𝐬s𝐜𝐫𝐬𝐥𝐯𝐫

i’m scarlet!❤︎︎she/her❤︎︎ff writer !i’m a beginner so i’m open to criticism! wattpad: sscrslvr

[sscrslvr]

My Masterlist

Started: 4/15/25

Updated: 12/1/2025

Total works: 3

Dune

Series

Paul Atreides

"winds of the desert heart"

Part 1: Destined To Be

Part 2: Know You

Slytherin Boys

One-Shots

Mattheo Riddle

Knee Socks

[sscrslvr]

Small World

A 'Knee Socks' series one-shot

(mattheo riddle x female!reader)

Inspired by the song 'Knee Socks' by Arctic Monkeys:

"And you were sittin' in the corner with the coats all piled high And I thought you might be mine In a small world, on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night In the right place and time"

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Fem!reader, cheating!reader, heavy romantic tension so thick you could cut it with a wand, mutual pining/almost-kiss energy, slow-burn chemistry, reader is a cheater, NO SMUT (yet?), cliffhanger that could leave you begging, yall know the deal.

Description: A rainy January night, an abandoned pub in Hogsmeade, and a storm you never meant to run into. After a brutal fight with your boyfriend, you duck into the nearest unlocked place to escape the cold—only for Mattheo Riddle to barge in dripping wet and furious, with a cut lip, a stolen Mauraders map, and a secret reason he followed you. Tension, banter, and one storm-soaked confession that never needs saying.

Author's Note: Hello girls, I'M BACK! I started this on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night while listening to Knee Socks and finished it JUST NOW. I intended for this to be a one-shot, but let me know if you want a part two! I plan to make more one-shots with this theme but with different characters, so lmk if you have any character reqs! BTW, this is not proofread, so ignore any grammatical errors. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The zeros had just lined up on the twenty-four-hour clock when the storm broke.

Rain—icy, needle-like, January rain—came down in violent sheets, so thick it blurred the lanterns on the street. Even under your cloak, even with a shielding charm fizzling at your fingertips, you were drenched within seconds. The wind snatched every spell from your tongue. You barely made it up the slick steps of the old abandoned pub before the downpour swallowed the last sound of your footsteps.

It was still ruined the last time anyone had bothered to look at it—but you’d fixed the broken windows and shattered shelves with a bored flick of Repairo the week before, during another one of your ventures past curfew. Now, in the low glow of the lanterns you’d coaxed to life, the place felt… almost warm.

Almost.

The room was small, smelling faintly of dust and old wood polish, and for all the golden light—that deceptive warm glow—it was freezing. You were shivering hard enough that the ancient chair beneath you creaked. Cloak bundled to your chin. Hair dripping. Knee socks squelching in your boots.

This was not the plan.

Then again, not much about tonight had gone according to plan.

You hadn’t meant to be wandering Hogsmeade after curfew. Hadn’t meant to slam your books shut and flee the castle after the argument. Hadn’t meant to nearly hex your boyfriend in the courtyard after dinner when he accused you—in front of half of the school—of “getting too cozy” with Mattheo Riddle during those late-night study sessions Snape forced you into after assigning you two as partners for a research project on the boring origins of potion-making.

You’d told yourself he was just jealous.

You’d told yourself you weren’t in the wrong to have let your knees brush the way they had—once, twice, over and over again like the smallest betrayal. Arms were next, then hands. Lips were last. 

You’d told yourself that almost-kiss wasn’t real—that it was okay you studied with him almost daily when the sun was set and hardly anyone was in the library, let alone the secluded corners hidden between hardly-visited shelves that Mattheo had pinned you against that one time—because it was one time.

You knew a good girlfriend would’ve put an end to that taboo.

But, even when you stared at the stars up at the Astronomy tower late at night—pondering life, your rights and wrongs—you were still thinking about it. About him.

Mattheo Riddle—infuriating, sharp-tongued, always-smirking Mattheo—who studied Ancient Runes with you like he had something to prove, who watched you like he had no right to, who said your name like it amused him.

Of course your boyfriend didn’t like it.

Of course you are here now, dripping rainwater onto an ancient pub floor and freezing your ass off.

But cold was better than the castle.

Better than the courtyard. Better than your boyfriend shouting accusations loud enough to draw stares. Better than your own temper nearly erupting in front of everyone.

You rubbed your hands together, breath fogging the air. You could’ve sworn Mattheo had taught you the Drought Charm sometime last week in the library—he’d always bested you in Charms—but apparently your memory was as soaked as your clothes because you wouldn’t quite remember the incantation.

So here you were: shivering hard enough to rattle your teeth when the door burst open.

A gust of wind slammed through the pub. Rain sprayed the floor. The lanterns flickered violently—and in the doorway, breathing hard, dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead, robes clinging to his shoulders—

Mattheo Riddle.

You shot upright from the ancient-looking mahogany chair you had been sitting in.

You gawked. “What—what are you doing here?”

His eyes scanned the room once before locking onto you in the corner, his expression shifting from irritated to something sharper.

“Small world,” he muttered, voice rough from the cold.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

He stepped forward, boots squelching, water dripping in an even rhythm off his cloak. “What? Not happy to see me?”

“You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Funny,” he said, peeling wet gloves off his hands. “So are you.”

You wrapped your cloak tighter, teeth chattering. “It’s pouring outside, Mattheo. Why would you even be out?”

His jaw flexed, eyes averted. “Needed air.”

He didn’t say I was looking for you.

He didn’t say I knew exactly where you were.

He didn’t say the Marauder’s Map he stole—well, borrowed—from the Room of Requirement was tucked into the inside pocket of his robes, warm from his frantic grip.

You raised a brow. “Air. In a fucking typhoon.”

“Look who’s talking,” he shot back.

You lifted your chin. “I had a reason.”

“So did I.”

He didn’t expand. You didn’t push.

He flicked his wand, muttering nothing, and the Drought Charm rippled over him—clothes drying, curls fluffing back into unruly shape; steam rising briefly around his shoulders. He exhaled at the warmth returning to his skin. Ah. So the Charm was incantationless. You internally cursed yourself for your slow-mindedness. 

Then he turned toward you.

“No,” you said immediately, a stubborn tone lacing your voice.

He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“Hold still.”

“Mattheo—”

Warmth washed over you, drying your hair, your cloak, and your socks, leaving you flushed and irritated.

