#bene transport

[zevvin]

struggling with college but also :) finally in college

[da-rulah]

Rituale Septem - Day 6: Greed

Pairing: (Swiss x Dewdrop x f!reader)

Summary: Terzo takes a step back from guiding you in the ritual, but he fails to tell you why. He sends his Ghouls to you instead - luckily for you, those Ghouls know just what you need to forget about Papa Emeritus III. If even just for a moment...

Rating: Mature, MDNI 18+

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Angst, threesome, fingering, oral (f receiving), squirting, p in v sex, double penetration, some m+m elements (potentially a sexual awakening...), double creampie, mind break, cum eating, multiple orgasms, overstimulation 

AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

A/N: Just popping here to say again, the Ghouls all have silver masks and are trainees under Terzo's reign for the time being. I don't know Terzo's Ghouls well enough to be able to write their characters. Thank you for understanding - Enjoy!🖤

Prev: Day 5 - Envy | Next: Day 7: Pride

October 30th 

What a fucking idiota. 

Terzo reprimanded himself as he stood in the doorway to his office. After a night of sleeplessness, tossing and turning with images of you screwing his half-brother or Satan-forbid, your tear-stained cheeks he’d missed when you watched him railing Christine in front of you, he was exhausted. It was karmic, and he knew that. He deserved it.  

He stared at the chairs in front of his desk, reliving the events of yesterday. He knew the mistakes he’d made, and he wasn’t sure how to make up for them. But Primo had been extremely useful and given him direction, at least for now. He would be taking a step back; you didn’t need him to complete your goal. 

“Good morning, Papa,” Christine greeted from behind him, somewhat hesitantly as if she knew of his fragile state of mind. Terzo jumped even at that, turning his head as if shaken from a dream.  

“Oh, uh... sì, buongiorno,” he dismissed her, stepping into his office and heading for his desk. Christine gingerly followed him in, standing between those damn chairs and the door.  

“Did, um... Did you talk to Sister ____?” she asked, worry in her tone.  

Terzo was instantly transported back to the moment he’d found you in Copia’s workshop, walking into... that. 

“Um... not exactly,” he sighed. Sister Christine rolled her eyes. 

“Papa, seriously? You can’t just hide with your tail between your legs, you should-” 

“She was a little busy,” he interrupted, sternly. “Don’t worry, Christine. I got what was coming to me.”  

Christine’s brows furrowed in confusion, her shoulders sagging in defeat. She saw the pained look on his face, how different he looked today. His face looked puffy with a lack of sleep, his paints thinly applied and not to the usual crisp standard. Even his hair wasn’t styled so neatly, parting in the middle and falling over his forehead. She wasn’t sure what had happened when he’d gone to find you yesterday, but she also knew she shouldn’t ask.  

“O-okay... Well, Sister Imperator left a note for you on my desk this morning,” Terzo didn’t hide the groan of disdain at the mention of Imperator, “I know, I know... She requires your assistance in setting up the Great Hall for the All Hallow’s Ball tomorrow. Apparently, your opinions on decorative party supplies are a necessity.”  

“Va bene, (Okay,) I’ll go soon. I just need to do something first... Would you leave me?” he asked.  

“Of course,” she nodded with a sympathetic smile, and left him to his own solitude.  

Terzo dug around his desk for his stationary set, pulling out a clean parchment and his expensive ink pen, and began to write...  

Sorella ______,  

I have every belief you can finish this on your own. You do not need my assistance, or my guidance. With just two sins left, I’m positive you can achieve what you wish for. 

Enjoy the Ball tomorrow evening.  

Papa Emeritus III 

He had hoped his belief in you would shine through his brief note. Apologies felt like an insult to your intelligence, and any kind of confession of feelings felt too distracting to your task at hand. This would have to do. 

He folded the parchment, sealing it with a fresh wax seal, and got up to leave, heading towards the Great Hall. He would hand the note to one of his Ghouls on his way and ask them to drop it off, leaving you to complete whichever of the two sins you chose today in peace, and without his interference. 

He owed you that much, he thought. 

The knock at your door that morning startled you, completely unexpected. A part of you, childishly, hoped that it was him... Maybe he’d come to apologise, giving you an opportunity to do the same. Hell, even if he showed up pretending nothing had happened and wanted to jump right back into the ritual, you’d let him. You just wished you’d see his face on the other side of that door; the rest you’d figure out.  

But you were sorely disappointed.  

Instead, Swiss and Dewdrop stood shoulder to shoulder, a piece of folded parchment in Swiss’ hand. 

“Good morning, Sister ______!” Swiss chirped, entirely too giddily for such an early call. Dewdrop remained as silent and stoic as ever. 

“Oh... Hi.” You sounded disappointed even to your own ears. Swiss’ signature smile dropped, and behind his mask his eyes squinted in suspicion.  

“Well... okay, then...” he shook it off, unsure if he should pry. “Got a thing for ya!” he held the parchment out to you, notably with the wax seal facing up and proudly displaying Papa’s crest indented into it. You stared at it for a beat too long, and Swiss shook it in front of your eyes, awakening you from your own analytical trance. You took it from him, stepping back into your apartment and dropping lazily with a huff onto your couch. Swiss invited himself in, sitting on the opposite end whilst Dew hovered in the doorway, shutting the door behind him.  

