The Last Supper || Leto Atreides x Reader
-> Rating: 18+
-> Word Count: 6.8k!!!
-> When an ornithopter crashes in Fremen territory, you feel compelled to nurse the handsome stranger you find inside back to health.
Gif Credit doesn’t belong to me!
TW/CW: mentions of death. detailed injury, angst, oral (f receiving), p in v sex. Not beta read.
The figure that occupies the head of your dinner table, whose shoulders are broad, imposing, and carrying an impossible weight of duty was once a stranger who fell from the sky.
Memories of that pivotal day are seared into your mind as though someone had left a branding iron out in the scorching Arrakeen sun and pressed it to the grey swirls of your brain. The violent vibrations of the ornithopter colliding with the dunes beyond the sietch in which you lived had shocked you from your slumber overnight, causing you to dart from your bed for fear of another Harkonnen attack. Despite it being only a handful of months since the oppressive regime of House Harkonnen had departed your beloved home world, you still feared them.
While it was almost unquestionable to you that The Baron would launch an attack upon his cousin, Duke Leto Atreides having been gifted Arrakis from the Emperor himself, the shell shock that persisted beyond the Harkonnen retreat often left you fearful for your life when loud noises emerged from the desert plains. Only the repeated muffled knocks of thumpers and, ironically, the swish of sand being moved aside by the enormous bodies of the sandworms Shai-Hulud brought you any semblance of comfort that all was as it should be.
The boom that reverberated throughout the desert sands belonged to neither, and so the panic had arisen in you, making you feel inexplicably cold for such a scorched planet. Having dragged yourself from the security of your own bed, you had stumbled through the dark seitche’s passageways and into the arid wasteland. Others had joined you on your investigation, both concerned and intrigued by the noise that had aroused them from their own peaceful slumber.
Scattered shrapnel peppered the sandy terrain and smoke billowed from the large transport that lay upon its side, which you now knew to be an Ornithopter. The glow of the moonlight reflected off the metal with which it was made, the argent luminescence your only light source with which to navigate in the pitch-black night.
You’re not at all sure what overcame you, thinking back on it you’d consider it a form of divine intervention from the Old Gods, but your legs carried you down onto the warm grains of sand before you even had time to consider why you were doing so. The compulsion to check upon the pilot inside was potent, the sole drive of your feet sinking into dusty grains with each step.
Upon first assessment you knew instantaneously that the co-pilot had been killed in the collision, his eyes rolled so far back into his skull that he stared back at you with only the whites of his eyes as blood poured down his eyelids. As for the man beside him, you could see the rise and fall of his sternum through the stillsuit that clung tightly to his skin, immediately alerting you to the fact he was still alive. With some rather insistent compelling to your people, all of you had managed to safely remove the unconscious man from the wreckage before the Shai-Hulud swallowed the impotent vehicle.
Injuries were extensive, a large gaping wound that ran from the curve of his shoulder and down the inside of his bicep was deep enough to show the bone. Minor cuts litter his face like the ones above the thick hair of his brows and to his lip. A rather large bump had formed on his forehead, flourishing a deep purple in the time it had taken to remove him from the ornithopter and inside the sietch. It was only reasonable to believe that if his external damage was so severe, his internal lacerations would equal, if not exceed those you could assess with your own eyes.
Heated squabbles had broken out amongst your fellow Fremen about who would be unlucky enough to receive the ‘off-worlder’ into their home. Perhaps you had subconsciously decided to take responsibility for him due to your insistence upon saving him, but once again you felt obliged to step in for the vulnerable man who lay at your feet. In the end, you had given him your bed to rest in while you had slept endless weeks on the floor.
Recovery was a long and strenuous process. Providing Spice during his extensive oblivion proved to help with his pain, seemingly resting better with the hallucinogen in his system. Stitches had to be provided to suture the wound upon his shoulder, yet another thing you agreed to do for his comfort. You remember the nervousness you had felt stripping him from his stillsuit to begin the procedure, and what you once thought was anxiety surrounding hurting him during the process you now knew to be caused by the warmth radiating from the naked skin of his chest beneath your fingers.