You shoved his shoulder. “I told you not to.”

“And I ignored you,” he said simply. “Because you looked like a miserable, frostbitten squirrel.”

Your mouth fell open. “A squirrel?”

“A wet one.”

“Mattheo—” you growled.

He grinned, the kind that made it impossible to stay annoyed, his chocolate eyes sparkling in the lantern light. “There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, but your body had finally stopped shaking, and the fog had cleared from your mind. Unfortunately, that just meant you could now fully register how close he’d gotten.

Too close.

Your eyes—unfortunately and instinctively—flicked down to his mouth, and you noticed the small cut on his lip. Scarlet. Swollen. Fresh.

He caught your stare. “What?” he asked, wiping at it with the back of his hand.

“Did you—did someone hit you?”

He hesitated. Just enough for you to see the truth flicker across his expression.

Then: “Your boyfriend has a terrible right hook.”

You froze, raising a brow before your face contorted, registering the situation. “You fought?”

“He tried,” Mattheo corrected. “I mostly laughed.”

“Mattheo—!”

“He said something I didn’t appreciate.”

“What did he say?” you asked as that same, terrible feeling from the earlier fight settled uncomfortably back into your stomach like something rotten.

Mattheo’s eyes flicked away before returning to yours, darker now, less guarded.

“That you and I have been getting too close.”

Your breath snagged. Great. This again. 

“He didn’t like the tutoring. Or the studying. Or the—” His gaze dropped for a second, toward your legs, “—knee-to-knee situation.”

Heat shot to your face.

“How could he have seen us?” you rambled, “He doesn’t understand! That was—”

“Accidental?” He looked entirely unconvinced. “Sure.”

You sputtered. “We were studying.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, a smirk curling at his sensuous lips; you could tell by the look on his face and the distance in his eyes that he was replaying that almost-kiss in his head. “Very academically.”

You gaped at him. He smirked wider.

“The fact you’re blushing,” he added, stepping closer, “isn’t helping your argument.”

“I’m cold.” You lied quickly, cocking your head.

“You’re warm now.” He gestured to your still frame that was very much not trembling.

You rolled your eyes, groaning, “Then it’s a residual cold.”

“Hm. Convenient.”

You glared at him, but he only took another step forward, leaning a hand on the table beside your hip; water finally evaporated from his sleeves.

His voice dropped.

“You ran out of the castle fast.” The look on his face was almost caring.

You swallowed. “I needed space.”

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, turning his head away.

“You don’t know what I was thinking.” You answer quickly, defensively.

“Don’t I?” he turned back, eyes flicking to your lips for a millisecond.

You hated the way he said it—quiet, certain, warm. Hated how the sound of his voice spread so much warmth through your body that it completely dissolved that miserable feeling from earlier. How it shifted all thoughts from your boyfriend to him: his name, his smirk, the way his eyes kept flicking to your lips like those times in the library.

His face was close now. Closer than you’d let it be in the library, where other people may glimpse the act.

Close enough that you could see the tiny droplets of leftover rain caught in his lashes.

Close enough that your breath hitched without permission. But you weren’t in the library now, were you?

“You shouldn’t have come after me,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his arm.

“I didn’t,” he said lightly. “I just… happened to show up in the exact abandoned pub you ducked into during an unholy storm.”

You gave him a flat look. His mouth twitched.

“Small world,” he repeated.

You tried not to smile back but, regrettably, failed. 

Your brain was too fogged from the argument, the cold, and his proximity to question how, exactly, he knew your very location. 

His eyes surrendered from your eyes to your lips, flickering with something that could only be described as longing.

“Mattheo…” You whispered.

He inhaled sharply when you said his name—so subtly you almost missed it.

“What?” he asked, voice suddenly rougher.

“This is—complicated.” You mutter, thoughts circling back to your boyfriend.

“Doesn’t feel complicated.” He replied, his voice almost taunting.

“It is.” You affirmed, though you were trying to convince yourself of the matter.

“Then tell me why I’m here,” he challenged quietly.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You could find the words, the excuse: ‘But… My boyfriend!’ They were easy to say. Reasonable. Logical.

But you couldn’t find a reason to say them. With Mattheo in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his quickened breaths on your skin—his head tilted and lips curled in a smirk as he admired you and your silence in a way that made you think this was fate—you didn’t want to say them.

Somewhere outside, thunder rolled across the sky, rattling the windows.

Inside, Mattheo’s eyes never left yours.

He reached up—slow, hesitant—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His knuckles grazed your skin lightly, almost reverently.

Your breath caught.

He froze, waiting to see if you’d pull back.

You didn’t.

The smallest, barest smile ghosted across his mouth—barely there, soft, relieved.

“Yeah,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Thought so.”

Your heart lurched.

And then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not claiming. Not messy or possessive or desperate.

Just… finally.

Warm lips on chilled skin. Softness wrapped in tension. A slow exhale against your mouth, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer without thinking. His fingers slid into your hair, the kiss deepening, shifting, intensifying until the lanterns blurred behind your eyelids.

He lifted you before you even realized, guiding you onto the table with the gentlest press of his hands at your waist—asking without asking, giving you every chance to stop him, to pull away, to say no.

But you didn’t.

And he kissed you again—

And the table creaked beneath you—

And the storm outside burned itself out against the windows while something entirely different caught fire between you.

[sscrslvr]

Small World

A 'Knee Socks' series one-shot

(mattheo riddle x female!reader)

Inspired by the song 'Knee Socks' by Arctic Monkeys:

"And you were sittin' in the corner with the coats all piled high And I thought you might be mine In a small world, on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night In the right place and time"

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Fem!reader, cheating!reader, heavy romantic tension so thick you could cut it with a wand, mutual pining/almost-kiss energy, slow-burn chemistry, reader is a cheater, NO SMUT (yet?), cliffhanger that could leave you begging, yall know the deal.

Description: A rainy January night, an abandoned pub in Hogsmeade, and a storm you never meant to run into. After a brutal fight with your boyfriend, you duck into the nearest unlocked place to escape the cold—only for Mattheo Riddle to barge in dripping wet and furious, with a cut lip, a stolen Mauraders map, and a secret reason he followed you. Tension, banter, and one storm-soaked confession that never needs saying.

