments of gathering his air. The scarf he had before is bunched at his neck and brown eyes squint up at you as he brings his hand up to wipe at the sand that tries to get into his eyes. “And you owe me a ship, Princess.”

“What the hell was that?” You croak, eyes still on the sandworm that was slinking away. “What the hell called it our way?”

“It was-”

“A thumper.” A light voice interrupts Soren and it sends the both of you scrambling to your feet. Soren is the first to stand– pulling out a blade from somewhere deep in the many folds and scarfs of his suit and places himself in front of you. While you stagger to your feet, your eyes dart around in surprise.

The both of you are surrounded.

The girl that stands before you is eyeing the both of you with a neutral expression, her lips pulled into a straight line as the moon highlights the blues of her eyes. Freemen, You realize, from the way the crowd you both– inching forward slowly as if to push you off the rock and back on to sand.

“You called it to us?” Soren questions and the girl shakes her head before looking behind her for something.

“He did.”

Paul stands with his head covered with a brown shawl, his eyes cold– but curious and something in you sings. His name nearly leaves your lips and you take a step forward but Soren holds you back as the girl slinks back towards your fiance and grasps his hand– smiling at him. Four months.

It had only been four months and yet, things seemed to have drastically changed as his eyes settle on you in faint surprise.

“(Name)?”