Many hours were spent gazing at the insensible man who occupied your bed. Eventually, you had grown accustomed to studying the slopes of his face before you joined him in slumber from your place on the floor. Within a week you had him all memorized, down to the angle of the bridge of his nose, the pinpoint precision of where freckles dotted his face, and even the location of the grey strands of his dense beard which you continued to groom for him in his incapacitated state.
Weeks passed before the stranger awoke from his extended rest. The whites of his eyes were tinged the palest blue after many nights of using Spice to alleviate the agony he appeared to be in, but his irises remained the most remarkable umber color. So stunning was this shade, you imagined they resembled the rings hidden in the bark of the palm trees you had heard resided in the courtyard of the Fenring’s house. Considered so holy were these trees that they were supplemented by forty liters of water a day, sacrificing a hundred people daily for their beauty. Upon seeing this stranger's eyes for the first time, you vaguely remember considering that you would be willing to sacrifice one hundred people a day as payment for glancing into them for but a few seconds.
You can recall the shock that wracked your body at the quiet of his accent that floated on the silence in the room, the tone regal and not of this planet. So simple was his singular word request, voice hoarse from weeks of neglect, but it rendered you wholly delirious; “Water?”
Parched, chapped lips pressed desperately to the rim of the chalice that you held to his mouth, gulping down water as though it were nectar and almost justifying the trouble you had gone to in order to retrieve the liquid for him. Supplies of water were few and far between on Arakkis, but you were convinced that if anyone required what little reserves you had, it was him. Despite awakening, it would be a further week until the man was stable enough to think logically and provide full sentences in which to hold a conversation.
“Where am I?” His voice had sounded much clearer then, traveling better across the stagnant air of the caves in which your sietch resided thanks to your endless hours of care. You had supposed it was the logical step of the inquiry, given you had provided your name multiple times during his stay with you in order for him to feel at ease and thus erasing the question of ‘who?’
“My bedchambers. You needed rest,” you admitted softly, as though you had been worried a loudly-spoken syllable would rip open his stitches and undo the hard work you had both endured to nurse him back to this stage of health. “Do you remember how you came to be here?”
The outsider seemed to have considered that question carefully before slowly shaking his head, those bewitching eyes gazing upon the ceiling of the cave rock above his head. “No.”
Pauses between questions to allow him to gather his thoughts had felt considerate given he was still dosed on spice to maintain the pain relief that aided him in sleep. “Do you remember your name?”
Despite being a member of the fiercest warrior group known to the galaxy, none of the battles nor hardship you had faced could have possibly prepared you for his answer. “My name is Duke Leto Atreides, head of House Atreides, ruler of Caladan, and steward of Arrakis via Imperial decree.”
The Duke had been considerate to the Freman, striking a deal through Stilgar that the sietches were considered off-limits to the outsiders, and that your people would never be hunted as long as he ruled in return for the ability to harvest spice. Refusing to push him further after the revelation of his true identity, you never questioned Leto on how he happened to be beyond the shield wall that fateful night. You didn’t need to know, you were simply grateful that he was.
Days beyond that conversation were mostly occupied with dressing his wounds as delicately as your fingers would allow you, the twisting jab of guilt that pierced your gullet every time the Duke groaned in pain enough to cause your hands to shake. Those enchanting eyes would watch your face the entire time, glancing at you with a sparkle of amusement and admiration, adding to the pressure you felt to make the bandages as comfortable as the gauze fabric would allow.
A month into his time with you, The Duke was able to sit up in bed, and aided in medial chores such as whittling wood as payment for your treatment. By this point, you had grown to know much about him. From his work as the steward of Arrakis to his beloved son Paul, who he was insisting he needed to get back to. Conveniently, The Duke had left out the details of the child’s mother but you were certain that the woman named Jessica that he called out to in his restless sleep had something to do with it.