Author's Note: Hello girls, I'M BACK! I started this on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night while listening to Knee Socks and finished it JUST NOW. I intended for this to be a one-shot, but let me know if you want a part two! I plan to make more one-shots with this theme but with different characters, so lmk if you have any character reqs! BTW, this is not proofread, so ignore any grammatical errors. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The zeros had just lined up on the twenty-four-hour clock when the storm broke.

Rain—icy, needle-like, January rain—came down in violent sheets, so thick it blurred the lanterns on the street. Even under your cloak, even with a shielding charm fizzling at your fingertips, you were drenched within seconds. The wind snatched every spell from your tongue. You barely made it up the slick steps of the old abandoned pub before the downpour swallowed the last sound of your footsteps.

It was still ruined the last time anyone had bothered to look at it—but you’d fixed the broken windows and shattered shelves with a bored flick of Repairo the week before, during another one of your ventures past curfew. Now, in the low glow of the lanterns you’d coaxed to life, the place felt… almost warm.

Almost.

The room was small, smelling faintly of dust and old wood polish, and for all the golden light—that deceptive warm glow—it was freezing. You were shivering hard enough that the ancient chair beneath you creaked. Cloak bundled to your chin. Hair dripping. Knee socks squelching in your boots.

This was not the plan.

Then again, not much about tonight had gone according to plan.

You hadn’t meant to be wandering Hogsmeade after curfew. Hadn’t meant to slam your books shut and flee the castle after the argument. Hadn’t meant to nearly hex your boyfriend in the courtyard after dinner when he accused you—in front of half of the school—of “getting too cozy” with Mattheo Riddle during those late-night study sessions Snape forced you into after assigning you two as partners for a research project on the boring origins of potion-making.

You’d told yourself he was just jealous.

You’d told yourself you weren’t in the wrong to have let your knees brush the way they had—once, twice, over and over again like the smallest betrayal. Arms were next, then hands. Lips were last. 

You’d told yourself that almost-kiss wasn’t real—that it was okay you studied with him almost daily when the sun was set and hardly anyone was in the library, let alone the secluded corners hidden between hardly-visited shelves that Mattheo had pinned you against that one time—because it was one time.

You knew a good girlfriend would’ve put an end to that taboo.

But, even when you stared at the stars up at the Astronomy tower late at night—pondering life, your rights and wrongs—you were still thinking about it. About him.

Mattheo Riddle—infuriating, sharp-tongued, always-smirking Mattheo—who studied Ancient Runes with you like he had something to prove, who watched you like he had no right to, who said your name like it amused him.

Of course your boyfriend didn’t like it.

Of course you are here now, dripping rainwater onto an ancient pub floor and freezing your ass off.

But cold was better than the castle.

Better than the courtyard. Better than your boyfriend shouting accusations loud enough to draw stares. Better than your own temper nearly erupting in front of everyone.

You rubbed your hands together, breath fogging the air. You could’ve sworn Mattheo had taught you the Drought Charm sometime last week in the library—he’d always bested you in Charms—but apparently your memory was as soaked as your clothes because you wouldn’t quite remember the incantation.

So here you were: shivering hard enough to rattle your teeth when the door burst open.

A gust of wind slammed through the pub. Rain sprayed the floor. The lanterns flickered violently—and in the doorway, breathing hard, dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead, robes clinging to his shoulders—

Mattheo Riddle.

You shot upright from the ancient-looking mahogany chair you had been sitting in.

You gawked. “What—what are you doing here?”

His eyes scanned the room once before locking onto you in the corner, his expression shifting from irritated to something sharper.

“Small world,” he muttered, voice rough from the cold.

You blinked at him. “Seriously?”

He stepped forward, boots squelching, water dripping in an even rhythm off his cloak. “What? Not happy to see me?”

“You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Funny,” he said, peeling wet gloves off his hands. “So are you.”

You wrapped your cloak tighter, teeth chattering. “It’s pouring outside, Mattheo. Why would you even be out?”

His jaw flexed, eyes averted. “Needed air.”

He didn’t say I was looking for you.

He didn’t say I knew exactly where you were.

He didn’t say the Marauder’s Map he stole—well, borrowed—from the Room of Requirement was tucked into the inside pocket of his robes, warm from his frantic grip.

You raised a brow. “Air. In a fucking typhoon.”

“Look who’s talking,” he shot back.

You lifted your chin. “I had a reason.”

“So did I.”

He didn’t expand. You didn’t push.

He flicked his wand, muttering nothing, and the Drought Charm rippled over him—clothes drying, curls fluffing back into unruly shape; steam rising briefly around his shoulders. He exhaled at the warmth returning to his skin. Ah. So the Charm was incantationless. You internally cursed yourself for your slow-mindedness. 

Then he turned toward you.

“No,” you said immediately, a stubborn tone lacing your voice.

He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

“Hold still.”

“Mattheo—”

Warmth washed over you, drying your hair, your cloak, and your socks, leaving you flushed and irritated.

You shoved his shoulder. “I told you not to.”

“And I ignored you,” he said simply. “Because you looked like a miserable, frostbitten squirrel.”

Your mouth fell open. “A squirrel?”

“A wet one.”

“Mattheo—” you growled.

He grinned, the kind that made it impossible to stay annoyed, his chocolate eyes sparkling in the lantern light. “There she is.”

You rolled your eyes, but your body had finally stopped shaking, and the fog had cleared from your mind. Unfortunately, that just meant you could now fully register how close he’d gotten.

Too close.

Your eyes—unfortunately and instinctively—flicked down to his mouth, and you noticed the small cut on his lip. Scarlet. Swollen. Fresh.

He caught your stare. “What?” he asked, wiping at it with the back of his hand.

“Did you—did someone hit you?”

He hesitated. Just enough for you to see the truth flicker across his expression.

Then: “Your boyfriend has a terrible right hook.”

You froze, raising a brow before your face contorted, registering the situation. “You fought?”

“He tried,” Mattheo corrected. “I mostly laughed.”

“Mattheo—!”

“He said something I didn’t appreciate.”

“What did he say?” you asked as that same, terrible feeling from the earlier fight settled uncomfortably back into your stomach like something rotten.

Mattheo’s eyes flicked away before returning to yours, darker now, less guarded.

“That you and I have been getting too close.”

Your breath snagged. Great. This again. 

“He didn’t like the tutoring. Or the studying. Or the—” His gaze dropped for a second, toward your legs, “—knee-to-knee situation.”

