#atreides eagle

[rozzsum]

“You chose me for this position.”

“Not I,” he said. “Fate chose you. Your father chose you. The Bene Gesserit chose you. The Guild chose you. And they have chosen you once more. For what have they chosen you, Irulan?”

Dune by Frank Herbert

[firelilyfox]

Crush

Dune : Paul Atreides x female reader

Warnings: None / just fluff

You have a crush on Paul & he might have the same feeling about you

This is my first fanfic on this platform & my first about Dune. Please forgive me for mistakes (English is not my first language)

comments/reblogs are appreciated :]

If you have any ideas what scenarios I could do next then let me know because this is fun!

——————————————————-

The sun was setting as you finally arrived. It was a long and hard day and you are longing for some comfort, but everyone of your friends was busy with drinking and making fun of the believers like Stilgar. Even your best friend Chani was nowhere to be found.

Only he was there. Paul Arteides.

The One. The Voice… or some bullshit like that. You weren’t one of the believers. In your eyes Paul is just a normal human being with a talent for big speeches.

You never really talked to him more than three words because the thought alone made you nervous. Since he joined the Fremen two months ago you had a little … crush on him. And obviously you weren’t really good at smalltalk. Especially when all of your people have eagle eyes on the boy you wanted to talk to.

But tonight he was alone. Nobody paid any attention to him as Paul was sitting in a shadowy corner by a small fireplace, sipping a drink. For a second you wanted to turn away and just going to bed like every other night, but something tells you to do the opposite.

„Can I join you?“ You asked bravely.

Paul looked up with a little smile on his face. „Please do. I’ve been waiting.“

You hesitate for a moment, frowning but you sit down right next to him. „What where you waiting for?“

He chuckled softly. „For someone like you to talk to me.“

„Someone like me?“ You asked confused and watching his smile getting even brighter. Paul has that kind of smile, that makes you want to smile too instantly. All you can hope for is that the flickering light of the fire conceal you’re blushing.

„Yeah. Someone who truly dislikes me.“

You smirked. „What makes you think that I dislike you? Oh, mighty Duke of Arrakis?“

A warm laughter escaped his lips and for the first time ever you really saw his face light up in enjoyment. „Oh please don’t say that. It sounds awful! I only said it because I was in the heat of the moment.“

„I liked it.“

His laughing froze for a moment and he looked surprised. „You liked it? Are you having a stroke or something?“

„No!“ You laughed. „I really liked it. Sure it was a litte … dramatic but in the end you have a talent to bring people together and give them hope. That’s pretty impressing.“

He shrugged his shoulders. „Nah, I’m just good at telling people what they want to hear I guess.“ He hesitated. „Chani told me that you weren’t one of the believers and that you think this whole Lisan al Gaib thing is just bullshit.“ Paul is offering you his cup and you accept to take a sip. Immediately the taste of wine fills your senses. While you process his words you lick some of the wine from your lips and catching him starring at them.

Did you just imagine how his gaze darkened for a second or did that really had an impact on him?

You clear your throat because all of the sudden your mouth got dry again. „You talked to Chani about me?“

A crooked smile shows on his lips. „Yeah I did. I was … I wanted to…“

„I thought you were good with words?“ You say to mock him with success.

„I am good with words! But you have the talent to make me forget what I wanted to say and how.“ His eyes are locked with yours and you are able to feel how your heart skips a beat.

You wanted to say something but your mind were blank. Paul moves closer to you, slowly to make sure that you were able to stop him at any time.

„I like how you unsettle me“, he whispered. You could feel his breath against your lips. „Every time I see you I find new strength. But I never found the courage to talk to you.“

„But you … you always seemed so … full of courage“, your voice was not more than a scratching.

„I’m good at pretending“, Paul swallows hard and his eyes darted to your lips again. „Sometimes.“

„Sometimes?“ You asked.

„I can’t pretend that I don’t want to kiss you right now.“

You wanted to say something, but before you were able to even catch a breath his lips laid on yours. Soft like the morning wind in the desert. His hand holding your cheek and pulling you closer as you gave in to the kiss. Your fingers find their way up his chest and into his curled hair.

A little moan escaped your throat as he intensifies the kiss and as an answer to your reaction, you could feel him smiling against your lips.

„I think Muad’Dib is enjoying his time with the Fremen!“ You two were interrupted by some drunk Fremen men cheering and applauding from afar.

Paul and you are giggling like kids. Both with red cheeks and swollen lips. „Your people like a good show, mh?“

„Only if the mighty Duke of Arrakis is involved.“

[littlesparklight]

Question, did Aphrodite care about Troy as a whole or was she mostly concerned about her favoured mortals (Aeneas, Paris, etc)? Like Idk if she had other connections to the city apart from Anchises

I don't think there's a definitive answer to this one that could be drawn from any sources to back us up.

My gut says it's about her Specific People (Aeneas, Anchises, Helen, Paris) not the city as a whole, but that's also a personal preference/interpretation.

This not because she's not worshipped there, because of course she is, like all the other gods. But obviously even the active defense of the city doesn't always mean the deity cares specifically about the whole city. (Artemis and Leto are a good question - my feeling it that it's mostly about backing up Apollo, BUT, we know there's versions where Artemis warned the Atreides about going off to kill the Trojans with a eagle-and- pregnant hare omen, so she could definitely care personally as well.)

And there's also always that thing where Aphrodite helps protect Hektor's corpse - do we count this as proof Hektor is one more person she cares about personally to some degree? (If one wants to go with, as I certainly do, that she did give Andromache the veil, she would clearly be invested in both Hektor and Andromache.) Or do we count it as proof of her extended care of/for Troy as a whole?

So I think it could be either way. Basically, what's your preference/interpretation of it/her character?

[keyrelic]

Solid Brass Atreides Eagle Artisan Keycap A homage to Dune II and Dune 2000 games from legendary Westwood studio. Dune II was a precursor for Real-Time Strategy games. For many, those games were the first contact with the Dune Universe and they still have a special place in our hearts. House of Atreides claims to be descendants of the mythical Atreides of ancient Greece. Among its representatives, such advantages as honor and dignity are placed first. This proud family that puts a good name above life is one of the 3 you could control in game Dune II. ⚜️Great for collectors: can be passed down from generations to generations. Available in our Etsy shop: www.etsy.com/shop/KeyRelic

[battexthefox]

so as my workplace's resident muppets "expert", i tend to bring up muppet-castings of different films every once in a while. i work for a store that caters to hobbyists, so these conversations aren't necessarily out of place, however they do get kinda strange.

recently, my coworker and i got into a debate over who would be who in a muppet-casting of dune. we agreed that kermit would be duke atreides, miss piggy would be lady jessica, sam the eagle would be the emperor, and fozzie would be baron harkonnen. we had more, but those are the important ones.

the issue comes to this: i was arguing that either paul or chani should be the human character (with the same casting as pt. 2), while my boss was arguing that stilgar should be the human. personally, i think gonzo playing stilgar would be hilarious, and having paul be the only non-muppet would be thematically appropriate. thoughts?

[victusinveritas]

Muppets Dune

Kermit as Paul Atreides

Janice as Chani

Miss Piggy as Jessica

Grover as Liet Kynes

Fozzy Bear as Stilgar

Sam the Eagle as Duke Leto

Oscar the Grouch as a guild navigator

Gonzo as Duncan Idaho

Christopher Walken as the Emperor

Waldorf and Stadler as Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim and the Fremen Reverend Mother.

The worms from Sesame Street as the Sandworms, each Muppet rides on one. Don't worry about the physics of it.

Tim Curry as Baron Harkonnen.

Animal as Jamis

Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem minus Animal as various Fremen. It is also possible that Animal still plays various other Fremen but still Jamis and Piggy keeps hitting him with a CrysFryingPan so that Kermit never notices.

[sandwormrp]

Leto Atreides x Thera Ecaz (OC) (487 words)

A/N: This was a starter created for the lovely @therapardalis. You can read the rest of our story here. Enjoy!

There’d come a day, as Leto understood well, that he’d need to marry and strengthen Caladan’s political future. Something that was ingrained into him by his late father. As many flaws as the man had, there were a lot of things he’d done right. Leto’s mother being one of them. Helena had been a force to be reckoned with. Leto himself had come close to that too. His alliance with House Ecaz was founded on a political marriage, then later solidifed by the fall of House Moritani once the wedding dissolved into a bloodbath. Maybe that was why he’d been avoiding another. Thinking about it now felt more like reopening a wound and pouring salt into it. He dared not venture too far into the depths of those waters.

He didn’t need to wonder why the thought of it was coming back to haunt him on this day. Thera of House Ecaz would soon be before him for a meeting he’d arranged. She’d become an invaluable part of his staff on Caladan. Much to the dismay of her father. His regular correspondence with the Duke insinuated as much. He didn’t understand why she needed to be in the place where her sister was slain, but Leto could understand it, on some level. His son had died that day too. Being anywhere else made him feel like he was moving further away from his son. Time already did that, and occasionally his obligations too.

Pushing to stand from the seat of his desk when she entered. His adviser also stood to nod her way, murmuring his final word of warning in the earshot of Leto before departing. Not all agreed with the Duke’s choices, but they wouldn’t be at the helm should the boat begin to sink. He took on board their advice. He still needed to do this.