When he was able to stand, The Duke insisted upon taking the floor to sleep on now that he was well enough. You remember his demanding tone. ‘The ache in your back must be immense, resting on the floor for so long.’ It was only after yelling at him for a substantial amount of time, to which he replied calmly and unflinchingly, that you relented. The two of you agreed to share the mattress together. Many a morning after that, you would find his fingers woven through your hair and the plane of his forehead pressed to yours. It was the only time he ever looked truly at peace, when the canyon creases between his brows eased and his warm breath caressed the skin of your face. Without his greying hair, he’d look years younger this way.
Mobility signaled the end of your time with the Duke, whose devotion to his role under the thumb of the Emperor meant he was already considering his return to Arrakeen to inform his people of his survival. With his vitals stabilizing, and the stitches falling out of the pink scar that ran down his shoulder, you knew that his departure was imminent. The thought tortured you at night, to know that soon you would not wake with him by your side. You dedicated every waking moment to committing his already retained face to memory, terrified that you had missed tiny details such as minute scars on his brow or the length of his lashes. You had to remember all of him.
Feasibly, it was the reason you now watched his every move at the diner table. Sat cross-legged on the sandy floor, The Duke had abandoned the nobility of Caladan to execute your way of living as thanks for your selflessness. There was no sense of pride, no superiority. Though he seems preoccupied with the food you provided, he’s acutely aware of the way you gaze upon his face with a devastating sense of loss, the crushing feeling squeezing the remaining oxygen from your lungs with each exhale.
The candlelight casts a golden glow around him, so warm and ethereal in contrast to the silvery, cold illumination from the moon that guided you to him that night. He looks more beautiful this way, healthier and stronger. Had he not been so obviously human, his charm and elegance would lead you to believe him otherworldly. Perhaps it was naive of you to have spent so much of your time together believing the Gods had gifted this angel that fell from the sky to you - they gave and they took, and this was no different.
There is a pause in his eating, his eyes drifting towards you and catching you in your disoriented state. The blue tinge caused by the spice use has faded now, reliance on the pain relief receding along with the agony it sedated. You can’t bring yourself to look away in shame of being caught staring when it would be precious time wasted not looking at him. He does not scold you, as the newly appointed leader of this world should, simply offers you a reassuring gaze of his own, those holy-palm eyes assessing your own as tears welled in them.
“My Desert Rose,” he murmurs, his voice like a trickle of sand in a timekeeper, almost silent. The term of endearment causes your skin to prickle with both resentment and adoration, the dichotomy so bewildering that it makes you nauseous. “Thoughts plague your mind. Share them with me and ease the burden.” You hate him for being so kind, for enchanting you further.
It was exactly this part of his personality that had delighted you. The part that had eased you during your night terrors that consisted of Harkonnen attack by pressing you to his naked chest, the thrum of his heart against your sternum, and the soft whispers of consolation easing you from your dream-world and back into his arms. He would trace his calloused fingertips across the length of your spine, starting at the base of your skull where your hairline began and trailed down until his touch halted upon the lumbar vertebrae between the dimples of your lower back and back again. He would repeat this motion as long as it took for you to slip back into a dreamless slumber.
“There is nothing to unburden myself with, Your Grace.” The use of the honorific feels clunky between your lips, just as much of a lie as your promise of a peaceful mind. He isn’t The Duke here in these caved walls, he is simply Leto. Your Leto. The thought causes the precious moisture to seep from your eyes and spill down your cheeks. A waste. The sacrifice would do nothing to change the fate that awaited you in the morning.
“I do not require vast knowledge to recognize deception, Rose,” he speaks to you softly, each syllable carefully crafted in tone and pitch. Clearly he can sense your internalized agony and is careful not to stoke the flames of emotional distress that threaten to devour you.