Heat shot to your face.

“How could he have seen us?” you rambled, “He doesn’t understand! That was—”

“Accidental?” He looked entirely unconvinced. “Sure.”

You sputtered. “We were studying.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, a smirk curling at his sensuous lips; you could tell by the look on his face and the distance in his eyes that he was replaying that almost-kiss in his head. “Very academically.”

You gaped at him. He smirked wider.

“The fact you’re blushing,” he added, stepping closer, “isn’t helping your argument.”

“I’m cold.” You lied quickly, cocking your head.

“You’re warm now.” He gestured to your still frame that was very much not trembling.

You rolled your eyes, groaning, “Then it’s a residual cold.”

“Hm. Convenient.”

You glared at him, but he only took another step forward, leaning a hand on the table beside your hip; water finally evaporated from his sleeves.

His voice dropped.

“You ran out of the castle fast.” The look on his face was almost caring.

You swallowed. “I needed space.”

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, turning his head away.

“You don’t know what I was thinking.” You answer quickly, defensively.

“Don’t I?” he turned back, eyes flicking to your lips for a millisecond.

You hated the way he said it—quiet, certain, warm. Hated how the sound of his voice spread so much warmth through your body that it completely dissolved that miserable feeling from earlier. How it shifted all thoughts from your boyfriend to him: his name, his smirk, the way his eyes kept flicking to your lips like those times in the library.

His face was close now. Closer than you’d let it be in the library, where other people may glimpse the act.

Close enough that you could see the tiny droplets of leftover rain caught in his lashes.

Close enough that your breath hitched without permission. But you weren’t in the library now, were you?

“You shouldn’t have come after me,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his arm.

“I didn’t,” he said lightly. “I just… happened to show up in the exact abandoned pub you ducked into during an unholy storm.”

You gave him a flat look. His mouth twitched.

“Small world,” he repeated.

You tried not to smile back but, regrettably, failed. 

Your brain was too fogged from the argument, the cold, and his proximity to question how, exactly, he knew your very location. 

His eyes surrendered from your eyes to your lips, flickering with something that could only be described as longing.

“Mattheo…” You whispered.

He inhaled sharply when you said his name—so subtly you almost missed it.

“What?” he asked, voice suddenly rougher.

“This is—complicated.” You mutter, thoughts circling back to your boyfriend.

“Doesn’t feel complicated.” He replied, his voice almost taunting.

“It is.” You affirmed, though you were trying to convince yourself of the matter.

“Then tell me why I’m here,” he challenged quietly.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. You could find the words, the excuse: ‘But… My boyfriend!’ They were easy to say. Reasonable. Logical.

But you couldn’t find a reason to say them. With Mattheo in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his quickened breaths on your skin—his head tilted and lips curled in a smirk as he admired you and your silence in a way that made you think this was fate—you didn’t want to say them.

Somewhere outside, thunder rolled across the sky, rattling the windows.

Inside, Mattheo’s eyes never left yours.

He reached up—slow, hesitant—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His knuckles grazed your skin lightly, almost reverently.

Your breath caught.

He froze, waiting to see if you’d pull back.

You didn’t.

The smallest, barest smile ghosted across his mouth—barely there, soft, relieved.

“Yeah,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Thought so.”

Your heart lurched.

And then he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not claiming. Not messy or possessive or desperate.

Just… finally.

Warm lips on chilled skin. Softness wrapped in tension. A slow exhale against your mouth, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer without thinking. His fingers slid into your hair, the kiss deepening, shifting, intensifying until the lanterns blurred behind your eyelids.

He lifted you before you even realized, guiding you onto the table with the gentlest press of his hands at your waist—asking without asking, giving you every chance to stop him, to pull away, to say no.

But you didn’t.

And he kissed you again—

And the table creaked beneath you—

And the storm outside burned itself out against the windows while something entirely different caught fire between you.

[sscrslvr]

"winds of the desert heart" (pt. 2)

(paul atreides x female!reader)

Part 2: Know You

Word count: 2.4k

Description: After you and Paul talk of your inevitable future, you end up making out with him in the hallway outside his room. From there, you both struggle through a tension-packed mental battle between logic and lust.

Warnings: Fem!reader, princess!reader, Corrino!reader, mentions of sexual activites(still no actual smut YET), lots of tension, grinding/dryhumping, biting, (SPOILER: interrupted sexual tension)

Author's note: I DID NOT PROOFREAD THIS! So sorry if there are any mistakes and I apologize for the long wait! I was in a writer's block and worked on this like once a week, lol. I'm still figuring out the plot as I go because there are so many good opportunities for the future events I'm cooking up. Anyways, enjoy! Next part will have actual smut I promise. But again, this is my first fanfic so please give constructive criticism!

______________________________________________________________

Approximately 5 minutes after discussing your and Paul's impending future, you had found yourself pushed up against a cool, stone wall in an empty hallway outside Paul's sleeping chambers. Your twisting, deprived fingers are grasping at his dark curls as your lips crash against each other’s. His arms were wrapped around your body, effectively pinning you against the wall as you kissed passionately. Each layer of the built-up tension from earlier was releasing, but it was far from concluding.

You both had fled the monotonous ‘party’ due to the fact it was in no way synonymous with the mood you and Paul had been brewing with every word that spilled so naturally from each of your mouths. Paul, without any further consideration, had swiftly escorted you out of the party a few minutes ago after you had given him just one look and he had understood you both wanted this calm night to end the same way: passionately.

The hallway you both now stand in is dark and cold—quite ominous, really, but both you and Paul are too consumed in the intense encounter to notice. Paul’s firm, muscular body presses against yours further, his large hands roaming over your soft curves. He cupped your face as your lips met, the touch electric and full of desire. Paul moans softly as he explores your mouth, his tongue dancing with yours. He was a man who usually had control of his emotions, but you were quickly making him lose all bearing. Paul was completely unraveling. He has never felt such a strong sensual feeling that is so meaningful yet so new and foreign. And god, your lips were so sweet, so soft.

Every physical interaction between you and Paul was invigorating—enhancing the unreal desire you both hold towards each other. Each second in which you kissed was binding; every time your tongue brushed against his was prophetic—biblical. It was nearly ritualistic, the mixture of such noble DNA, a concoction that the Bene Gesserit sisterhood had been planning for a millennium—but you and Paul weren't aware of this—yet. So, as his hands grasp your hips and push them into his, you two entirely forget about the most important part of your conversation earlier: the implications that may arise from you and Paul engaging in… sexual acts.

