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peggyao3 · 3 months ago

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Relic - Pt. 6 "Hungry, all the Years"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

A/N: I've always wanted to yell fuck you at the Bene Gesserit, so here's to my own dream🥰 Also, me, who's been in awkward long distance relationships throughout all her teenage years: "Aahh, I knew this knowledge would come in handy someday! 🥹"

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️| Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Wallach IX, one week later

"Kneel."

"Excuse me?" Incredulously, the relic stares into the Reverend Mother's eyes.

The anticipation of this day has left her sick to her stomach, her mind hysterical since she was made aware that Feyd remembers her and wants her. By noon, she will be on a heighliner. (A heighliner! She remembers Feyd's inquiry from their last dream.) And after two days of travel, she will be with him. For the first time ever, she will be truly with him, kiss his sweet lips and be held by him and bawl her eyes out.

This is not how she imagined the hours before her indefinite departure. The reverend mother sits unmoving like a pillar of obsidian in a slant of sunlight, her face hidden beneath black mesh.

"Kneel. This is your final test."

"I'm not part of this order anymore, I won't partake in any tests."

"That is not up for you to decide."

"I will not kneel."

"Do as I say!"

Without a power of will, she falls on her knees, ears ringing, jaws slackening. No hatred has ever burned colder than the rancor she holds in the pit of her stomach right now. From the corner of her eye, she perceives a flash of metal slipping from the reverend mother's robes.

"I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar. A poisoned needle. The slightest prick, and you will die."

The wayward woman holds the violence of a lifetime on war-riddled Old Earth in her eyes when she inhales, the rise of her shoulders bringing her neck dangerously close to the poison tip.

"Why?"

"That needn't interest you." She has not been and will not be informed about the breeding program, or else, they fear, she might abandon her precious Feyd-Rautha rather quickly. Their union must be under the dangerous premise of love. And yet, the test must be conducted. Most likely it will even make her desire Feyd-Rautha more and let Giedi Prime be more bearable. That and the fact that the sisterhood has purposely been withholding the yearning transmissions from the na-Baron. The relic is ready to do just about anything to get to the man of her delusions.

"Put your right hand in the box. If you pull it out, you die."

"What's in there?" She grates out, peering into the black maw of the unremarkable metal box.

"Pain," Mohiam replies monotonously, having grown almost bored of the ever same test throughout the decades. Of course, the woman will pass. Patiently, the Reverend Mother waits for her to relent, because of course she will. It is a tiresome game. The needle at her neck remains unwavering.

She is thinking, of course, she could risk death out of spite, but she refuses to die before taking Feyd in her arms. So, she places her hand in the box and earns her place on the chess board as a fully carved figurine.

The box is empty. She moves her fingers around and is soon plagued by a phantom sting which swiftly develops into pricking needles. She lets out a grunt and the sensation becomes a slow cutting, like knives probing into her palms and fingers. Her face twitches, brows furrowing, sweat beading on her upper lip as her body goes rigid, fighting against the urge to pull back. A thousand knives now cut into her palm, ravaging the soft flesh and tearing it to shreds. She screams.

"Quiet."

"Fuck you!" She spits, having already concluded that not the box causes the pain, but an unspoken presence of the Reverend Mother's voice does, explicitly addressing her pain receptors in an increasing onslaught. To know that nothing is in the box doesn't make the pain any less real, nor the nauseating truth that she is being tortured at the whim of a person.

So, she sobs like an animal while enduring the cruel test, scorched, flesh-stripped fingers quivering against the cool metal. She will live to hold Feyd in her arms and she will live to burn down this universe with its thinly veiled slavery and misogyny. On Earth, at least everyone had been equally miserable.

The Reverend Mother conceals her dislike of the unpleasant sounds under her veil, noting how petty it is of the woman to torture her ears in revenge. She is a clever thing.

"You may remove your hand."

She does at an instant, hurtling backwards and standing tall, nostrils flaring as she regards the seated reverend mother. The neurobiologists from Magellan II would have had the time of their lives, dissecting the old woman's brain to decipher the voice. To imagine Mohiam without her ominous headgear on a dissecting table brings the relic an indecent burst of glee through her tormented nerves.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" She spits.

"Not at all. I'd prefer if you used your voice in a different, more useful way. But at least now we know that you are human." The reverend mother pats the box once.

"Oh." She speaks with pure disdain. "A generous conclusion."

"And you may board the heighliner to Giedi Prime. Feyd-Rautha will await you."