“It is nothing of importance,” you promise him as you wipe away the salty tears dripping from your chin and soaking into the fabric of your inside clothes. You pick at the various tones of beige and brown, pulling at threads in your tunic in a final effort to divert your attention from the thoughts of the morning that crept in. That return to your bed without him in it, having seen him disappear into the dunes.
Prolonged silence follows, and you feel Leto’s eyes settle on your face. The gaze doesn’t burn, it calls to you, whispering your name as if begging for you to return to the conversation at hand. To return to him and leave the turmoil that crashed through your mind.
“Anything which causes you distress is of importance to me.” Leto’s voice pierces the makeshift mental armor as though it was made of melted wax. It’s impossible to deny him, hopeless to try to evade him in this moment. He’s unrelenting, not in the way sandstorms violently whip at your skin but similar to that of the survival of Desert Mice Muad'Dib on Arrakis. Quiet and steady.
You simply shake your head with a weak smile, refusing to share with him your devastation. Whatever bloomed from the vulnerability of admission would not be worth the anguish it caused you.
“Then bless me with any other thought you are willing to share,” he murmurs softly, reaching across the smooth stone to take up your palm in his own. Both are calloused, but for wholly different reasons. Yours are roughened from years of hand-to-hand combat, gripping crysknife handles and whetting them with Harkonnen blood. His skin, as you had come to learn, was strengthened from the grip of ornithopter controls over many years, flying until his fingers blistered from the tight grasp. Two warriors from the old and the new.
A weak laugh bubbles in you, the sound bouncing off the wall enough to bring a smile to The Duke’s lips. “I have nothing else that occupies my mind but you.” The acknowledgment turns your stomach almost instantly, even fearing his response to something as inconsequential as that. “I simply savor my time with you.”
“As do I.” It’s like he senses your hesitation, not delaying as he slides around the corner of the table to seat himself beside you. It’s as though he can no longer bear to be separated by the stone slab and must have you close. The action alone makes you fluster, your resolve already weakening with him at your side.
Picking at the meat of the desert hare you had prepared, you smile to yourself. Leto had a gift at lightening the weight of the room, even when he was still unwell, he managed to talk you out of your worries and ease your mind with his steady, unwavering calm.
“You must keep your beard as a respectable length, Your Grace. I worked hard to maintain it for you.” The change in subject is obvious, a little juvenile, but if Leto notices this is a desperate attempt to avoid speaking on your emotions he does not push you. Instead, he laughs, the sound as refreshing as if you had plunged into reserves of cool water on a particularly blazing hot day.
“I will ensure I take proper precaution to preserve its style,” Leto assured, the amusement interlaced between each syllable floods you with a warmth only he has evoked in you, pleasant and addictive. For the Fremen to suffer withdrawal from Spice was lethal, cruel, prolonged suffering. Yet, you couldn’t think of anything more painful than to withdraw from Leto’s embrace, to eliminate your fix of his soft touch and the gentle reassurance in his eyes.
Silence followed, your thoughts carrying you away before you can even think to answer. The meat of the desert hare is slick under your fingers, the dark meat leaking juices across your skin as you continue to pick at it, to ponder if you would even be able to stomach food or even breathe without him by your side.
“… Why must you leave?” There’s a ringing in your ears, the question bringing pause to the two of you. Though Leto seems surprised by the query, you hold firm even at the risk of upsetting him.
“I need to return home to my son, Paul. To Jessica-“ the name stings as though he had slapped you across the cheek, resignation cutting like his signet ring splitting your cheek open upon impact. You’re not sure as to why, but his hold on your palm feels as though he was cruelly sweeping salt into the wound. Leto was kind, so kind that he didn’t realize it was almost to a fault. That he drew everyone in, and you had no doubt that his devotion to his duty often left the people he loved, that loved him, feeling rather neglected.
“Am I not enough?” It’s a selfish comment, cruel. Doubtless his son, his family would be far more deserving of his attention than a stranger with whom he had spent the majority of his time within a state of unconsciousness. Did he even yearn for you the same way that you ached for him, or was that piercing gaze you had considered so often as romantic truly just an aching pity he felt for you, crawling around and sleeping on floors for him only to be brutally rejected despite your efforts.