As the kiss deepens and your bodies become more intimately locked together, Paul finds himself lost in the moment. The feel of your soft lips and taste were all that mattered. He couldn’t think clearly, his mind consumed by the overwhelming desire for you. Paul’s hands wandered further, exploring your body with an increased fervor. It was as if he can’t get enough of you, like he needs you more than oxygen—more than a space navigator needs spice to find the safest path through fold space. But somewhere within him, deep inside, a nagging thought began to form… 

Paul wanted more—needed it. Yet deep down, there was that persistent, unrelenting voice of reason reminding him of the consequences of his actions. It consumed him for a moment, an inner voice scolding him to rethink his decisions. The voice reminded him of his mother’s, how she used to shout at him when he was a boy. Except the voice was different, urgent, as if it was calling out to direct him to the correct path—except it also wasn’t a voice at all. It was a feeling.

He breaks the kiss momentarily, holding your gaze, his forehead pressing against yours. “Princess… We… We should talk. There are things we need to consider before we…” he whispers, his sentence trailing off. He lifts a hand to touch your face, his thumb gently running across your bottom lip. It was hard for him to come to his senses. The conflict between desire and reason was visible in his emerald green eyes. Paul sighs as he takes in your confused but understanding expression; presently battling inner thoughts to pull you in and ravish you again, so he instead buries his face in your neck so he doesn’t have to look into your seductive, bewitching eyes.

You had whined softly as he broke the kiss, looking up at him with your sensuous lips in a soft pout. You sighed at his words, considered them, and giggled as he nestled his head into your neck to avoid your irresistible gaze. You understand his concerns—share them, even. But you found the scene quite humorous, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you looked around the hall—empty, dimly lit, conveniently romantic, and around 5 steps away from Paul’s bedroom. Before responding, you sigh again, leaning your head back against the stone wall in disbelief.

“You want to talk… here? And now?” you ask, dipping your head down to look at the avoidant and flustered Paul Atreides, the man who was fighting an internal battle between whether he should be making love or discussing logic. He couldn’t help but smirk at your response. It was true; the setting was far from ideal for conversation, given the current level of physical desire. But he knew you both had to consider the consequences of such impending actions.

Paul tilted his chin back up so he was looking at you directly. “I understand the irony of the situation, princess… But there are things that we need to talk about, things that will be much harder when your lips are otherwise… occupied,” he whispered, his voice deep and gravelly. You couldn’t help but blush at his suggestive rhetoric, especially with the way he was looking at you right now: solemnly, seriously, seductively. You smile softly, studying each perfect detail of his divinely sculpted face.

You tilt your head to the side so you can turn your gaze towards Paul’s bedroom door, which was conveniently close. “How about we talk in there?” you whisper, then add—in case he had any objections—”only talk. Nothing else,” with a playful smirk on your face. You didn’t mind how this night would end, whether you would end up in his bed, his clothes… or in your Corrino palace on your planet, Kaitain. Either conclusion sounded fine, the latter a little less—but still, you had no room to complain, for Paul was correct. You were simply going with the wind, wherever it blows.

Paul had followed your eyes to his bedroom door, his body still pressed close to yours. He knew it would be damn near impossible to maintain any semblance of control if you were in there with him. Temptation was high, the desire to continue this physical reaction stronger than ever, but he knew you both had to have a more in-depth conversation regarding implications. He looks back at you, noticing you, too, were having the same conflict in your eyes between lust and logic. Paul sighed, his grip on your waist loosening slightly. “Alright, and only talk,” he agreed. “If we let our… desires take over once we cross the threshold… we might not be able to stop,” he warns, but you nod in agreement, soothing his nerves.

Paul sighs heavily before releasing his grip on your body, whining softly as you do the same, and takes your hand in his. He slowly leads you to his bedroom, and you both could already feel the tension rising between the two of you once again. 

. . .

Paul’s bedroom was tastefully decorated, with an air of understated and minimalistic, clean luxury. He had taken exceptional care to create a space that reflected his personal style—sleek, contemporary, with subtle touches of opulence. The room was immense, with walls of smooth, grey stone like that of the hallway. Glowglobes were suspended in the air around shoulder length in each corner of the room, casting a soft, orange, ambient light that only made the setting more dangerously romantic. 

Paul leads you to a pair of grey, modular, leather armchairs set at an intimate distance from each other. He clears his throat, gently guiding you to sit down at one of the chairs and taking a seat at the one opposite of you. Paul still held your hand but maintained a respectful distance to prevent the long-awaited continuance of your physical encounter from earlier. The cool leather of the armchairs contrasted with that heated exchange from earlier, which still left a sweet taste in both of your mouths.

Suddenly, he speaks, his words startling the quiet, tension-saturated room. “Princess,” he begins, his mind still swirling with the possibilities, paths, and gateways towards future events. “I feel as though I want to be with you,” Paul continues, then blinks the words away and clears his throat, tilting his head and gaze towards the floor. “No, no,” he mumbles, “I want to be with you. I know I want to be with you, and that scares me because I do not know you and you do not know me, but… we also know each other so well,” he rambles, and you understand his words and their meaning. You also sympathize with his confusion because you shared it, for it was a very, very confusing thing happening between you both.

He slowly lifts his head and gazes up towards you, seeking your reply: acceptance or denial. His eyes are swirling with delicate and raw emotion that complements his emerald green eyes like cheese and wine. You smile ever so softly, gently caressing his hand with your thumb to soothe his nerves, which worked instantaneously, resulting in his pupils dilating slightly. “Do you want to know me?” you whisper, your voice suddenly vulnerable and quiet, and as soon as they leave your lips, you feel weepy. It was almost as if you didn’t want to ask because you can’t help but fear the answer. You don’t know Paul’s intentions yet, scarily unsure if he’s lying or bearing his soul to you in this moment. 

“Yes.” Paul replied quickly and without a hint of hesitation, squeezing your hand softly and eagerly leaning closer to you so he could look at you directly in the eyes, taking in the sight of your gaze. He knew that you were arrestingly beautiful, but he also knew there was much more beneath the surface of your perfect face. There was something so intriguing about you that he couldn’t quite place, something that drew him in and made him want to the edge of need.