"Yes, I will. And yes, he will!" To think that she's had more agency in a dream than in this new world is revolting.

"Pack your things."

"I want my necklace and I want my Sarcophagus. Don't you even think about denying me that wish," she bristles. "I am a human and I've been one even before your inhuman test. These things are of sentimental value and they belong to me. Give them to me!"

"This attitude won't get you far on Giedi Prime," Mohiam drones monotonously, hands folded in her lap with annoying calmness. Under other circumstances, she would have never let a pupil of hers enter a battlefield as harsh as Giedi Prime so unprepared, but if one can believe the fierce messages from Feyd-Rautha to Wallach IX, she will be protected enough.

"I'm human," the relic rages on. "But you and your pseudo-religious cult, you are not human. You are even worse."

Everything will be better once she is on Giedi Prime.

Giedi Prime, Day 1

For the past few days, Feyd has done nothing but counting down the seconds to this precise moment. But as soon as the shuttle from the heighliner comes sweeping down through the blanket of clouds, hammering anxiety punches against his insides so hard, he feels sick to his stomach. His pulse races against the high neck of his uniform and dizziness forces him to fight for every breath.

He has been walking through a nightmare for two years and the past week has been the awakening. Like a sleeper aware of his own dream, he had screamed, kicked, killed to free himself from the shackles of his nightmare.

When he first heard the rumors, he had cried for three hours in the solitude of his quarters, then plunged his blade into his own thigh to snap himself out of it. There had been real fear in his uncle's eyes when Feyd confronted him, declaring that the relic is his and he will kill every servant, every guard, until he has her, and himself if he cannot have her.

Luckily, the Baron and the Bene Gesserit have been unexpectedly forthcoming.

So, after waking up, here comes reality. Sweet and frightening and lurid.

Feyd's heart clamors so loudly, he thinks he's going to die.

Wind whips around the landing pad and through his clothes when the shuttle touches down 200 meters away and hot exhaust gasses are released from the valves with a hiss. He almost jumps but forces his posture into a rigid lock, feet set shoulder-width apart.

The ramp drops with a mechanical buzzing and Feyd's stomach drops with it. Suddenly, he viscerally wishes he had more time and could prolong the anticipation, the preparation, the hiding. He hasn't prepared himself at all for her arrival, he now realizes, hasn't even considered what to say, how to greet her in front of three battalions of soldiers and generals. What will she think of him when she sees him for the first time in the flesh? Will she be disappoin- Oh God, there she is.

That must be her. Is that her? It's her!

After half a dozen staff, a figure exits the ship, clutching her little coffer so tightly in front of her hips, like it's the only thing of identity she has in the entire universe.

As she slowly walks, her gaze swivels across the mass of bald heads, identical like an army of clones, unmoving, devoid of color and every sense of individuality. She jumps fiercely when the black and white mass suddenly bellows and a thousand pairs of arms fly up, hands clutched over bald heads.

Seeing the troops (all men) lined up in formation, saluting fiercely, a glacial shiver rolls down her spine, reminding her viciously of one of the darkest chapters of Earth.

She swallows her fear. The first impression isn't that important. This world will have its good sides and Feyd will show them to her. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. She believes now that he could have rescued her off every planet in this world.

Yearningly, her gaze bounces from head to head. She had thought she would recognize him immediately and is terribly ashamed when she doesn't. At least, her frantic overwhelm distracts her from the roiling of her stomach. She thought she was going to throw up from anxiety on the shuttle, and she would have, had they not ushered her down the ramp immediately after landing.

Cool metal brushes comfortingly against the space between her breasts. Around her neck she wears a slender cord of silver links with a slim cuboid for a pendant, about the size of the first phalanx of a thumb.

She is being led down a corridor of saluting men, all grim faces, and wind whips around the long gown she was advised to wear. If only she had decided to wear something she feels more confident in. She's meticulously prepared what to say to him for the past days, arranging every word in her head to perfection, but now she can't remember a single word of Galach for the life of her– There he is!

There he is. There he is. There he is!

At the end of the corridor stands Feyd-Rautha in formal military livery, blocky shapes hiding all the softness of his body, only his face betrays him, full lips exactly how she remembers them, soft cheeks dented by the hollow below his cheek bones, gently curved jaws and blue eyes hidden beneath the shadows cast by thick brow bones. He looks like a frightened animal to her, throat bobbing repeatedly with dry swallows.