“It’s a pleasure as always to see you, my Lady. We have much to discuss. Please,” he gestured to the open seat the adviser left behind. Lowering himself into his own with a neat fold of his attire. The gold of the eagle branding his cuff glimmered under the light of the window to his left. He’d used his meeting room for the encounter, though had no expectation of anyone disturbing them past the house staff. One approached the table to serve drinks before too parting. Guards at the doors were under strict orders to keep non-emergencies out.

“I’m sure by now you’ve heard of the latest attack on our shipments? What are your thoughts?”

He leaned back in his seat to let her take the floor, so to speak. While he had no need to be asking for her opinion on the matter, he found himself valuing it all the same. An easy conversation starter with substance over something more frivolous like the upcoming celebrations. Something he was reluctant to bring up immediately. Dancing around the question perhaps?

[mousegard]

Before the game came out, what did you think Edelgard was going to be like?

i actually didn't know or care about fe3h, let alone fire emblem as a whole, until a few months after the game came out, and all i knew about edelgard going in was that she was a gay villainess. i actually did the black eagles route first because i'd read an article about how good of a character bernadetta was, which was why berniegard was my first otp*

anyway my first impression of edelgard was slight disappointment that she wasn't the villain i was promised** followed immediately by falling head over heels in love with her as a hero

* initially i thought i should pick the blue lions first because as a detroiter i am legally and contractually obligated to support a blue team of lions no matter how much they suck, but bernie steered me away

** based on what i'd heard i was expecting someone who commits war crimes 24/7 and/or some sort of medieval fantasy lesbian paul atreides, not the most based and lovable character in the entire damn game. like i listened to edelgard talk once about social injustice and was like "oh if they make her evil i'm gonna be really disappointed in the writers"

[impercre]

@immortalmuses is a hawk among lesser birds

"I thought I would never love the desert the way I loved the sea," The Duke said quietly. As he watched the dunes stretched out before him the reminded him of waves caught in mid crest. He saw the beauty of it and understood it for the first time as a living thing just as the oceans of Caladan where. And yet he was still ill at ease with this place.

He prided himself on his control, his ability to command loyalty. Many of the Great Houses looked to him for guidance and leadership over the Padishah Emperor himself. Yet here on Arrakis he knew this counted for nothing, Atreides thrift and control had been cultivated on a world drunk with resources that could only be dreamed of here. And any true Duneman would be as impressed with the names of the Great Houses as hawk would be with the flight patterns of lesser birds.

The Duke returned to his suspensor chair brought from Caladan to sit across from the Fremen Naib. Yes, there was the rub, the Imperium and even the Sardaukar were lesser birds compared to hawks and eagles that were the Fremen. "I want the way to be clear between us," Leto said in the same tone of cool command he always used. "I would have speak to each other as equals and even friends."

It was the tried and true Atreides stratagem to offer honesty like this or at least the illusion of honesty. But in the end it was a mere feint of vulnerability. A trusted lure used when fishing for allies in treacherous waters or sands.

[mafaldaknows]

About the eagle pants: eagle is the symbol of house Atreides…

Thanks, @dart12! It all makes sense now.

Technically, the symbol for House Atreides is a hawk, but, eh, it’s close enough. ✨🦅✨

[foxilayde]

[paramounticebound]

He wasn't like most nobles. On Caladan, least of all, no matter the status he beheld. Duke Leto was benevolent indeed, and a gracious host though Khan found it pertinent to explore the world so unlike his own when possible. A change from the desolate wastelands dotted with rare cities in bubbles, or the near constant lightning storm over the palace. No, seeing rains and oceans, and greenery-- this must be what it was like, if a Fremen were to venture from Arrakis.

Not the first time to Caladan, but the first to this village. The one where he'd heard stories of eagle bearers, and there was yet to be disappointment. Khan's sharp eyes in contrast to the eagle's before it took flight, soaring and being swallowed by the sky.

He might need talons like that, he thinks.

A nod in greeting, eyeing the youth carefully. It must be strange, he knows. Though the Atreides are indeed gracious.

"Tell me about them," a gesture to the sky, "Are they in service or can they come and go as they please?"

@paramounticebound liked for a starter

He hummed, it was a low, guttural sound as he lifted his arm. The eagle that flew to arm was not unlike the Golden Eagles that had once flown on Old Terra but changed to navigate and fly this alien world of Caladan.

Even the humans like Noa had been shaped by this environment. Hands caressed the bird as he continued to hum before blue eyes lifted to look at the visiting noble. There was a directness in the gaze that seemed at odds with the Faufreluches class system and left one with the uncomfortable sense they were being observed.

Then the youth bowed his head before abruptly lifting his arm so the eagle could once more fly away. "Your grace," He said. His mind burned with questions as to why someone of his rank would come down to a mere fishing village but didn't dare ask. Yet.

By most standards the Atreides were benevolent even indulgent rulers but one wouldn't dare ask such things of the Duke anymore than the fish asked the fishermen why they needed to be caught.

[sandwormrp]

The Ties That Bind Us

Leto Atreides I x Thera Ecaz (oc) 487 words

Summary: An alternative universe in which Leto falls for someone from the member of his guard. Leto has an event coming up and wants Thera there as his date and guard. Plots within plots. Fuel a writer's fixation by liking & reblogging their work!

There’d come a day, as Leto understood well, that he’d need to marry and strengthen Caladan’s political future. Something that was ingrained into him by his late father. As many flaws as the man had, there were a lot of things he’d done right. Leto’s mother being one of them. Helena had been a force to be reckoned with. Leto himself had come close to that too. His alliance with House Ecaz was founded on a political marriage, then later solidifed by the fall of House Moritani once the wedding dissolved into a bloodbath. Maybe that was why he’d been avoiding another. Thinking about it now felt more like reopening a wound and pouring salt into it. He dared not venture too far into the depths of those waters.

He didn’t need to wonder why the thought of it was coming back to haunt him on this day. Thera of House Ecaz would soon be before him for a meeting he’d arranged. She’d become an invaluable part of his staff on Caladan. Much to the dismay of her father. His regular correspondence with the Duke insinuated as much. He didn’t understand why she needed to be in the place where her sister was slain, but Leto could understand it, on some level. His son had died that day too. Being anywhere else made him feel like he was moving further away from his son. Time already did that, and occasionally his obligations too.

Pushing to stand from the seat of his desk when she entered. His adviser also stood to nod her way, murmuring his final word of warning in the earshot of Leto before departing. Not all agreed with the Duke’s choices, but they wouldn’t be at the helm should the boat begin to sink. He took on board their advice. He still needed to do this.

“It’s a pleasure as always to see you, my Lady. We have much to discuss. Please,” he gestured to the open seat the adviser left behind. Lowering himself into his own with a neat fold of his attire. The gold of the eagle branding his cuff glimmered under the light of the window to his left. He’d used his meeting room for the encounter, though had no expectation of anyone disturbing them past the house staff. One approached the table to serve drinks before too parting. Guards at the doors were under strict orders to keep non-emergencies out.

“I’m sure by now you’ve heard of the latest attack on our shipments? What are your thoughts?”

He leaned back in his seat to let her take the floor, so to speak. While he had no need to be asking for her opinion on the matter, he found himself valuing it all the same. An easy conversation starter with substance over something more frivolous like the upcoming celebrations. Something he was reluctant to bring up immediately. Dancing around the question perhaps?

Continued on our jcink rp!

[theartofmany]

Artist: Even Amundsen Title: Leto Atreides “Head of House Atreides, father to Muad’Dib, nemesis to the Harkonnen Leto Atreides was a man of great insight and power, and only the betrayal of one he thought incorruptable could bring him down” Very nice...

[xwing-baby]

Truth (Duke Leto Atreides x f!Reader)

you were sent to kill his son, the duke makes sure you know your place

18+ smut (dark violence, torture, injury to reader (burn), unprotected p in v sex, allusions to past abuse, angry hate sex)

context for movie people: Feyd-Rautha is Baron Harkonnen's other nephew, insane mf- can't wait too see him in part two

word count: 5.5k

Paul Atreides was pleasant enough. He was handsome or, rather would become handsome within a few years. Of course, you were here to stop that. You watched him talk, words flying over your head as the men spoke around you. He was pleasant, not the threat presented to you by your uncle. You supposed that was half the reason he was such a threat; you would never see it coming. These Atreides were not like Harkonnens, brutish and brash; these men were eagle-eyed and sharp. Paul carried the air of a man with life behind him for someone so young. He spoke like a Duke; regality shone through his bright eyes. 

You were attending a dinner with the Atreides on behalf of your father, currently indisposed due to a tragic accident. That was the lie you had told the witch Jessica, which she had naively believed. The decoy spy had been placed and was quickly spotted by the witch and the Duke alike. Neither seemed to suspect you were anything but a loyal messenger for your father, the spice miner. 

While the witch believed you, you did not know about the Duke. He had watched you intently throughout the dinner; his sharp features and deep eyes had you transfixed. You had heard rumours about the man, hearing his cousin, your Baron, rant and rave about him through the walls of Harko palace. Maybe it was your inherited hatred for the man, but you could not look away from him. His attentions, though silent, made you both meeker and bolder. You were distracted by him but simultaneously more eager. Maybe to impress him. Show the Duke what you could do to his only heir, how you could best his nonexistent expectations of you.