You open your mouth to reply, but he hushes you by gently pressing his lips against yours. You smile against his lips, and he pulls away slowly, by a hair's breadth, so his head is pressed against yours as he adds, “I want to know what makes you smile… and what makes you cry. I want to hear what you dream about and what keeps you up at night… what scares and soothes you. I want to know you. You, not just the noble princess, but the person who is you.” 

Paul’s words were spoken with such sincerity and fervor that they stirred you. You hadn’t expected him to want to know you on such a personal level; rather, you had assumed he was solely drawn to your physical appearance and noble status, yet he desired to know what made you you, to understand your thoughts, dreams, fears, and what made you a human. That was a rarity. You were speechless; you knew it, and so did Paul.

A few seconds pass, and Paul accepts that you don’t know how to reply. His voice drops to a deeper, huskier tone as he leans in close to your neck this time, a smirk on his lips as his fingers trace a slow, feather-light path down the side of your perfect face. “There’s something else I want to know… something I can’t quite shake from my thoughts,” he whispers, his breath hot on your sensitive neck. You sigh as he presses his lips against the soft skin below your jaw; his hand is now at the back of your head, fingers intertwined in your hair. 

Your heart quickens at his tender touch, the anticipation and tension building between you both with each passing second. Paul pulls back slightly so he could see the expression on your pretty face as the next words left his mouth: “I want to know what it would feel like to taste you… to touch you, feel you… in a way that goes far beyond mere words or intentions,” he rasps, glancing down at your lips before looking at you deep in the eyes.

“Paul… I…” You begin but never finish. There was nothing you were obligated to say, but there were things you wanted to do. He was looking at you with such a longing expression that was laced with intense desire. His hands grab yours, and he pulls you closer to him, so you stand up and find yourself straddling him on his lap, your dress riding up slightly as you do so. He sprawls back, a devilish smirk on his face as you wrap your arms around his neck and he places his hands on your hips.

As you lean down to place soft kisses on his neck, he whispers, “I want to know every… intimate detail about you, my princess. I want to know what brings you pleasure, what sets you on fire, what drives you to the edge and… back again,” he murmurs into your ear, his sentence crumbling as you gently nip on the skin on his neck and grind your hips into his.

Paul tightens his grip on you, guiding you closer and encouraging the grinding of your hips as a low moan escapes his throat. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he manages to groan out, his fingers digging into the rich fabric of your dress. Your soft kisses and nips make him shiver. “You drive me crazy, princess, you know that?” he whispers, tossing his head back as you begin to place open-mouthed kisses on his neck, leaving tiny little red marks.

“Oh yeah?” You whisper, “If you’re already crazy, you’re going to be as psychotic as Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen by the time I’m finished with you.” You tease, trying to gain at least some semblance of dominance after Paul had you speechless a few minutes ago. Your witticism puts a grin on Paul’s face; he was almost sure he loved you already. 

Just then, before Paul could shoot back his witty reply, a knock on the door breaks the spell of the moment. Someone is clearly, urgently, outside the door trying to get Paul’s attention.

[chalamet-chalamet]

YOUNGEST SAG LEADING ACTOR WINNER

[chalamet-chalamet]

Timothée Chalamet for Bleu de Chanel ✨✨✨

📸 by Mario Sorrenti

[sscrslvr]

"winds of the desert heart "

(paul atreides x female!reader)

Part 1: Destined to Be

Word count: 3.1k

Description: At a party in the Atreides' Caladan mansion, you, the lovely and honorable princess of House Corrino, are introduced to Paul Atreides. You two are attracted to one another right away. You and Paul have an unrivaled electric chemistry. You're wickedly smart, terribly funny, and perfectly flawless, and Paul is just the same. You and Paul become closer, both literally and figuratively, with every second that goes by. You both secretly concur that you would be more than happy to continue pursuing whatever odd thing was occurring between you two for longer than one night, no matter what it took.

Warnings: Fem!reader, princess!reader, Corrino!reader, mentions of sexual activites(no actual smut yet), brief mentions of alcohol and drugs/spice, (SPOILER: talk of political marriage)

Authors note: I worked hard to make sure this was INCREDIBLY lore accurate with no spelling or grammatical errors. I PRAY that ya'll are okay with whatever format this is lol. This is my first fanfic EVER so I'm open to criticism!!! Let me know if you have any recommendations or anything, I'm planning to make this a pretty long series, but this part is sort of like a teaser to see if you even want any more parts. This DOES end quite abruptly. Anyways, enjoy!

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“--Duke Atreides, you have simply outdone yourself,” a peculiarly tipsy lady had said to Paul just a moment ago. Her drunkenness explained how she mistook the boy for Duke Leto, Paul’s father. Her jeweled fingers held a wine-filled crystal glass with a lipstick-covered rim above her head in celebration, her gaze drifting around the large dining hall, which was filled with people of all sorts. 

The people in the room were either high-class citizens of the Imperial House Corrino and House Atreides, nobles of the Landsraad Council, the wealthiest Ixian engineers, or the Imperium’s favorite spice smugglers—who were disguised as wealthy folk, of course. Everyone was dressed in their finest suits and gowns, drinking spice-melange-infused liquor and the famous Caladanian fine wine. At first glance, it was a party. A grand one at that. But in reality, it was just another boring political meeting disguised as an entertaining event—mainly so the elites’ children could grow more familiar with each other for when they will have to take on their parents’ roles. You and Paul fell under that category. 

“The compliments go to my mother; she did all the planning,” Paul replied plainly, eager to shake this strange woman off of him. You had seen many women come up to him, hoping to find some entertainment at this party. However, Paul remained firm and treated them all the same: dismissive but respectful. You notice his eyes dart around the room, searching for somebody else to converse with, before they land on Gurney Halleck, the Atreides’ weapons master, who was drunkenly singing and strumming the strings of his baliset. Paul bid the woman a hasty farewell, then paced off into the crowd of old nobles with leathery faces who reeked of spice melange until he was out of your view, so you decided to focus your mind on something else to pass time.

You were seated in a velvet-cushioned armchair at a small table in the corner of the dining hall, which you had found around 10 minutes ago to escape awkward, persisting conversation with some unknown young lord of some old forgotten land—whose breath smelled like manure and greed and some of the main course from tonight's meal. You presently sighed at the painfully recent memory, praying to some god that you would never again have to cross paths with whoever that was. To distract yourself, you studied the room. 