The sinking realization causes more precious tears to spill over your cheeks, your lower lip trembling like a child. You felt infantile too, like a youngster who wailed for something they could not have despite their guardians’ insistence. Leto does not treat you as such, simply leans across the table with his free hand to swipe away the tears with the pad of his thumb.
“You are more than enough.” He assures you gently, his voice barely a whisper. “You are an oasis upon the horizon after decades of dry spells. You are the Desert Rose that grows when nothing else has the capacity in this desolate wasteland. You are enough and more.” His words twist in your stomach like a crysknife, sharp and painful despite their delicate care.
“You never once made me feel this way.” A lie. Leto never had to tell you, not once having to speak aloud how he cared for you. The adoration seeped into the palm-tree rings of his eyes, so intense you had often thought you could feel his fondness dancing across your skin like a lover's touch.
He hesitates for a moment, as though the realization that he had failed to put his admiration into words for you finally sank into the pits of his stomach. His greying brow furrows slightly as he continues to caress the curve of your cheekbone and think up a viable response. You can see him hesitate, mouth opening and then pressing into a thin line.
To see him struggle pains you, knowing you had pushed him into this difficult conversation rather egotistically. Before he has time to think of a response, the words are pouring from your lips as though you had cast a basin full of water onto the dusty floor. You tell him of your feelings that had grown for him over the many nights you had sat in silence watching him rest, that it was the Old Gods who had sent him to you knowing that he was exactly what you needed. These emotions inside you were further tormented by the long nights of conversation when you were plagued with your night terrors, his fingers soothing your spine and voice easing your soul. To say you would die for him felt obsolete. You wished to live for him, to dedicate every single moment of your life to him and his happiness.
Leto listens to every word. You could have been rambling for seconds or for hours, yet he makes no attempt to interrupt or reject your experience. He doesn’t even nod or shake his head, perfectly still as he listens apart from the thumb sweeping across your knuckles. When you pause, inhaling shakily to ease your burning lungs after talking uninterrupted for so long, he appears to contemplate your words. You admired that in him, not only hearing but listening, truly understanding the gravity of each admission you had painfully wrung from your heart just for him.
Silence was something you had grown accustomed to in the desert, nothing but sand on a mild day rendered your surroundings inaudible. A lifetime of tranquility would lead you to believe you would be comfortable in the quiet, but the pause between you and The Duke causes your stomach to cramp with nerves.
Just as you feel the silence would render you insane due to your pulse thrumming in your ears, Leto reaches for your face and cups it daintily, like you would break apart in his hands if he was too rough with you. Perhaps you would.
Slowly, tentatively he leans across the stone and brushes his nose against yours. He doesn’t leap in, allowing you the chance to pull away from his affections. You don’t, the shaky rise of your chest as you inhale the only movement you make to his silent question. How like The Duke not to waste his breath explaining when he could simply, efficiently present how strongly he felt for you by pressing his lips to yours.
The plush of his lips against your own causes your heart to stutter with shock, despite having presented yourself for it. Leto’s beard rasps softly against your skin when he kisses you and the palms that cup your face, though calloused and rough, are gentle as they hold you to him. The both of you have surpassed yearning, gone beyond desperation. You’re clinging on, terrified of letting go for fear of never being able to hold him again- the fear is so tender, like an open wound.
Grasping at the fabric of his tunic, you pull Leto impossibly closer. His nose is pressed firmly into your own, almost uncomfortably, but he’s grinning into the kiss and you’re kissing his teeth, the two of you fumbling with giddiness and bordering on delirium. The stoic general, the head of House Atreides is reduced to boyish laughter at the way you kiss him over and over, showering him with the affection you had locked away within yourself ever since you felt that inexplicable need to help him out of the ornithopter on that day.
