paul atreides knew he was a fighter. he was born to be, being the brood of house atreides, having been exposed to rigorous combat training from a young age and being a formidable strategist-- the young man had a reputation that could embue fear into thousands. a thousand men, armies, and nations knew his name. paul atreides.

which made his current state quite ironic.

his lips had parted from yours with a gentle graze, leaving behind a light trace of blood from the cut over his mandible and corner of his mouth, caused by a particularly foul blow from gurney herring during a sparring session, the rouge now gracing your skin as well as his own. although looking quite worse for wear, he still sprawled elegantly on the grass of a rolling hill as if he had not a single care in the world.

his liquid green eyes observed your care of bandaging his wrist, sore from a badly delivered strike with a blunt dagger, with an enamoured interest that would be more suited to him being bestowed with universal grace, not makeshift first aid.

"i won the fight, you know. when sparring with gurney." he added idly after a few quiet moments of listening to the calm wind rustling the grass in your private natural alcove; as if he needed to increase his ego by habit.

his eyes darted up to yours. "i only let him get through my superior defences because you distracted me." paul libbed, a gentle smirk gracing his handsome face, attempting to lean in again and huffing in humored discontent when you avoided the kiss to treat his wrist. he was annoyingly smug when he wanted to be.