Paul left while the drinks were being handed out after dinner. So not to cause suspicion, you continued the laborious conversation with the water-shipper before finally excusing yourself. You did not miss the watchful eye of Lady Jessica as you slipped from the room, stopping once to ask for the bathroom from a servant to give yourself an alibi if you were to fail. After all, it was so easy to get lost in a place like this. 

The servant directed you left. You walked around the corner before turning down another corridor to your desired location. This was not your first night in this place, and if your information had been correct, your target’s room was where your cousin Feyd had stayed when visiting the residency.

The building was more of a labyrinth than you had recalled. The memory of the last time you had stayed flashed before your eyes. Running, screaming, through these very halls. You were fairly sure if you looked close enough at the walls you passed, the trail of your own blood would still cling to the cracks in the cold stone.

“Miss, I fear you are lost,” A rumbling voice broke from the shadows. You stopped halfway up a small flight of stairs and watched a tall, muscular man approach from the crossing wall. You recognised him as Halleck, the soldier who sang at dinner. You smiled and feigned stupidity, widening your eyes in surprise.

“Oh really? It’s so hard to tell where you are in this place. Everything looks the same,” you laughed. Halleck’s hardened demeanour softened a little.

“You’re looking for the restroom?” He asked. You nodded, “You have gone too far; it’s just behind those pillars there,”

“Ah, thank you,” You stood still, a pleasant smile on your face hoping he would leave you.

“I shall take you there. This place is like a maze to those unaccustomed,”

“That would be wonderful, thank you,” You smiled. Halleck gestured forward politely.

“After you,”

You sighed, not yet defeated. You had noted three weapons concealed on the soldier’s person and the shield and comms he wore in his ear. You could overpower him but would risk exposing yourself or getting yourself killed. There were too many soldiers around to even attempt attacking him. You would have to resign yourself to a second try.

You walked down more stairs, more corridors, left and right. This was much further into the residence than you had ever been in your brief time here a few years ago.

“This is not the way to the bathroom,” you said,

“You know this place well, my lady?” He asked, a surprised twitch of his eyebrows told you, you had given far too much away with such a small statement.

“No, I’ve never been here before of course,” You recovered yourself, “I do not recognise this sculpture is all, I did not pass it my way,”

“I know my way do not worry,” He smiled

You shook it off. Back to the task at hand. You still had to shake the soldier and get to the boy.

Finally, you came to a stop, Halleck opened a large dark door, opening a small room. A fireplace too over the furthest wall, lit it and made the room glow orange. Danger. You stepped inside but immediately turned when the soldier did not follow.

“Wait here,” He ordered.

“Sir, I was not lying when I said I needed the bathroom,”

“Sit,” His tone became harsh. You sat in one of the two suspensor chairs, not easily intimidated but the hatred in the man’s eyes gave away his hand- a hand you did not want to feel the wrath of any time soon. Luckily, this meeting was not between him and you as he swiftly left the room.

You sat in the chair and surveyed the room. Large bookcases circled the room, dwarfed by the high ceilings, they looked entirely out of place. Delicate carvings etched stories of men through the wood, such intricacy you had never seen. The carving was a match to that of the wooden desk in front of you. A scroll, pens and a wax pot sat on the wooden top, protected only by a piece of navy fabric. The Atreides emblem was sewn into the fabric with gold thread. A large chair sat behind the table, the shadow of an H stained the back, quickly pulled off with the new occupation. A new determinism set into you, that stain reminding you of why you were here.

You stood up and walked around the bookcases for a secret door. The Baron was known for them, in a place like this with the terrible company he kept an escape was always necessary. Some called him a coward, you called it intelligence. You ran your hand under the shelves, searching for a break.

“Miss L/n,” The voice of the Duke startled you, expecting the soldier.

“I was admiring your books,” You explained casually, turning around to face him. Carefully you walked around the grand table, as the Duke did the same until you came to opposite sides.

“Have a seat,” he offered, gesturing to the two chairs which sat in front of the desk. You smiled and sat, unsure of the meaning of the meeting but certain this happy facade would get you out of it.

“Thank you again for such a pleasant dinner,” You complemented, remaining standing behind the two chairs. The Duke stood in front of his chair, his arms behind his back.

“I hear you got lost,” The Duke said, wasting no time.

“Yes. This place is like a maze, it is a wonder anyone can find their way,” You giggled, hoping a girlish innocent front would get you out of the room and his suspicious quickly.

“Odd seeing as you grew up here,”

“I fear you’ve been given false information sir I have been here but a handful of times. I was younger then yes but I did not live here,” You explained. It was true, you hadn’t been here for years. The Duke hummed in agreement, not believing you in the slightest.

“The one thing I expect from my people is honesty,” He spoke carefully and sternly. My people. The phrase curdled in your mind, and you frowned.

“I am not your people,”

“No?” The Duke asked, shocked by your sudden defiance, “Arrakis was given to me by the emperor, this is my fief, my land, my people,” You scowled but said nothing. “Do you think me an idiot Miss Y/n? That I do not know your intentions with my son?”

“I have no intentions with your son,” You spoke truthfully again.

“Lie to me again and there will be consequences,” Duke Leto’s face became like a stone with the threat.

“I tell no lie. The question you should be asking is what your son’s intentions are with me? He asked me to follow him to his room, you should have heard the things he said to me,” You purred, fighting back a smile as the Duke curled his lip.

“My son-“

“Your son is not a child, as you said yourself,” You interrupted, watching as he walked around the desk to you. You couldn’t stop the smug smile on your lips now, you’d got under his skin, “You remember being his age, don’t you?”

The young Duke was renowned for his escapades with many women, and his prowess with still spoken about by the women of Caladan and throughout the Court of the Emperor. It was why he hadn’t married his whore, you assumed.

“I know Paul well enough to know that he would have better judgement,” His comment was intended to insult, but you smiled wickedly turning it back on him.

“Better judgement than you?” You had spent enough time with powerful men to know how they worked. They could say they were righteous and true but it always came down to sex. Anger and lust are neighbouring emotions, men always seem to struggle to tell them apart. This man was no different.

“Tell me your true objective here,” He advanced on you a few steps, and you stepped back an equal amount.

“You know why I am here,” You smirked, all too happy to taunt him.

“I wish to hear it from your mouth,” He said, you pursed your lips and said nothing else, “Speak,”

“If I don’t?”

“I have ways of getting you to talk,” He advanced again, you stepped back until your hips hit the bookcase behind you. He came closer still until he was mere inches away from you, crowding you to the wall. Curiously, he had no shield up. He trusted his men to clear you of weapons, he thought you were not a threat. How wrong he was.

“What are you going to do to me? Fuck me? Your wife would not like that,”

“Is that how you get what you want?” He asked, his brows raised questioning you mockingly. He was closer now, crowding you against the bookcase, “Degrade yourself for men just to stay alive?”

“I can see you want to,” You tilted your head to the side, looking across his face. So close you could see every detail of his greying beard, the harsh furrow line between his brows and across his forehead, a small scar on his cheek. You could feel his elevated heart rate, rose-tinted cheeks, and enlarged pupils were not just from the alcohol at dinner, “You won’t kill me,”

“I won’t?” He was surprised by your assertion, almost laughing at you.

“No. Because you’re weak and a coward,” You spat the insults at him, your true hatred rising to the surface once more.

“I do not need to kill you to get my message across. I am not as callous as my cousin,”

“But you would like to see me in pain. For me to suffer at your hand? Disfigure me is I could not do what I attempted tonight with your son ever again? You are exactly like them,”

“Perhaps I should send you back unharmed, unsuccessful. If you’re so desperate for death I am sure your Feyd would be more than happy to see you to it,” You glared at him at the mention of Feyd in that way. The Duke smiled wickedly, “You are not the only one who did their research. I know exactly who you are through it was entertaining hearing you spin your lie to my lady,”

“You degrade yourself calling that witch by that title,” you curled your lip in disgust.

“Speak of her again and I will cut out your tongue,” He threatened, seething with anger. You met his mutual glare, daring him to try and attack you. You had come to a stalemate.

You knew you needed to get space, needed to get the upper hand before it was too late. He had trapped you against the wall, but you space to slip out, with more room there was more chance of escaping him. You broke his gaze to look to his left, when his eyes followed taking your bate you darted to his right.

 In the blink of an eye your back pressed against the bookcase behind you and his shield was up. He grabbed your shirt, pulling you back to him. The sharpness of his clutch pulled you back and pulled the shirt apart. The buttons clattered to the ground. The yellow shirt you wore fell to your sides, exposing your bare breasts and chest to him. You didn’t care about that, more worried at the exposure of your poison vial hidden in the side of the shirt.

Leto saw the bottle and grabbed it before you had a chance to even think about what to do next. He pulled it with a sharp tug from the chain which linked it to the fabric and it came free. The blue-grey colour of the liquid was undoubtedly poison. Its thick casing and hidden placement had concealed it from the poison snipers planted throughout the palace and the search you had endured before entering. You watched him closely, trying to read his stone face.

“I should kill you,” Fury overtook him, his attention remaining on the vial in his hand.

“It’s tetrodotoxin,” you said. One of the most horrific poisons available in the known universe.