“Rose,” he murmurs softly, through the repetitive press of your lips against his own, hands skirting down the sides of your covered ribs. Leto is trying to ease you, trying to bring you down from that cliff face by soothing you into enjoying every second rather than panicking about what would happen at the end of your tryst.
Catching your lips in a stronger kiss, he notes your trepidation, the slight tremble in your body as he sweeps those same calloused fingertips down the bare skin of your arm. It sparks an unfamiliar heat in you, one that warms you from the inside but causes your skin to goosebump. Before you can even consider it, remind yourself that he is the Steward of Arrakis appointed by the Emperor, you’re winding your arm around his neck to draw him impossibly closer.
Pushed forward by a need that settles deep in your abdomen, twisting and coiling almost painfully, the kiss takes a very sudden turn. It’s no longer sweet as it is eager, his tongue sweeping across your lower lip as pulls you forwards by your elbows to ease you into his lap.
You’d always known Leto was strong, he’d been heavy when you needed to twist his comatose body in order to clean his wounds. However, there was something awe-inspiring at the ripple of his muscles underneath your touch when he wrapped his arms around your waist so you were pressed flush to his chest. He flowed like ripples in water, smooth and delicate despite his size and powerful poise.
His palms get a little rougher, his fingers pushing divots into the flesh of your hips as his tongue sweeps against your own. There’s no rush, but there’s an entirely different type of urgency, those same hands brushing down the curve of your lower back, the globe of your ass and squeezing.
You can’t help the moan that works its way past your throat at the intrusive touch, the brush of his hardening cock against the inside of your thigh. In all the daydreams that stole hours of your time and the fantasies that painted pictures though you’d mind as you slept beside him, you’d never envisioned Leto to feel so good. It was overwhelming, an unbelievable high that rocked you to your core.
“Your Gra-Ah!” You gasp loudly as he leans you backward to swipe away the food you had failed to eat and lay you against the cool stone table swiftly. The smooth texture presses into your shoulder blades, disagreeable and stiff, but it’s impossible to focus on your discomfort when Leto is pressing lingering, hot kisses up your abdomen as he pushes the fabric of your tunic over the length of your body. The kisses are wet, leaving damp patches of skin along the line of your sternum, and when he blows a soft gust of breath from his lips the area grows cold.
You shiver, whimpering in a wordless attempt to show Leto you liked that. Cold wasn’t something you were used to, but it felt divine when he used it like that, to tease- to please. He continues, mouthing gently at the swell of your now exposed breasts. His beard is rough against your skin, tickling as he lathes his tongue over your pebbled nipples.
The Duke’s resolve appears to break down with your squirms, pressing his hard cock into your clothed cunt in an endeavor to find some friction to ease his own need as he puffs a gentle gust of air across your nipple again. You’re arching your back off the table slab at his ministrations, clit throbbing with need between your thighs.
“Please,” you beg him, implore him as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his brocade woven trousers. He’s nodding against your chest, lips still peppering your skin with kisses and tongue continuing to smooth long, seemingly unaware of just what he was giving permission for when he tugs your own cotton pants over your hips to expose your glistening cunt to his mouth.
Leto barely gives you a moment to argue before he’s pressing his palms into the soft flesh at the back of your thighs, just under your knees, and pushing them back towards your body. The look he gives you, eyes dragging hungrily over your glistening folds causes your heart to leap in your throat. Perhaps it’s years of being a tactician, negotiating his entire life, but he doesn’t leap into it.
Instead, he’s brushing his fingers down your pubic bone, over your aching clit. You’re squirming for him, keening for him when his digits sweep through your soaking folds to gather the evidence of your arousal on his fingertips before raising them to his lips. You find yourself wondering if the cruelty of the Harkonnens cruelty is hereditary because you’re almost certain that this could be some form of torture. You’re pulled up so tight it’s almost painful when he wraps his lips around his soaked fingers and rumbles a groan as the taste of you coats his tongue.
