False words, wolfling. [Alia settles herself, one ankle hooking behind the other as she reaches out to trace the top of her finger along the twisting, twining vines Lauralae has painted on her thighs.] These tell me so. You paint like an artist, and thus: it must be so.

[Taking her hand away, leaving little smudges of red, Alia gathers up more paint and reaches out to slowly drag the vivid crimson over the back of Lauralae’s neck, painting out rolling hills, lit by the rising sun.] Move your hair aside, I want to cover your back. You shall be the sunrise on Arrakis, gold and red and shining with spice.

[Smiling, she leans in, pressing a little kiss to the knobs of Lauralae’s spine, affectionate, possessive.] I want you to carry my home with you, as you bewitch in your modest swimclothes.