“Quiet,” He snarled. You smiled wickedly, happy to have gotten him so riled up. Leto flicked the vial between his fingers before slipping it into his trouser pocket, unbothered by it. He did not move away from you; the shield was kept up. His eyes scoured your body, top torn open there was barely a stitch covering your breasts, certainly from his higher angle. Finally, the eagle’s eyes landed on the heart stop placed on your chest. A small piece of metal hiding a deadly mechanism inside your chest, one yank of the small handle on the outside your heart would stop, it was a common safety mechanism installed in all members of the Harkonnen court. Curious his fingers rose and touched the cold plate, you stilled, the smile disappearing and fear returning to your eyes as it had done when he attacked you. It was Leto’s turn to smile wickedly.

“As barbaric as these things are I must hand it to my cousin it is far simpler than a gun or knife,” His finger looped through the hold, you held your breath but met his stare, conflicted as to whether you were scared or not. He was not like the Baron, he was not as ruthless, and he wouldn’t do it. One small tug and it would be over. “So simple,” He mused.

“Do it,” You urged him, a wash of wicket excitement poured over you. You had played with Death so many times you could call it a friend. The Duke studied you for a moment, then dropped the small metal piece that held your life in the balance,

“You still don’t understand how this works do you?” He scoffed, “I am your Duke. If I wanted you dead you would be, only because I wished it. You have no power or say in whether you live or die here do you understand?”

“You are nothing to me,” You snarled.

“No,” He said quietly, his voice low and patronising, his hand drew up from your breast to your jaw, his warm hand caressing the skin,” Yes, your grace is the only thing I should hear from that pretty little mouth,” You remained silent. He drew this thumb over your lips, dragging it over your bottom lip until you yielded.

“Oh, he has got you trained well, hasn’t he?” The Duke chuckled to himself as your mouth opened, letting his thumb slide across your wet tongue.

You had him. This was your chance to kill the duke.

Earlier you had spotted a letter opener on the desk. It was not enough to kill him, but surely enough to mame and slow him down to administer your poison.

In a swift movement you bit down hard on the Duke’s thumb, swiping your leg behind his causing him to fall to the side. He cursed you loudly, and before you could get the three paces to the desk he caught your arm. He pulled you back with a force you could not overpower tripping over your own feet. He slammed you into the desk, you head hitting the wood with a bang. You reached with your spare hand for the small knife but again was too slow for the bird sharp man. He caught your arm, knocked the knife away and pulled both your hands behind you back, holding you down with the weight of his body.

“Stupid, stupid girl,” he hissed. Suddenly a small sharp needle pierced your side. You cried out and hissed as the liquid entered your bloodstream. You squirmed under him, trying to kick his legs out, but he remained strong. “You’re lucky I only gave you truth spirit,”

You had been given truth spirit so many times you knew the effects well. Your mind seemed to step up a gear, racing faster than you could keep up with. You itched, from head to toe and your tongue felt big in your mouth. After a quiet moment as you took more notice of your body than the one pressed against you, the duke asked his questions.

“You are here to kill my son, yes?”

“Yes,”

“And you know who the spy is in my house?”

“Yes,”

“Who are they?”

“The witch,” you snarled. Leto pressed harder onto your back.

“Don’t make me hurt you,”

“I want you to,” you gasped, laughing at your own admission but not stopping yourself from pushing your hips back against the duke.

“Who is the spy?” He asked again, insistent. Desperate.

“Jessica. Your Lady Jessica is the spy,” you taunted him with your truth.

“This doesn’t have to be so hard, tell me and I’ll let you go,”

“That is the truth! Truth spirt doesn’t lie,” You laughed, the drug confusing you and making you hysterical.

Leto snatched your shoulder, pulling you up then down to the floor. You fell to your knees, hitting the stone floor with a smack that was amplified by the cavernous room. Your knees and palms ached with pain that had been dulled by the drug coursing through your veins. Your laughter stopped as you protested the sudden manhandling. The Duke’s hands were back on you quickly, taking hold of your hair in one hand to pull you upright once more.

He loomed above you, ever taller and wider to you from your low position. You pulled your eyes up, an impish smile on your face, happy to feel the hand of his hatred. Your cocky smile quickly dropped when you saw the little blue bottle in his hand, the top between his teeth. He spat it out, sending it to an unknown corner of the room. Fear flooded your body.

“You lying Harkonnon whore,” He sneered at you. You struggled against him, trying to get away but his hold of your hair was too strong. You had danced with death but the effects of that poison were far worse.

“No one can overcome truth spirit,” You exclaimed quickly, trying to bring him to reason. The man was desperate, he didn’t hear it.

“I will not ask again,”

“Lady Jessica is the spy! I read the message before it was sent!”

“Liar!” He bellowed, tipping the bottle.

“I cannot lie!”

You screamed as the poison burned your skin. Only a small droplet fell onto your shoulder, the horrific sensation that instantly flooded your body was immeasurable in comparison. The heat took over you, radiating through your lungs and instantly restricting your breathing. A sparked sharp sting spread over your shoulder and neck, like electricity jumping across your skin. You collapsed forward onto his boots, wailing in agony. You sobbed, curled in on yourself cradling your shoulder, trying your best not to touch it so the poison could not spread any further.

Above you the duke was unmoved, simply waiting for you to quieten down so he could speak once more.

 “I know it is not Jessica, it is impossible and I know it was entirely fabricated by your brutish house. There are people here who believe it to be true, even she believes I believe it. I am not to be fooled easily. You don’t know the spy, fine. I believe you, tell me everything you do know,”

You couldn’t speak for the sobs rocking through your body. The Duke ran his hands over your head, shushing you in a way that should have been comforting if he was not the one administering the pain.

“When are they coming?”

“Once the signal is given,” You whisper, your voice hoarse with pain.

“And that signal is what exactly?” He asked calmly. You bit your tongue harshly, knowing the consequence of your true words. He was desperate, there was no way he would believe you. “Speak!”

“I don’t know!” You yelled, immediately cowering from the inevitable deadly droplet, “please your grace, I don’t know anything,”

“Now I am your Duke?” He mocked you, “When I hold your life in my hands?”

“I will do anything,” You pleaded tearfully.

The words lay heavy in the air between you. Slowly he put the bottle onto the table behind him, keeping it uncapped and within arm’s reach for his own security. You pushed up from the cold floor to sit up, wincing at the blisters that had formed on your shoulder from the poison. He looked down at you, slowly taking your chin in his hand and making you look at him. He loomed over you, chest heaving with fury and lust.

“Beg me to fuck you,”

“I-“

“Beg,”

You stared up at him, completely speechless unable even if you want to answer him. Your silence only enraged him more. He slapped you, hard, across the face. You yelped and cowered away, eyes watering as your cheek stung. You could feel the bruise from his ducal signet ring impacting your cheekbone instantly start to bloom, “Beg me to fuck you,” He seethed in almost a whisper.

You couldn’t stop yourself. Lust bursting from its cage that you had tried so desperate to keep locked.

“Fuck me,”

“I am your Duke. Address me as such,” he ordered harshly, his voice thick with hunger.

“Fuck me please, your grace,” the honorific felt bitter on your tongue, but you loved the taste.

He pulled you up from the floor, turning you away from him before pulling your body against his.

“You walk in here,” He panted, blowing hot air against your neck, close enough to kiss you but you knew wouldn’t. There is kindness in a kiss, this was no kindness, “you distract me, torment me, and insult me by attempting to seduce my son,” He spat each accusation at you, infuriated with your very being. He pressed his clothed hips into your ass, you keened softly at the feeling of his hard cock against you.

He slowly pushed you forward, until your chest hit the cold wooden desk once again.

“You are lucky I didn’t give you to my men. They’ve been without women for weeks, who knows what they’d do to you, but I’d bet you’d like that wouldn’t you?” He pushed your skirt up above your hips, exposing your bare ass.

“Look at you, soaked,” He pushed one finger through your wet folds, you bit your lip hard so as to stop the moan that grew in your throat as the tip of his finger brushed your clit. Just as quickly as he had touched you, his hand retreated, “I want to hear you,” He ordered sternly, “You know what I will do if you disobey me,”

“Please,” You gasped.

“What was that?”

“Please fuck me, your grace,”

“I should record you right here and send it to your Baron. How pathetic and desperate you are for my cock,” Bent over the desk you could not see him, but you felt the intense stare of the eagle-eyed Duke focused on your exposed cunt. You lifted your hips in a desperate hope that his hand was not far to provide some friction again. The Duke watched with amusement, “Beg me,”

“Please, your grace. Please fu-,” Your words were cut off with a sudden cry he finally entered you. He was thick, feeling larger because of how unexpected the intrusion had been. He did not wait for you to settle either, his cock pulling out just as quick as it had gone in. His large hands gripped your waist, pulling your skirt up higher so he could watch himself enter you again.

You had never felt so full in your life, your pussy ached as he fucked you hard. He wasn’t fast but deliberate, the rumours you had heard in court were entirely true. You melted into the wooden surface beneath you, eyes rolling back into your head as he fucked you relentlessly. Your hips met each of his thrusts, your calves cramping as you pushed yourself on your tiptoes to meet his cock. He groaned and cursed you under his breath, pent up frustration manifesting in hard thrusts into your soaked pussy.