Glowglobes had been freshly lighted to appease light among the early dark, casting shades of orange upon the pristine marble floors that held swirling colors of the richest maroons and emerald greens and precious golds. Your eyes dragged across the floor to the other side of the room, which had an entryway cut out of the stone wall. Around a dozen foolish female guests were crowding the center of the Great Hall, grouped around the palace’s grand fireplace. An open blaze crackled there, emitting heat and small flickers of light onto jewels and beads and costly fabrics of the women’s dresses. They were all quietly cursing themselves for mistaking Caladan for a warm environment, wishing they’d brought their fine whale fur coverings—or at least had worn longer gowns. 

You stared at them, now realizing that half of them were the daughters of spice smugglers and the other half were most likely some descendants from the nobles of the Landsraad Council. One girl in an unsightly yellow-gold dress noticed your eyes upon the even more unsightly group, which evoked whispers to protrude from their thin lips and resulted in you turning your head in the opposite direction to avoid conflict—or worse, another unwanted conversation.

You sighed again, looking down at your bejeweled hands and fingers. You were observant. Too observant. You noticed every little detail, blaming the fact you were locked away in a palace for half of your life due to your father’s overprotective nature. Because of him, you normally succumbed to the library instead of pursuing a thrilling nightlife like other girls your age. But he had a good reason. He is none other than the Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV, an extremely noble man who rules the entirety of the known universe. With you being the most beautiful of his many daughters, he felt he needed to protect you from the horrors of the Imperium. And to make sure you never had to rely on a husband in the future, he made sure you were very well educated in geography, politics, history, economics, and so on. Because of this, you were wickedly intelligent, which ultimately heightened your observant nature.

Looking down at your glass of wine, noticing how the dim lighting reflected off of the deep red color, you entirely miss the fact that someone sat down at your table. Maybe you aren’t so observant after all.

“I beg that you don’t talk to me,” a male voice muttered in your direction. You quickly looked up, slightly offended by his words. You then saw it was Paul Atreides, and he had not even looked at you yet. You guessed he was avoiding all forms of contact, assuming you were just some stranger, which was self-explanatory because you were, in fact, sitting in a corner by yourself. “This party is giving me a migraine; I feel as if a sandworm is burying into my cranium,” he whispered under his breath to nobody in particular.

You started laughing at his analogy but desperately tried to choke back the sound. You averted your eyes back down to the table, shaking your head as your lips remained curved in a smile. You found it humorous, the sight of a young noble of the great House Atreides so bored and agitated at a very important event he’d even taken part in hosting. You thought it was amusing that he’d decide to start a conversation with you, if you could even call it that.

“...You were not supposed to hear that; I apologize,” he said genuinely after looking up and ogling at you for a few long seconds. Shocked was an understatement; he was bewildered. He had been eyeing you since you arrived, noticing that you had been looking at him as well. He knew who you were; everyone did, but he hadn't realized it was you he had spoken so rudely to. Paul Atreides had seen plenty of pretty women in his years of living; however, none of them seemed to stack up to you in terms of the effect you had. You certainly lived up to the rumors he’d heard about you—you were every bit the desirable daughter of the Emperor. While he typically remained aloof to women in general—as you had observed earlier—he found himself a bit more engaged in your proximity.

“Relax, Atreides. I won't call my Sardaukar troops on you… yet.” You tease, turning towards him and looking into his green eyes. He had a terrifyingly charming face; his hawk-like features and emerald irises made it nearly impossible to look away from him. And his hair… His hair was perfectly tousled, his dark brown curls twisted and twirled in every right direction. Your smile widens; you are fully amused now, thrilled to finally converse with someone of interest to you. 

“And when does your highness plan to call them?” Paul posed in a faux-serious manner; his eyes sparkled with tease. He found himself shocked by both the sincerity of your amusement and the boldness of your words, which instantly tells him that you are, in fact, the Imperial princess of House Corrino, and you damn well have authority over him. He leans forward, resting his chin against his hand as he presses an elbow onto the table, regarding you with more attention than he had given any of the other guests this evening. His head tilts to the side as he studies the ineffability of your beautiful face, a lock of his hair falling into his eyes in the process.

“I will call them the next time you refer to me as ‘your highness,’ and I’ll be sure that my troops slice you to bite-sized pieces with their lasguns.” You jest, dramatically clutching your chest, your lips subtly curled upwards in a snarling frown in an attempt at disgust. Your ‘seriousness’ only lasts a couple of seconds before a wide grin returns to your face. Unfortunately or fortunately, it was hard to decide; you were growing more interested in Paul by the second.

“And you seem the type to follow through with your threats… Independent and well-calculated, just like your father.” He mused; his compliment was subtle, but he knew you’d detect it. He smirked at your reaction, bewitched by how your soft lips twitched upwards as you smiled. Yes, he certainly found you intriguing, a bit more than he should have.

“Threats? No, no. Favors, Paul Atreides.” You note back with a sly smirk, directing your attention to four women who were whispering in a circle. You gesture for him to look as well before you lean in and whisper, “It seems that group has taken quite an interest in you, don’t you think? You see that girl in the disappointing yellow-gold dress? That’s a spice smuggler’s daughter, and when I was grabbing a glass of wine from the beverage table, I overheard her sharing all of the things she wanted to do with you tonight.” Your words were woefully true, but you were only speaking them to further tease poor Paul.

“How unfortunate for her, then. I’d rather not associate myself with women of that sort. I have more… discriminating tastes.” Paul replied after biting back a laugh when you mentioned the daughter of the spice smuggler, the last person he’d ever want as a potential betrothed. He turned his gaze back to you as he spoke, his eyes focusing oddly more on your eyes, as if he wanted to memorize the way the colors in your iris blended together and created a reflection of your mind and soul. His stare wandered to your body, noticing how well you’d adorned an elegant dress of the finest silk. The future Duke was so drawn to you he could almost swear that you were a Bene Gesserit witch playing tricks on his mind. You had him enamored. He never wanted this banter to end.

“Discriminating tastes? Oh Paul, do tell,” you replied, a smirk plastered upon your masterpiece of a face. You are definitely enjoying this encounter. Paul Atreides was the only man at this gathering you’d be willing to associate with. You can’t help but glance at his lips every now and then as he grins, the sight so precious you would’ve compensated a painter one million Solaris to replicate his smile. You were falling deeper into whatever this was with each passing moment, prideful to know that you were the only one who could match these discriminating tastes he spoke about. 