It’s only then that he moves his head between your tense thighs and envelops the dexterous heat of his mouth over your cunt. Your hips have a mind of their own, instantaneously pressing into the pressure there as your eyes squeeze shut and a ragged breath exhales from your lungs and ends with a squeak when the tip of his tongue circles your clit.
It rips through you, the vibration of his groan when he tastes you from the source. You swear your body is tingling all over, pins and needles and the hypersensitivity that comes with it as he laps your slick up with the flat of his tongue. You want to tell him more, want to tell him right there but your words are failing on your tongue every time he nuzzles his nose against your throbbing clit and digs his fingers into your thigh muscles.
Tensing and loosening, the muscles in your hips force them upwards into Leto’s face to chase the blinding pleasure that he sparks through you. It’s like they think he’ll pull away and abandon you with this torturous heat between your legs, forcing you to suffer through on your own. But he stays firm, tongue sinking into your wet heat and seemingly pushing his face impossibly closer into your heat.
He’s so slow with it, refusing to rush when he planned to draw this out as long as he possibly could. The drag of his tongue against the aching bundle of nerves is nerve-inducing, your toes curling into the flesh of his shoulder as he pulls sparks of bliss from you.
“Oh, please,” you sob out, sounding utterly wrecked with your desperate heaves of air through your lungs. Carding your fingers through his greying curls, you grasp tightly onto the strands of hair and try to speed up the chase to your orgasm by anchoring his face to you and grinding your clit against his nose. All proprietaries, all respect fizzles out thanks to his devilish tongue, and he’s huffing amused laughs against your wet folds at the impropriety of your actions. His hands are quick to take ahold of your pelvis, pushing it against the stone and causing you to cry out in distress.
“Shh shh,” he hushes you gently, raising himself from between your thighs to press soft kisses to your lips. You’re smeared across his mouth, his beard soaked and it’s so sexy. Tasting yourself on his lips, his tongue is enough to make your brain short circuit entirely, breathy moans sounding into his mouth.
You’re not sure when it happens, but his pants are pushed from his own hips when he pulls away from the kiss, the slow, gentle rhythm he had set flipped on its head when he’s sweeping his cock through your folds quickly. Snapping your eyes open quickly, you can see the tick in his jaw, the flush of his cheeks, and the hunger in his eyes. He can’t wait any longer. You can’t wait any longer, a whole month of silently praying to the Gods, old and new, just to feel him insid-
The air in your lungs dissipates with a yell of shock when he suddenly pushes into you with full force. But fuck- fuck you’re so wet that there’s no resistance, his cock slipping through your soaked cunt all the way down to the hilt with such ease it nearly pulls both of your orgasms from you simultaneously. It’s apparently all he needs for the final tether of his resolve to snap because he’s slamming into you with such force that your hands are blindly searching for his shoulder to cling onto due to your eyes being squeezed shut.
You hadn’t seen him, hadn’t had the chance, but you can feel how thick he is, your cunt stuffed full of his cock as he rocks in and out of you at a brutal pace that has your thighs trembling already. The hands on your hip bones are pulling you back onto his cock to meet each thrust, somehow pushing him even deeper against something utterly devastating inside you.
“My beautiful Desert Rose,” he murmurs thickly, somehow managing to keep an even tone as he destroys you, your nails digging into his skin and cries drowning out his voice. “So beautiful, blooming for me like this.” His voice is husky, gravelly with arousal as you flutter around his cock at the sound of his name for you and the affection laced through his voice.
Then he’s pressing his forehead to your collarbone, back arched over you and curls tickling the curve of your neck as he finds a different angle in which to hit that blinding spot inside you. His lips pressing against your skin in gentle kisses underneath your ear feel feather light in comparison to the harsh grind of his hips against your own.
“I am s-so lucky… to have fallen from the sky for you.” He murmurs against the shell of your ear. It’s the most heartbreaking thing anyone has ever said to you- beautiful but with an air of finality that makes your heart twist up painfully, but you can’t focus on that pain for very long because your orgasm arcs up violently when his finger brushes at your clit with delicate precision.