The pleasure began to build as your gasps became whines and quiet cries of pleasure. You snuck your hand under your stomach, but before you could reach your throbbing clit, Leto grabbed your wrist and pulled it out and to your back, pinning you to the table. You wailed in protest.

“I did not say you could touch yourself,” He growled, holding your wrist tight to your back.

“Please!”

“This is not for you,” He said through gritted teeth, groaning loudly as you tensed around his cock, “You cum if and when I tell you,” The sound of his cock pounding into you filled the room, echoing throughout the large stone office, only punctuated by Leto’s occasional grunt or chocked cry from you.

Suddenly he stopped, pulling away from you entirely. You picked yourself up and turned your head to see him. Before you could say anything, he pulled your arm to get you to stand and face him. He sat down in his chair, a smug and satisfied smirk on his face.

He looked utterly sinful. His peppered hair had fallen from its brushed back position over his face, a suggestion of curl starting to form as the hair was met with sweat. His brown skin shone in the golden light of the glow globe, the exertion of his torment shining on his skin. He was still completely closed, his belt discarded and trousers now entirely unzipped as he stroked his cock in his hand, watching you.

“Show me why he keeps you,” His words were thick with lust. You needed no further instruction as you climbed on top of his, knees on either side of his legs trapped between them and the arms of the chair.

The Duke let you take his cock into your hands, hissing with pleasure as you stroked him for a moment. You shifted forward, lining him up with your hole and sunk down onto it.

“Fuck,” You chocked out as he split you open again. You shifted your legs wider to fit him in, the wet sound filling the air around you. Finally, you rested once he was deep inside you. Leto tipped his head back, panting, trying to catch his breath as you throbbed around him. You nearly came from the sight alone, a sense of pride washing over you that you had reduced him to this. Feeling bold you leaned forward and kissed his neck as he held it exposed to you. You lifted off his cock slowly as you did, moaning into his skin as you relished in the drag of it along your tight walls.

He pushed you back after a moment, his hands holding your hips as he manhandled you to a rougher rhythm. You could not forget he was in charge. You moaned and cried out as he set a brutal pace, his hips rising from the chair to snap into yours as you rode his cock. You gripped the back of the chair behind his head, your naked tits bouncing in front of his face. He leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth, groaning into your skin at the taste of you. His hands left your hips, moving to grip the armrests as you fucked him hard.

Pleasure built in your stomach, slowly building a fire that would soon consume you. You took hold of his hand from the armrests and placed it on your heart stop. The feeling of powerlessness, you were used to, Feyd took this liberty all too many times, you knew he would not kill you. There was no trust with Leto. It made the entire thing that much more pleasurable as your adrenaline heightened and the pleasure of his cock splitting you open sent you to another plane. You cried out as he took hold of the small hold quickly, fucking into you harder as he had gained ultimate control over you. You had offered it, your final and ultimate submission to him as he truly held your life in his hands.

You rode him fiercely, circling your hips to drive him deep to every spot you had inside. He growled as the first flutter of your coming climax gripped his cock. While one hand stayed attached to your heart stop, his palm brushing your hard nipple, his other hand had ventured to your clit.

“Cum on my cock, Y/n,” He ordered, the use of your name catching your attention immediately. You opened your eyes and met his. “Cum for me,” That determined look that was ever etched on his face stared back at you, as his fingers rubbed circles over your clit. You cried out, almost immediately collapsing into him. He kept going, only pausing for a moment to adjust his legs to fuck up into you as he chased his own high.

Your climax hit suddenly, entirely all-consuming you had never felt anything like it. You cried out, thrashing against his incessant fingers as he pushed you past any pleasure you had felt before. Tears formed in your eyes as he used your pussy until his own climax came, spilling his cum deep inside you. You burnt, feeling entirely out of your own body you fell into his heaving chest.

Before you could feel any kind of rest, Leto pulled his cock out from your dripping cunt, did up his trousers, and stood you up. Your legs turned to jelly, unable to function after such an offence the Duke held you up with strong hands. You could feel his cum trickle down your leg, mixing with your own mess between your thighs.

You looked up at him with a dreamy- utterly fucked out face. Tears and sweat shone on your cheeks, your chest still rising and falling quickly, slowing as you calmed down. Leto looked down at you, his usual serious scowl back on his face, though a little softer now whether it was caring for you or having burnt out the majority of his hatred you could not tell.

He caressed your jaw, soft touches sending a flutter of affection through your body and your eyes fell shut once more. His fingers came down your neck, and you sighed satisfied beyond what you even knew possible. You flinched as he reached the burn on your shoulder, your attention snapping back to his face, alarm and caution immediately taking the place of your pleasure. You watched him watch his hands travel over your skin, around the injury he had inflicted. The scar it would undoubtedly leave would serve as a constant reminder of your submission to him and his rule. Eventually, his fingers came back to the heart-stop in your chest. You held your breath.

You wondered if he could feel your heart beating so rapidly beneath it. A mere slither of metal away from him. You watched his movements carefully, watching him trace the engraved ‘H’. He picked his head up, finally looking back up to see the terror written across your face.

Expecting the hard glare, you received earlier you were surprised to see softness. Pity. There was more kindness, more understanding silently in his eyes than anyone had ever given you before. It terrified you.

After a moment he dropped his hand from your chest, kissed your forehead and stepped away.

You finally let your breath go, shakily sitting back down in the desk chair behind you for fear you could pass out. Swinging so violently from pleasure and satisfaction to fear you felt nauseous. You watched him readjust his jacket, slip his belt back around it, and brush his fingers through his greying hair so nobody could tell what had happened. He tugged his jacket sharply, took a deep breath to compose himself and removed himself from what had transpired in this room.

He walked toward the door, taking one final look at you before he left. His lips quirked into a smug smile for just a second, no doubt satisfied with the mess he had made of you now sitting under the scrubbed out Harkonnen emblem on his chair. A symbol of his coming victory, he hoped at least. 

“I will have an ornithopter waiting for you. Take it to the smuggler’s and leave this planet. If I hear you still remain on this planet by sunrise, remember I still have this. There will be no corner of this place you could hide,” He flashed the bottle of poison in his hand before slipping it into his trouser pocket again. You nodded, “Understand?”

“Yes, your grace,”

With that he shut the door, leaving you in his chair dazed and confused as to what had to have just transpired. Proof dripped from you onto your skirts, making its way down your leg. You had no doubt you looked a mess, hair pulled from its delicate design and makeup smeared.

You had nothing to clean yourself with. You would have to go out there, everyone would know what had happened. You had no choice, maybe that was the duke’s plan- to humiliate you. But you had no choice. You could not return home, once the Baron found out what had transpired here tonight you would be dead. You had to run.

—-

9 months away and she comes back with porn… hehe hope you enjoyed this! It really was the inevitable outcome of studying this story for a year lol

tagging possibly interested peeps: @laters-gators @polaroidpetal @autumnleaves1991-blog

[lvsifer]

Chapter 4 under the cut! Second to last chapter.

On AO3.

Servants come in the middle of the night. Feyd-Rautha tears from his half-sleep as two men—under the watchful and scorning attention of his Fremen guards—lay out trays of food and drink as well as folded garments from Feyd-Rautha’s previous quarters in the palace: Ceremonial Harkonnen robes and boots. Atop it, his signet ring. 

They leave without another word. 

He sheds his tattered garb and walks naked to the lectern. No smell of spice in the food. A conscious choice? Has the Atreides instructed it after finding him in his dream? No scent of poison, either. He wolfs down the meal, lamb on baked bread with some sort of yoghurt sauce, drinks his fill of water and milk. Unlike Uncle he has little love for the strong desert flavours and misses the processed efficiency of his homeland foods, packed full of artificial nutrients to combat Giedi Prime’s harsh clime. 

He takes his ring and slides it onto his little finger before he leans low and breathes in the leather scent of his robes. With disdain, he realises that his own body is starting to smell, and the adjoining bathroom in fact has no bath and only drips of undrinkable water from the basin, barely enough to wash his hands. He uses the last sips of his drink to clean himself, changes into the heavy boots, dark robes and vest, leather embossed with the Harkonnen crest. At last he feels more like himself again. Only his hands yearn for a blade. He walks back to the bed and slips the silver table-knife between a fold of his vest. Weak as it may be, he might yet use it to stab someone’s eye out. He grins and wishes for a mirror so he could see himself as he is now, Harkonnen nobility, not just prisoner. Slowly, he glides his hand up his chest to his collar and he feels under it where the Atreides’ mouth has marked him. He closes his eyes, presses into the bruise that must bloom there and the pain that follows makes him exhale unsteadily. He will kill him. Take his place. Die. But he cannot stay as he is. 

Some pit has opened inside his chest, a hunger so black, he has no name for it.

Stone scrapes against stone. 

Feyd-Rautha whips around to the secret door. 

It grates open.

His pulse jumps, he can feel blood rush to his face. 

Chains clang brightly. No sound of footsteps, only the rustling of fabrics. 

Darkness glides over form like water and from it emerges the monstrous shape of the Reverend Mother. She is bloated with child, cloth and veil fall around her and her blue eyes burn into the dimness of the room, she shows only the skin of her face and hands, tattooed all with Fremen symbols. Her gaze snares him. Coldness creeps up his back despite his heavy vestments. The world smudges and he sees himself step back before he moves.