“My tastes would have me avoid the… gold,” he gestures in the direction of the young lady, “and look towards more… priceless treasures.” He leaned back in his chair, directing his attention back to you. Paul held your gaze, a soft, proud smirk apparent on his face. He knows the implication of his words will be obvious, especially to you. It only took him a few seconds earlier in the beginning of your conversation to pick up on your wit and intelligence.

“Well, it seems you've unfortunately eliminated a hefty majority of the women in this room from your taste profile,” you murmur, a teasing smile lifting the corners of your lips. However, as his words sink in, it grows into a more genuine grin; it seems stars have even started to twinkle in your eyes. You have this Atreides ducal heir wrapped around your finger, and you are quite ashamed to admit that he has the same effect on you as you do on him.

“That must mean fewer opportunities for my taste to be satisfied,” he muses, the playful tone in his voice betraying the sincerity in his eyes. “Perhaps the one I'm speaking to will suffice,” he adds, his lips twitching upwards in a smug grin. Paul now looks at you, the princess of the Great House Corrino, like you're the only woman in the world. His stare is so intense, so prying and intimate, that you feel like a soft blue egg lying in a nest of your mother's feathers high up in a swaying tree, vulnerable.

“Perhaps,” you echo as a means of replying. You lean forward, almost instinctively, and place your elbow on the table, resting your head in your hand. Looking up at the handsome Paul Atreides, you try to dissect his soul through his eyes. Your eyes hinted ‘yes,’ but your tone lied and whispered, ‘We’ll see.’. Is Paul bright enough to pick the correct answer between the two? Hm. Perhaps this party isn’t so boring.

Paul notices the agreement in your eyes and the playfulness in your tone. His gaze holds yours a bit longer before drifting to your perfect, sensuous lips. God, he’d be lying if he said he didn't want more of you. But the most dangerous thing was that you wanted more of him as well. You two look into each other's eyes again for one moment… Two moments—before Paul decides to speak for the both of you.

“I find myself wanting to satisfy my more… carnal tastes,” he admits with no hint of shame; his voice drops to a lower tone, laced with one too many touches of desire as he looks at your lips once more, “if we’re speaking in honesty.” He smirks, his eyes flick back up to yours as he waits for your response.

“Well, Paul Atreides, if we are speaking honestly, I must admit that I would be more than willing to engage in satisfying both our carnal desires. But I… like you.” You whisper, leaning closer as a soft smirk paints itself across your face. “If anything were to happen between us after this party concludes, I wouldn't wish for it to be a one-time thing. However, given our family backgrounds, we’d have to keep this a secret, at least temporarily.”

His eyes widen slightly at your unexpected honesty. He smiles at the thought of your desires, the idea of satisfying them. He is more than intrigued, though slightly wary of your like for him. He leans toward you again, the distance between you narrowing.

“The feeling is shared. I find myself wanting more than just a one-time encounter with you, princess. But I understand your concerns. If we were to partake in… this,” he gestures between the both of you, “it would have to be kept quiet and discreet.” Paul leaned back, contemplating the situation. While his interest in you is undeniably present, he knows the risks and consequences. 

“I must admit,” he continues, but his eyes linger on your perfectly sensuous lips, “your beauty is unparalleled. However,” he pauses, meeting his eyes with yours once again, “the implications for our respective houses are not to be ignored.” Paul raises his glass of wine to his nose, giving it a swirl as he observes your reaction. “I don’t want you to mistake my actions as mere carnal desire. I have a genuine interest in pursuing a future with you, he admits, awaiting your response.

You find it excruciatingly hard to hold back a smile as he speaks. Happy was an understatement; you were thrilled to know he really wanted more than just a night of pleasure. While listening to his words and weighing your options, you have settled upon a very unique and possibly crazy idea. After a few more moments of thinking and processing, you speak.

“Well, Paul, it enlightens me to know you'd also like this to go further. I want something meaningful with you. But, as you said yourself, there are some possible negative outcomes that could happen between our houses if anyone discovers… this,” you gesture between you and him. “However, I have a solution. An idea, a plan. With some moments of consideration, I have come upon the fact that the one and only way we can pursue a relationship is through political, strategic marriage between our allying houses,” you propose, still putting the pieces together in your head.

“Marriage,” he echoes; the thought has crossed his mind in his moments of talking to you, but he hadn’t expected you to bring it up so quickly, “that is the only way we could pursue something meaningful without causing scandal or upsetting our houses.” He pauses, his mind processing the consequences and possibilities. “Political and strategic marriages are common. However, there are still questions… What about our personal desires? The physical chemistry between us is undeniable,” he whispered, his voice growing more sensuous by the second.

“Our personal desires would most definitely be quenched if we go through with this. Tonight we shall decide if our desires are worthy of being upheld so we can further discover if we would like to keep this a one-time occurrence or a long-term commitment—if you so wish, of course,” you whisper, subconsciously leaning closer to him. With each and every word he had spoken, you found yourself more inclined to touch him. Paul wasn’t stupid like the other men your age at this party. He was well-calculated, incredibly intelligent, and thoughtful. Oh god. Paul Atreides is already making you fall apart without even touching you yet. You quickly decide, before he could respond, to take a mental step back.

“I pray you don’t believe I’m thinking too irrationally; too far ahead…” You add, “I just can’t help but stare into your green eyes and dream,” you admit, much more than you should’ve. You embarrassedly put a hand on your forehead right after the words roll off your tongue so naturally. You feel oddly vulnerable with him, even though you have just truly met him. 

“No, I don’t believe you’re thinking too far ahead,” he reassured you, placing his forearms on the table to lean closer. “Perhaps it’s the wine, or maybe it’s something else,” he admits, his voice softer than ever before. He raises a hand, gently caressing your soft, warm cheek with two long fingers. “I’m also unable to look away from you. There is something about you that I can't ignore, a pull that I can’t resist. I think you know that, princess,” he murmured, using your title in a strangely intimate manner. Your words had wrapped around him like a soft, seductive whisper. He could feel your physical proximity, and it was intoxicating; addictive, like spice. Paul couldn't ignore that; he couldn't shake the thought that he needed you in any way you were willing.

[sscrslvr]

how do i recover from this.