YourMonarch
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A lopsided smile had stitched itself across his brother's mouth. It was a subtle mutation of Aegon's usual beam: brows drawn together, nostrils flared, the round shine of his eyes taking on a hidden fierceness as the pricks of longing began to wet his pale lashes.
He asked for adoration as king, and yet this was when he was easiest to love: supplicant and sorrowful, shedding the salt of his tears upon his brother's parched lips.
The night after his coronation, Aegon comes to Aemond for comfort.
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From Paul’s height, he watched as his lovers melted together, like two souls damned and dripping in the flame from a hell of his own making. They morphed for him, stretched and presented themselves for him, twisted together inseparably in their mutual craving of love from a damaged god.
They did not know it, but they were tragic lovers in their own right, and only Paul could see the strings that he had tied between them—like tangled marionettes, like flies in a web.
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“Tell me your name,” Paul coaxed from their guest, speaking just as gently as before.
In truth, he knew this man's name. He knew his name, and his father’s name, and all the names that came before him. He knew the story of his birth and the fierceness of his conception. He knew his end. But to give this man personage and identity, a distinctive oneness in Feyd-Rautha's mind as he stood there with his submission on display, was something he would not pass by.
Paul and Feyd have a quiet moment. They get interrupted.
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"You're just looking for a fight."
"Maybe I am. I'd like to bloody myself with you."
This thing between them—it had only just started, but Paul knew a game when it was set out before him. He liked games.
Under imperial law, the Atreides are required to hold court for the Harkonnens after the official surrender of Arrakis. Paul is immediately intrigued by the second in line for the throne, Feyd-Rautha, and it doesn't take long before the two are colliding, stealing away to hiss over cracked ribs and covetous breaths.
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All he'd ever known was the softness of laundered bedsheets, trimmed bikini lines, fruity perfumes doused onto the beating pulse of fragile-necked girls.
But this? It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. It reeked of sweat and cheap pot, his back was aching from the stained linoleum floors, he was miserably aroused at the thought of the town freak making a mess of himself. It was dirty, perverted.
Why did he like it so much?