“Witch,” he growls.

She tilts her head, chain-veil clinking in a distorted noise. She rounds him slowly, her eagle-eyes appraising him as though he were a serpent to be pierced in her claws and taken as meal for her young. He cannot move. What spell has she put on him? 

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” she says and smiles behind her chain-veil, something so other in it he feels the wrong-ness of her. She bores into him, dissects him where he stands. He shivers. She who called him dog before— He wishes for his blades to rid himself of her stare. 

“You are an impressive fighter, Baron,” she says, “but no match for my son.” Triumph darkens her voice. “You know this, too.” 

She comes closer and the world shifts with her.

“I could have killed him.”

“No,” she says simply, smiling. “He is the Kwisatz Haderach.” Her steps now echo where before she granted him no warning. “You have two choices: Obey—or rebel and die. I know what…your uncle,” she says instead of father. In it so much of Vladimir Harkonnen’s viciousness shines in her face and yet she far exceeds Uncle in fierceness. “....I know what he promised you. The Imperial throne.” Closer. “But what desire have you to rule the universe?” 

A beat of silence. 

“I can see your heart.” Her breath ghosts his face. No sensuality in it like Lady Fenring, only the predator-nearness of death. He recognises it like he would recognise his own face in the mirror. 

“You don’t know me.” He tries to raise his hand to the table-knife in his folds.

“Foolish boy,” she sneers. “I know of the bauble in your robe.” 

Her hand shoves into his garments near his ribs and pulls out the knife. Bene Gesserit witch! The next moment she drags it along his throat, over the bite mark, eyes knowing with cold darkness, before she brushes the tip over his cheek and holds it to his eye.

“You may yet rise if you follow him,” she says. “Any other place but by his side…death will find you.” The last sentence she speaks not as herself but with the voice of many, and a truth spreads from it that he cannot keep from his heart. But he’s never feared death. And that is her mistake.

“You deem me a coward, woman,” he says and wills his body into movement. It takes all the strength he has—

His hand shoots up, grabs her wrist. The knife trembles in front of his eye— he twists her arm down, pointing the knife at her stomach. He grins at her and leans in, searching her face for fear but finds none. If only he had a real weapon, but if he can jab through her magics—

He freezes. Pressure at his thigh. 

He looks down to see a crysknife at his femoral artery. 

“Move but a little against me,” she says and lets the meaning linger, “and I will sap the life out of you.” Her low patrician voice echoes in the room. 

Rage singes through him. He grits his teeth. 

“Don’t play with me, whore,” he snarls. How dare she threaten him like that? Had she not her Bene Gesserit sorcery, he would relieve her of that rat-knife and cut the witch-brood out of her.

She steps back. The knife slips from his thigh, the table-knife too. 

“I am not playing,” she says. “Are you?”

He considers this. 

“No.”

“Good. You might yet survive.” 

She moves to the secret door, pulls the sandworm tapestry aside, eyes still on him.

“Think on my words, Baron. You can have a place in the empire. You can reap more splendour than you ever imagined if you aid Paul in this holy war.” A glint lights in her eyes. Belief. Madness. The corners of her mouth turn up. 

“Fight the Great Houses for Paul. Be more than a pawn. Or prisoner.” 

She sinks half into the shadow of the secret door. 

“Conquer for Paul and be victorious. Take your glory.”

With that she disappears into the door and it closes with a grating noise behind her. 

Feyd-Rautha stumbles backwards. The world slowly sharpens again. The spell lifts off him in waves. He inhales deeply. 

The witch’s words leave him quiet, and though possibility opens before him, a coldness keeps Feyd-Rautha from it. Not long ago such a promise would have kindled a fire in him, but how can he live in honour? How can he— 

He wipes his brow. The boy has deranged him, twisted him, left him with no kin or council. Who is he now? He does not know himself.

Perhaps he should have died by Paul’s blade. 

Feyd-Rautha strips naked and falls back into the sheets he has shared with Paul mere hours before. The boy’s scent still clings to the bedding. Feyd-Rautha breathes him in and imagines his death. How sweet would it taste.

The doors open.

Fremen guards enter, more than six, and after them, servants with down-cast faces carrying buckets of swaying water, cloth and perfumed oils, and the Suk-doctor who last treated his wounds, braid over his shoulder, colour on his lip. 

Feyd-Rautha looks for gaps in the guards’ formation, but they track him coldly, fists clenched around the pommels of their crysknives. No let up in attention. They are well trained, he has to admit. A whisper rises from outside and the doors open again. 

Feyd-Rautha’s heart skips a beat. 

Paul Muad’Dib Atreides enters and passes the servants to stand by the shuttered window. He wears a black and green military uniform and a long heavy coat over it. His hair is pushed back and his curls combed out into waves, making him the picture of imperial excellence if not for his Fremen-eyes. And the madness therein. 

Feyd-Rautha gets up from the bed, still naked, and walks to the servants. Pride tingles in his stomach under the collective stare they give him. Let them marvel at his perfection. He feels Paul’s attention on him, too. He returns the gaze and presents himself to the servants. They begin wringing water over his flesh, rags of cloth dragging over his skin and scrubbing the desert filth off him. It is a pleasure. At the same time, the Suk-doctor inspects his wounds, the cut on his throat has already healed by virtue of the medicinal paste and his Harkonnen physiology. He wonders how Paul looks under his uniform. Is his shoulder bandaged beneath and his side? He had shown no sign of changed mobility during their tussle or tryst, but how much of that is disguise, Feyd-Rautha cannot tell. He hopes he has scarred the false prophet, hopes his hand will be upon the Atreides’ body forever. He feels heat stir inside him at the thought and he lets his gaze drag over Paul. Paul returns it cooly. He is not a boy now, he is an emperor surveying his prisoner. 

The servants finish with his torso, efficiently and thoroughly taking care of his private parts. Feyd-Rautha holds eye contact with Paul. A shiver runs down his spine, to be fully naked as Paul watches surrounded by his guards... Blood pumps to Feyd-Rautha’s cock, half hardening it. One of the Fremen hisses something in their rat-language, but no other comment follows. The servants remain calm, finish the washing and start rubbing perfumed oils into his skin, carefully avoiding his cock. The oils smell of citrus and pepper and smoke, scents that do not belong to him but to them. When the servants are content with their work, they pack up their supplies and with a bow to Paul, flee the room perhaps more quickly than is proper. A Fremen scoffs behind Feyd-Rautha. He turns and sees the hatred in the woman’s face. Wasting water on him must be blasphemy to them. He smiles.

“Leave us,” Paul says.

The rush of blood through Feyd-Rautha’s head is so loud he barely hears the Fremen’s gasped protests and hissed warnings. Paul quiets them with a gesture. 

“Have no fear,” Paul says and dismisses the guards again. 

A drumming of Lisan al-Gaib Lisan al-Gaib goes through the room before the Fremen file out. 

They are alone.

Time slows around him until there are only Paul’s blue-within-blue eyes, so cold, and focussed on Feyd-Rautha. Feyd-Rautha walks to him, heart pounding in his chest. 

“Kneel.” Paul says.

Feyd-Rautha sinks to his knees before him, cock fully hard now. 

A gloved hand touches his cheek, tilts his face up. 

“You will pledge your loyalty to me in a few minutes,” Paul says in his soft drawling way. 

Feyd-Rautha slides both hands up the cloth of Paul’s trousers. 

“No,” Paul says, looking down at him. 

Precome beads at the tip of Feyd-Rautha’s cock from the denial. He breathes heavily. Images dash through his mind—the tip of Paul’s cock on his tongue, Paul’s gloved hand on Feyd-Rautha’s throat, sliding his hands underneath Paul’s uniform, feeling him close—

“I’m yours to command,” Feyd-Rautha says.

Paul pulls him up to stand but despite Feyd-Rautha’s greater height, the Atreides seems to keep looking down at him. They are as close as they were during their fight. He longs for Paul’s knife between his ribs. His cock grazes Paul’s leg. A wanton, rough noise escapes him. His gaze flickers to Paul’s mouth and back up to his eyes. They burn into him. The urge to press his lips against Paul’s razes all else around him, the room, the whole planet narrows to the space between them.

“Dress,” Paul says. “The guards will take you to the banquet hall. You will swear your oath there.” 

Feyd-Rautha slides his hand over Paul’s side to his crysknife. 

Paul clamps Feyd-Rautha’s wrist and Feyd-Rautha steps forward, lips brushing Paul’s ear as he yanks his hand free and gropes Paul through his trousers. 

“You want this too,” Feyd-Rautha rasps.

“ʜᴇᴇʟ,” Paul hisses and Feyd-Rautha chokes out a moan as he sinks back to his knees by Paul’s feet.

Paul steps back. Feyd-Rautha wants to rip the lungs from his chest. 

“Dress,” Paul repeats, calm, uncaring. 

And leaves.

The guards push Feyd-Rautha to another secret door a few paces into the hallway and lead him through a maze of narrow tunnels, stone-ceiling so low, Feyd-Rautha has to crouch while walking so as to not hit his head. The Fremen seem entirely familiar with the labyrinth, until at last they stealthily open another door. 