“Pl-Please, please, I’ll go a-anywhere with you, Don’t-“ he’s smothering your lips with a desperate kiss that steals the air from your lungs before you’re able to complete your sentence before you’re able to ask. Don’t leave me.
You cunt clamps hard around his cock, sobbing weakly against his mouth as he draws tight little circles against your clit with his fingertip. His other hand is winding through the hair at the base of your neck, continuing to push the head of his cock up against your g-spot. Your pussy is soaking him, drenching him in your slick as he ruts up into you once, twice-
You’re clawing at his tunic with a broken cry as everything pulls up sharp and tight and blazing hot. It’s bursting through you, blinding, overwhelming as you gush around him, thighs shaking violently as you throw your head back. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop circling your clit until you’re crying, pushing his hands away desperately from overstimulation, his hips still fucking into you throughout.
When you come to, you realize he’s still not stopping, thrusting into you with that same brutal pace as he groans in your ear, the sound licking white-hot pleasure up your spine. With your eyes rolling back into your skull, he focuses on that spark of arousal, forcing you to endure the build-up once more as you disregard his title and call him by his name.
Leto pleasured you until dawn broke. His hands, his tongue, his cock all working to draw orgasm after orgasm from you, murmuring constantly about refusing to allow a moment to pass without making you feel good. I want I cherish this night with you.
He’d lay in bed with you afterward, surrounded by the light covers with you curled at his side as he whispered in your ear, telling you of his homeland, Caladan. The beaches, the rain. So much water, more than you could ever hope to see in a hundred thousand lifetimes on Arrakis. To see him smile as he recalled home made you ache for him. It was clear that he missed it, longed for the chance to walk on the beaches with his son once more.
“You will,” you murmur softly, brushing his sweat-damp curls from his forehead and pressing gentle, loving kisses to his brow. He doesn’t answer. You don’t tell him that home for you now lay within his arms.
By morning, he had willed himself from your arms, dressing into his stillsuit. You had managed to salvage it from the crash, mending the damage in order for it to be worn again, but you never thought you would be so unhappy to see it cling to his body again- a visible goodbye.
Standing in the dunes, your arms wrapped around his waist and clinging desperately to him, you find yourself appreciative of the silence of the desert. You can hear the thud of his heart through the stillsuit against your ear, muffled and quiet, but it’s there. You listen ever so carefully, commit the pace to memory as though they were lyrics to a song - the final piece to the image of Leto that you had imprinted on your mind.
“Will you come back for me?” You whisper quietly, knowing well enough that he would soon pull you from his frame to leave, a matter of time until the Fremen who had promised him safe passage across the desert to Arrakeen would insist upon leaving.
“I would never willingly leave you, my Desert Rose.” He murmurs into your hairline, punctuating the sentence with a kiss to the skin there. You know he sounds unsure of himself, unsure of the future. The Gods had given him to you willingly, and you were only too aware of how easily they could take him from you too. It was safer never to make promises.
At the call of your people, Leto takes his time unwinding his body from your grasp. His expression is pained, but with a gentle smile, he steps away, still clinging to your hand with his arm outstretched until he can’t reach you with the distance he had set between you both. When he turns, he doesn’t look back, and sets off across the sand for Arrakeen, to his lover, his child.
Unsure of what exactly possesses you, you stand there with your feet in the sand for as long as you can see him in the distance, climbing the dunes and talking with your people. Hours pass, your eyes strain to see the small speck of black on the horizon, but you force yourself to watch, to fight the ache in your skull and the agony in your ribs as you witness him disappear beyond your range of sight.
You can’t see him, but you continue to watch the horizon. You ignore the hunger setting into your stomach, disregard the heat. You can’t bring yourself to do anything other than pray to the Old Gods and the New, begging them for one thing.
Bring him home.
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