The deafening roar of salutes dies down to a distant buzzing as she walks through a tunnel towards him, steps quickening, vision blurring. She tries to smile and her cheeks feel awkward doing it, she doesn't know where to look. Feyd doesn't smile back, but his head tilts backwards, jaws flexing as if he's holding back either tears or words.

She cannot hug him in front of all the generals, Feyd thinks. I will break down if she does.

Without thinking, she runs the final meters and hugs him in front of all the generals, arms wrapping around his neck and shoulders, sobbing into the collar of his suit. "Hello." Her accent is thick and lovely.

"Hello."

Feyd knew he would break down. His chin quivers uncontrollably, jaws so tight that he thinks the tendons in his neck might snap any second. He exhales a harsh breath, arms wrapping around her waist, leeching the warmth of her body that sinks through the layers of dress and suit.

Feyd holds her, holds her so tight and her flesh, skin and bones are actually real, her beating heart is real, her soft voice is real. She is real.

"You're here," he whispers almost inaudibly into her ear, face lowered to press against the side of her head, chin hidden in her shoulder.

She cries like she's not ashamed of crying, nodding fiercely, and each nod is an apology and a promise to never leave him again.

Feyd wants to tell her how much he's missed her, how much his soul has craved hers every waking and sleeping hour of every day, how he's been split apart and nothing in the world could soothe him. But he cannot, not now, because they are not dreaming and he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

"Not now-" he pleads and tries to stop her when her face slips in front of his, her cheeks painted with glittering tears, but her mouth is on his before he can finish, kissing him with salt-wet lips, hands clinging to the nape of his neck.

Of course, he kisses her back. Luckily, his longing is so all-consuming that he kisses her like he wants to crawl into her flesh, so he will never be alone again. With both hands splayed across her cheeks and ears, claiming his woman, none of his people will perceive him as weak.

The soldiers and generals don't know the pair's story, but they salute for their na-Baron, because they know the relic from Old Earth is now property of House Harkonnen.

In a world devoid of color, she would have expected the interior to be vibrant and bright to make up for the lack of it under the sun, but every hallway they have traversed has been even bleaker than the outside, like being swallowed by the underworld, if the underworld was made of concrete and plastic.

The throne room is no different. Curved pillars curl up to the tall ceiling, black within black illuminated by bluish glow provided by floating lights (glowglobes!) Feyd and her and a small entourage of guards and servants are gathered here and she stands in the very front, having refused to let go of her coffer when a servant had demurely offered their hand. She hopes her Sarcophagus is being handled with care.

Feyd is one step behind her and from her peripheral vision, she sees him rigid as a board.

Like instructed, she bows before the Baron Harkonnen, determined not to show any judgment for his harrowing appearance, like gluttony personified with sly, glittering eyes nearly hidden behind folds of fat.

"The relic from Old Earth…" The Baron rumbles and she sees that as her signal to straighten herself.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says and Feyd's jaw twitches.

"A pleasure?" The Baron chuckles. "Old earth must have been terrible then."

What is she supposed to say to that? Sweaty palms clutch the handle of her coffer and her gaze is momentarily drawn to a movement in the corner of the room behind the Baron's floating chair.

Nebulous eyes blink at her from the shadows, hidden in darkness, but she can tell it is a thing with too many legs. (Or are they arms?) Eight of them, and they unfurl grotesquely, glossy skin shimmering like jet black rubber. The pair of white eyes seems to be looking directly at her and this thing will haunt her nightmares, although it appears almost tame next to the faceless legions that had welcomed her at the landing pad.

The Baron speaks again, forcing her attention back to him. "I've only allowed this union because my dear Feyd has been in such a somber mood as of late, he has been such unpleasant company."

The thing in the back stirs and wildly scuttles and she realizes they're not arms or legs, they are arm-legs with hand-feet attached to them. Feyd inhales sharply behind her, just loud enough for her to hear. The arachnid creature halts and blinks and then decides to abandon its advance and return to the shadows.

"I understand," she says, determined to hide the fact that she doesn't.

The Baron takes a slow drag from his hookah and reclines, looking at her like she is nothing more than a pesky, necessary evil.

Feyd walks at the side of his woman, feeling lighter the further they get away from the Baron, though his breathing is still that of an animal in distress. He walks stiffly (actually, he prowls), overseeing the entire entourage. His right hand hovers over the blade he carries at the hip under his suit jacket, ready to slay anyone who dares to come near her.