The noise of an assembled crowd greets them, but Feyd-Rautha cannot see them yet. The guards steer him from behind decorated stone walls to the side of the banquet hall where Sietch Naibs and Corrino nobility stand in official dress, golden with the lion claw upon it. The Sietch Naibs wear wraps of cloth layered intricately, kohl smudging their eyes. The main crowd is military. With wonder Feyd-Rautha realises there is not a single Sardaukar among them. So the Corrino hegemony is truly over. The fact that Fremen subjugated the feared Imperial forces… Feyd-Rautha glances at them and cannot but respect such a feat. If only Uncle had brought him to Arrakis before Rabban and his half-witted attempt at fighting the rats…Feyd-Rautha might have burned the Fremen from the face of the planet and cleaned the desert of their vermin. 

The guards flank him and come to a stop in the first row before the great banquet table. Behind it the Atreides banner hangs in green and black. And there, the new Emperor of the Known Universe. Paul Muad’Dib Atreides sits in the middle, to his left the Corrino princess in her chainmail and to the right his Bene Gesserit mother. What an insult to the new bride to have her on the lesser side. Feyd-Rautha grins and searches the face of the new empress-consort, but she stares haughtily ahead and pays him no mind. She could have been his, yet what thrill in such an immovable prey? In time, he would have taught her fear. And still might. Beside the Bene Gesserit whore sits the Sietch Naib that took Feyd-Rautha from his chambers, mistrust and hatred so undisguised in his dark features. Was it his Sietch that he ravished? Feyd-Rautha’s grin spreads wider. And there behind Paul, the Atreides with Rabban’s inkvine scar on his neck. Rabban never could finish the work. 

Finally, Paul looks at him.

“Welcome, Baron,” Paul says and rises from his seat. 

The official tone lets all snap into place. Feyd-Rautha turns to glance the metal device hoovering high by the ceiling. A transmitter. They are being recorded.

Paul rounds the table to stand before him. 

Feyd-Rautha’s breath quickens. 

“All this for me? You shouldn’t have.” Feyd-Rautha pitches his voice low for only Paul’s ears. 

No emotion on the Atreides’ face. Instead he raises his voice for the hall to hear:

“I, Paul Muad’Dib Atreides, Emperor of the Known Universe, give my word of bond under the Convention: You stand before me without your weapons. Swear yourself to me, Baron, and I will guard you, your House and home, with my own life.”

A murmur goes through the crowd, but Feyd-Rautha keeps glaring at the false prophet. Then he slowly sinks to his knees. He bows his head in front of the Atreides’ boot as is custom, kisses it with a shiver running down his spine, looks up to Paul once more who extends his gloved hands, palms facing upwards. Feyd-Rautha clasps his own hands as if in prayer, reaching out to his new lord and master with distance yet between them.

Absolute silence falls. Feyd-Rautha can feel the scrutiny of all attendants on him, and of course, the recorder. 

“I promise on the soil of my home,” Feyd-Rautha begins, voice raucous, “my faith and blades, that I in the future will be truthful to my lord, never cause him harm, and will observe my homage to him completely against all persons, loyally, staunchly, without deceit.” 

Paul takes Feyd-Rautha’s outstretched hands.

“It is right that those who offer to us unbroken fidelity should be protected by our aid,” Paul speaks with unquestioned authority. “And since Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, by the hand of God, has come to swear trust to us in our hand, we decree and command by the present precept that if anyone should presume to kill him, let them know that they will be judged guilty of no wergild—but be given death.” 

Paul surveys the crowd for a moment, still holding Feyd-Rautha’s hands. Heartbeat loud in his ears, Feyd-Rautha bows to kiss the Atreides’ signet ring. 

“Rise,” Paul says.

Feyd-Rautha stands, slips his hands from Paul’s and instead frames the Atreides’ face. He leans in and kisses Paul’s mouth to seal the oath. 

A few voices echo from behind them, but if the Harkonnen custom surprises Muad’Dib, he does not show it. Feyd-Rautha steps back and returns to his place in the front row, pulse quick and loud in his ears, and for a moment Paul’s gaze follows him and they stay locked in eye-contact, but what Paul Muad’Dib Atreides thinks, he cannot fathom. 

Paul veers to his followers.

“House Atreides and House Harkonnen are allied. May the other Great Houses follow this example—or face annihilation.”

Voices raise in acclamation, the masses press closer to their new emperor and Paul surveys it all with a cool smile. It is only then that Feyd-Rautha sees the blinking light on the camera that indicates a direct transmission—This is no recording. This is a broadcast. 

After the ceremony the guards usher him into a side chamber, and the Atreides Warmaster shoves a contract capsule before him. 

“Seal it,” the man snaps, inkvine scar rippling on his jaw. Such rogue procedure. Then again they are terrorists. And Uncle would have done the same. The words curve around the capsule in small Galach lettering, so crowded he can barely grasp the gist of it. No doubt some hidden clauses lie in ambush there, but nothing that can’t be out-manoeuvred later. Feyd-Rautha seals the hot wax on the capsule’s top end with his signet ring. Let them try and grasp the Harkonnen holdings, Uncle has made sure they are slippery to the touch. Feyd-Rautha grins as Gurney Halleck grabs his neck from behind and ties a blindfold over his eyes. 

“So rough, Warmaster,” he says. “Our slave pits made a man of you.”

“I was a man long before ever fighting in that filth you call a home,” Halleck barks and knees him in the back. Pain explodes through Feyd-Rautha, hot and thrilling and he lets out a raspy laugh. 

“Why don’t you show me? I can leave the blindfold on, to make it a fair fight for you, old man.”

Halleck spits a curse at him but only twists Feyd-Rautha’s wrists behind his back, shackles him and pushes him forward. 

“Don’t count on my lord’s word,” Halleck hisses close to Feyd-Rautha’s ear, “there are many yet who seek your death, Harkonnen.”

“Good,” Feyd-Rautha says, “what else could this rat-hole offer?”

But Halleck does not respond. 

The air changes where they lead him. Back into the secret tunnels. Feyd-Rautha tries to count the steps and turns but he has the sneaking suspicion that the Warmaster is directing him in loops and false corners. 

The minutes move strangely in the absence of vision, and when at last his handlers stop, Feyd-Rautha has lost all sense of time, and knows not where in the palace they might be. 

Tapping on a mechanical pad. Noise of sealed doors opening. 

A push— Feyd-Rautha stumbles forward. 

Doors close behind him with the same sound as before.

The air changes with such force around him as he tumbles into the new chamber, Feyd-Rautha gasps. It can’t be— 

Moisture. Rush of—a fountain. Birdsong.

Irregular steps approach him softly on soil. The scent of the geriatric spice, melange, hits Feyd-Rautha’s nostrils. Fingers graze his cheeks. Breath ghosts on his face as arms reach around him to untie the blindfold. But of course he knows the scent, the breath, the man—

The blindfold falls from his face. 

Paul looks at him.

“Time has betrayed your face to me,” Paul says. The blue-within-blue eyes ensorcell him. He grunts, shakes his head to break the spell, looks around—

Green everywhere. More green than Feyd-Rautha has ever seen. Plants crowd the chamber with almost painful verdancy, thick lush leaves in all sizes, and flowers so alien in shape they might have been alive. 

“What is this place?” he rasps.

“A wish,” Paul says solemnly. “A promise.”

Feyd-Rautha strains against the metal shackles that keep his hands bound behind his back. 

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To show you.”

“What?”

“Possibility.” There is caution in the Atreides’ voice, but also the confidence of a man who knows his enemy has no means to hurt or escape him. 

Feyd-Rautha bares his black lacquered teeth.

“What do I care for growth? This rat planet means nothing to me.”

Paul sighs, turns his back to him and walks a few paces into the greenery. Anger surges through Feyd-Rautha. 

“Who do you think I am, Atreides? One of your fanatics?” 

Paul snaps around and stalks towards him.

“I’ve spared your life,” Paul bellows, “I’ve left you your House, and your dignity, you deserve none of it!” 

Paul is dangerously close. The knife at his belt shines in milky glory. He could slit Feyd-Rautha’s throat now, open it up with ease. He longs for it. 

“Now, you will obey me in all I decree.” Paul’s hand finds his throat. 

Arousal shoots through Feyd-Rautha along the truth of the words. The degradation to be reduced to the Atreides’ tool—

A grim smile spreads on Paul’s lips. 

“I see how to handle you, cousin.” 

“Unshackle me,” Feyd-Rautha says. He is painfully hard beneath his robe.

 “No,” Paul says in his drawling voice. “On your knees.”

Feyd-Rautha kneels before he knows it. Finally, without anyone present. Sweat beads on his brow ridge, slides down into his eyes. He blinks at the sting of it. Looks at Paul who steps near, desert-creature, blood-drinker, master of Feyd-Rautha’s fate. 

Paul’s gloved hand grabs his chin, thumb stroking over Feyd-Rautha’s lips. 

“Submit,” Paul whispers, lids low.

Feyd-Rautha breathes hard, jerks his head to the side, this goddamn Bene Gesserit spawn—-

Paul crouches before him, finds his gaze.

“You want to,” Paul says softly, cruelly. 

“Yes,” Feyd-Rautha admits without control of his own voice. He thinks of Uncle, of the rush of thousandfold voices in the arena, thinks of the moments he feels most alive: with a knife at his throat. And what is Paul but a blade? 