Something terrible has been irking him but he refuses to think about it.

Meanwhile his woman's eyes are all over the bulky, coffin shaped container that is being carried to her new chambers by ten servants, following every step with anxious concentration. She wants to jump forward and help carry it, if only to place a protective hand on her sarcophagus, but she remains at Feyd's side, intimidated by the ten men who kindly do her heavy lifting.

"This is my wing," Feyd quietly explains as they step out of the third elevator. They must be quite at the top of the pyramid shaped building by now. She nods, quite relieved that she will be living close to Feyd. "My suite is right next door."

The corridor is black and austere, walls made of bulky, thick plastic panels, intersected every now and then by slender windows that give way to the view of grey citiscape and factories as far as the eye can see. 'It's not that different from home', she tries to keep the creeping, crawling dread at bay.

The ten helpers turn into a room which opens to Feyd's hand tapping a panel on the wall.

"Over there, right in the sun is perfect, please. Thank you! Oh- Careful please!"

With a loud clang the cryo pod is set on the ground in a patch of color-stealing sunlight that slants through the window. The helpers say nothing, merely salute and scurry away in a tight line when Feyd jerks his head. "Thank you!" She calls after them again.

That is one less worry. Exhaling loudly, she sits down right on top of the sarcophagus, unbothered for now by the monochromatic light. Under the confines of her gown, she has been shaking the entire time. The door whirrs shut and they are alone. Finally alone. Feyd stands in front of her, hands clutched in front of his pelvis.

"You don't need to say thank you to the slaves."

"The…? Oh." The corners of her mouth twitch downwards and she draws up her shoulders, pulling her little coffer in her lap.

What a horrible place to be. The only women she has seen so far haven't even looked at her, standing behind the Baron with their faces turned to the ground.

What a horrible place to be a woman.

"Do you know who that man was, in the audience chamber?" Feyd cannot keep himself from asking any longer. She saw his uncle. Knows what he did to him. Somehow, his own shame weighs a millionfold now and Feyd wants to crawl out of his own skin, so she won't have to touch the same body his uncle has touched.

Her attention snaps back to Feyd. "What?" She is briefly perplexed. "You mean… The Baron?"

"Yes. You know that's my uncle I've told you about, right? My uncle is the Baron."

She sits dumbstruck on her cryo pod, frozen before heat fills her face and bile gathers in her throat. She has never been so ashamed in her entire life.

"Oh shit, I-, I assumed the Baron is your father, because of the last name." Feyd had never mentioned his uncle's rank, nor had the Bene Gesserit deemed it necessary to inform her about their family relations. And why would they, assuming the relic is well-informed about the man from her dreams. "I'm so sorry, oh God- Feyd…"

Feyd is so stupidly relieved, he could cry. Looking to the side, he blinks the tears away, fighting the urge to sink his blade into his own flesh to stop the onslaught on his eyes.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," she mumbles again and abandons her coffer and sarcophagus to wrap her arms around Feyd's middle without thinking about it too long. "Please forgive me."

Perhaps the reverend mother was right. Perhaps she is of lesser intelligence for favoring science over politics. After learning that her Feyd lives now, she had meant to study House Harkonnen until her departure, but had gotten lost in the physics of the three-dimensional incarnation of the Holtzman Effect which allows to fold space at the quantum level and enables faster-than-light travel with the aid of human computers.

Feyd's arms curl tightly around her back, nose buried in her shoulder, pressing her against his earthly prison so she can deliver him from evil.. How stupid he was to bring her here into the devil's den, where she is the easiest target one could possibly make.

"Nothing to forgive…" He wants to call her his darling, his beloved, and even more importantly finally verbally declare his love for her that's been like a wild, scared animal sitting in a cage all the years, but a heavy shyness ties his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Without the protection of the cage, what if this animal will be slain? What if it will slay itself?

I had been hungry, all the Years – My Noon had Come – to dine – I trembling drew the Table near – And touched the Curious Wine … - I had been hungry, all the Years by Emily Dickinson, 1891

A/N: Feyd: I've literally never had a loving interaction irl in my entire life and I'm terrified, but this is my woman🥺

FMC: I'm literally on a black and white planet full of space Nazis, my man is one of them and I'm terrified, but this is my man🥺

TAG LIST: @welliah, @nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @charmingballoon, @sebastianswallows, @minedofmoria, @flower-frog (I'm so sowwy, the tags are broken and I don't know how to fix them ;-;)

Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

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