The witch’s words come back to him then. Which way Feyd-Rautha turns is death, he is tethered to Paul by kismet, by blood and water. 

“You don’t belong to yourself,” Paul murmurs. “You belong to me.” 

As long as he wishes to live. Does he? 

Paul slips out a key and opens his restraints. They look at each other like two deathly creatures might look at each other in the wild. Understanding passes between them.

“What have you seen for the future?” Feyd-Rautha asks, lowering his gaze first.

“You know. You’ve dreamt it. A holy war.” Paul’s voice is hollow with the horror of prescience. 

“I was made for war.”

“Yes. I will use your life well.” The boy-prophet is so close again, a few wavy strands of hair have come loose and fallen over Paul’s forehead. Paul slides a hand over Feyd-Rautha’s shoulder. Hard breaths between them. 

“You show your hand, Atreides,” Feyd-Rautha says and crowds closer, but in this position Paul’s face is shadowed and dark and he seems not a man at all. Feyd-Rautha can feel Paul’s exhale on his cheek, but the boy seems no closer to him than his home is now. Cold creeps up Feyd-Rautha’s spine and he feels it again, the hunger, so nauseating he cannot but draw the Atreides near. If only he could pull the boy inside him and eat his soul. They look each other in the eye, and he gropes his hand to Paul’s side, where his blade has thrust into him. 

“I’m part of you,” Feyd-Rautha says and tilts his head. 

“We are blood,” Paul says and gets back up. He collects Feyd-Rautha’s shackles and stores them in his coat pocket, turns his back and seems to stare at the vegetation around them. No-one has ever turned their back on Feyd-Rautha as much as the Atreides. Such boldness, such lack of care. 

“What now, Atreides?”

Paul still does not turn.

“You will be given leave to move in the castle. With an escort.” Paul glances over his shoulder. “For your safety.”

Feyd-Rautha huffs a laugh. “Naturally.”

Paul does not smile. “You would do well to heed my Fremen. And any others, who might seek favour somewhere else through your death. House Corrino is full of spies.”

“Let them try,” Feyd-Rautha says. “Or let me weed them out.”

“No. We are using them.”

Feyd-Rautha rises too, slowly measures his steps approaching the Atreides as he would any enemy in the arena.

“You feed them false information.” 

Now Paul does smile. “Grandfather taught you well.”

With a shiver in his lungs, Feyd-Rautha stills behind the Atreides and gradually slides his hands around the boy’s waist. Paul allows it. He does not dare push himself against Paul’s back, only breathes in the scent of Paul’s slicked hair, cold and woody, perhaps some tincture from Caladan, a world he might never see, and grazes his lips over Paul’s neck, the ghost of a touch. All inside Feyd-Rautha wants to pull Paul against him, hear his heartbeat. Slowly, Paul turns around to him, eyes so blue and dark. Feyd-Rautha moves closer but Paul does not meet him and then Paul’s eyes veil. Paul stills in a way only dead things do, and looks through Feyd-Rautha with eyes reflecting a myriad of eyes. The face of terrible divinity shifts towards Feyd-Rautha.

“My name must be a death knell,” Paul says. 

Feyd-Rautha shivers and knows it true.

Paul blinks, but the coldness in his expression does not fade. 

“Come, cousin,” Paul says. 

And Feyd-Rautha follows.

Paul Atreides denies him an easy death. Feyd-Rautha has to deal with his new position.

tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content (in the later chapters), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, feyd-rauther is his usual little freak self, will include mentions of noncon later on

Read all under the cut:

Paul Atreides denies him an easy death. Feyd-Rautha does not bleed out in front of the emperor and the terrorist’s household, his Fremen filth and whore mother. Instead, Feyd-Rautha dreams of death on the dirty floor of a prison cell. 

Blood rusts over his mouth, dries to flakes before his body hits the stone, and Feyd-Rautha tongues at it as his hands try to staunch the bleeding of his wounds. He presses where Paul Muad’Dib Atreides has pushed inside him with his blade, hot from the desert air, a pleasure so close to pain or pain so close to pleasure, Feyd-Rautha cannot name the difference.

He writhes now where he lays in a silence more shameful than defeat. All his life he has fantasised of dying in battle, perhaps in the arena, broken by a stronger hand with the rush of fighting still hot in his blood and the screams of the masses in his ears. Triumphant. Foolish of him. Such wishes come to nothing. This is one lesson the Baron could not teach him, not while he had held Feyd-Rautha under the monstrous wing of his tutelage. Sheltered is what he had been, he realises as flies start to buzz around him, landing on his opened flesh. He swats them away, but they circle him as merciless as any blood-drinking desert bird. No, he rots as any piece of meat left under Arrakis’ pitiless sun.

But he will not die. Or have they thrown him into this cell to find an ignominious end and shame the house of Harkonnen? But what advantage would that bring? Half-delirious, Feyd-Rautha shoves a swath of his leather pteruges over his wounds and pulls it tight against his opened skin to shield it from the flies and what eggs they might burrow into his flesh. A shaky exhale flees his lips as he tries to slow his breathing. What would Uncle say if he saw him like this, disgraced and defeated? Would he have fallen from the favour he clawed his way into? Then again, Uncle is dead. Slaughtered like a pig. The memory stirs Feyd-Rautha’s blood and he moans through his teeth. 

The door opens. Feyd-Rautha looks at the upside-down figures, dark-robed, Suk-braids over their left shoulders, a man kneels down beside him, painted lips, cold eyes, and a finger presses into Feyd-Rautha’s mouth with a salve so bitter and tingling he forgets all else for a moment. 

Then darkness sears his eyes shut.

When next Feyd-Rautha wakes, it’s in an airy room. Black night outside. Translucent white curtains billow and desert wind scatters fine dust over the luxurious trappings of the room: a massive wooden table shining with polish, jewels set into silverware, finely wrought tapestries depicting one of the Arrakeen beasts, a sandworm— 

A figure moves from between the curtains, a slow, irregular step. The tall and lean silhouette of the would-be emperor. Feyd-Rautha feels for his wounds, bandaged, then tests his muscles and grits his teeth as pain shoots through him so incandescent he sees lights behind his lids.

“Cousin,” Paul Atreides says in his slow, dragging voice, a voice that holds witch-power as they all heard when Muad’Dib silenced Shaddam’s Truthsayer. 

Feyd-Rautha groans as he tries to sit up. 

Paul watches his efforts from above with cold blue-within-blue eyes. Eyes that are not his own, it seems, eyes that shimmer with a strangeness that makes Feyd-Rautha shiver. 

Paul slinks closer, desert-creature, false prophet, predator. Killer. Except, of course, Feyd-Rautha is alive and by his wish. Or has he died in that filthy cell?

“You recover well,” Paul says. “But I will need you to heal faster.”

Feyd-Rautha sits up with all his strength, feels one of the stab-wounds’ stitches rip. Blood blooms through the white bandages on his torso. Paul tuts. Then Paul is beside him and pushes him back down, efficient, his hands warm on Feyd-Rautha’s skin, black dusty curls brushing his cheek, and Feyd-Rautha breathes him in, spice and desert and a hint of the acrid stench of stillsuits, and beneath it something boyish and honied. Feyd-Rautha wants to sink his teeth into it, tear him apart. 

“Why?” Feyd-Rautha rasps. “Why didn’t you kill—”

“I don’t waste my resources,” Paul says. 

The Atreides lets go of him as though he’s handled some unruly hound. 

“Resources…?”

“Don’t play dumb, Harkonnen,” Paul says evenly, and after a moment’s hesitation he sits on the mattress beside Feyd-Rautha. The oddness of it strikes him, no-one has ever sat beside his sick-bed, certainly not Uncle, nor maid or doctor. He would have killed any who’d have tried. He looks for a weapon now. His eyes sink to the crysknife at Paul’s hip. Iron tang of blood in his mouth.

“Try it,” Paul says, steel in his voice that he’d already shown when confronting the emperor. Power too, the fierceness of a demigod. 

“I just might,” Feyd-Rautha says and finds Paul’s gaze, grins, “Make you kill me after all, cousin.” He bares his black teeth, “All this for nothing.” 

And Feyd-Rautha spits his blood into Paul’s face. Paul does not flinch. His blue-within-blue eyes seem to burn in the glint of the glowglobes. He’s beautiful like that, with his blood on his face, and it hits Feyd-Rautha unexpectedly. Time stills around them. Breath does not come easily as he inhales. 

“I rule you now,” Paul whispers, dips two fingers into the blood on his cheek and sucks it off his fingers, “Your water is mine.” 

A shiver runs down Feyd-Rautha’s spine, humiliation and with it the hook of desire low in his stomach. If Paul notices what it does to him, he does not show it. 

“What do you want of me?” Feyd-Rautha curls his fists in the bedding.

“You’ll know soon enough, Baron,” Paul says and stands. “Heal quickly.” 

With that, he leaves.

The rush of wind and sand fills the room. The grating of it, abrading all it touches. Feyd-Rautha bites his lip, breathes in deeply until all scent of the boy-prophet has gone and cold darkness envelops him whole. 

This planet holds nothing but strangers now. The only family Feyd-Rautha has left is Paul Atreides.