You popped the seal on the paper, unfolding it to see Papa’s handwriting in a short and frankly abrupt note. Your eyes skimmed it, reading and re-reading over and over, and getting visibly more annoyed with each read through. 

“I have every belief you can finish this on your own.” 

On your own.  

Was he fucking serious? He was just... abandoning you? No apologies, no explanations... he couldn’t even be bothered to show his fucking face today, getting his Ghouls to do his dirty work?  

“You fucking asshole...” you muttered, screwing the note up tightly in your fist and throwing it to the floor, slamming your back against the couch and folding your arms like a toddler in a tantrum.  

An awkward silence fell over the room, losing yourself in your own thoughts again. So, he was just going to leave you to perform pride and greed alone, with no guidance, not even a hint at what the hell you could possibly do for either one? He'd ruined it. He was spoiling the entire ritual, after you’d done everything you could to stay on task and with just two days left.  

Your mind worked itself into a dizzying array of possible scenarios you might be able to play out for the remaining sins, trying desperately to think of something, anything you could do today for either one. Nothing stuck, too complicated by the confusing mix of anger and disappointment in the pit of your stomach. 

You’d almost forgotten about the two Ghouls in your presence until Swiss spoke up. 

“Sister, are you alright? What did he do?” Swiss’ hand rested on your shoulder, bringing you back to reality.  

“He’s just... leaving me to it,” you spat. Swiss was even more confused.  

“To what?” he asked. “I don’t understand...” he looked up to Dew, who just shrugged with a shake of his head.  

And so, you explained. You told them of the ritual, of each sin you’d performed – conveniently leaving out of course the part where you were now harbouring some very confusing feelings about Papa Emeritus III – and what it was all for. To your surprise, Swiss and Dew listened along attentively, without judgement. Dew came to sit beside you on the armrest of the couch too, his attention on you and allowing you to vent. You’d half expected some clever quips to come from Swiss but no, they both just listened. 

“And now, for some reason, he’s just abandoned me and said ‘okay, ______, figure it out yourself’.” Of course, you had an idea what that reason was... clearly you’d pissed him off, but he’d started it when he dove dick first into your friend and laughed at you for having any kind of negative reaction!  

Reality set in, and tears welled in your eyes. You really were going to fumble this ritual, now. You wouldn’t get to hear the Dark One’s voice, you wouldn’t get the guidance you had been so desperate for and frankly, you were beginning to question once again your place in the Ministry. You may as well start packing your bags now... 

Swiss and Dew shared a look you missed; one of sympathy, like they both wanted to do something to console you. They didn’t want to see a sister lose her faith, particularly not one as kind to the Ghouls as you.  

“Well hey, maybe we can help think of something?” Swiss slapped Dew’s back from behind you to encourage him. He nodded vigorously, placing his hand on your other shoulder. “What sins do you have left?” 

“Pride and greed...” Your voice shook with unshed tears. “What the hell am I going to do?” 

Swiss thought for a moment, shuffling closer to you on the couch to wrap an arm around you and pull you to lay on his chest. He rubbed his hand up and down your arm while you burrowed your face into his neck, allowing yourself a moment to collect yourself, take some breaths.  

“Pride is a tough one, that’s about thinking of yourself before another, like being narcissistic or vain, but it can come down to something as simple as self-respect. How you embody that in sin, I don’t really know. I always thought it was a stupid one. What’s wrong with loving yourself, hm? Never got God’s problem with that. Think he just didn’t want people thinking they were better than him...” he scoffed. “Ironic that he made pride a sin when there’s never been a deity with a higher superiority complex.” 

You chuckled at that; he was right. But it wasn’t giving you much confidence in how to perform this... 

“But greed is easier. That’s about having an excessive, selfish desire to acquire something... Like power or money. Could be... pleasure...” he hesitated there, looking down at you through his mask. “I mean, you could... desire excessive pleasure?” he asked.  

You sat up, brain ticking over what he’d said. He was right again, of course. You could...  

“I think that, if you wanted to... we could help with that?” Swiss tested the waters, looking up at Dew who nodded slowly in agreement. “Only if you want us to, of course...”  

“You’d do that for me?” you asked, sitting up and looking between the two Ghouls. The idea of it far from horrified you. In fact, you had been a little disappointed after your encounter with Phantom that you were too exhausted to find out what Swiss and Dew could do for you. And let’s face it, you were running out of options and time. You had no doubt at all in their ability to enact this sin with you, and you trusted them enough to do so.  

“Sweetheart...” Swiss moved in closer, his lips hovering by your ear, tone deepening significantly, “Do you have any idea how disappointed we were when we realised our dear Phantom had exhausted you the other day?” 

Swiss’ breath was impossibly hot against your neck, spreading goosebumps over your skin where he moved your hair behind your shoulder with one finger. Dew slid onto the couch on your other side, trapping you between the two of them. He stayed silent as he always did, but his eyes sparkled with an interest that hadn’t been there a few moments ago.  

“I-I was disappointed... too...” you stuttered as you felt Swiss’ teeth nipping at your ear lobe, Dew’s hand coming to rest on your knee and drawing delicate patterns into your skin where the hem of your skirt couldn’t quite reach. This was moving fast, but frankly, you didn’t have time to hesitate – you'd only talk yourself out of it, and you didn’t want to do that. 

“We could... make you feel good, Sister...” Swiss teased, pressing his lips to the spot on your neck under your ear that sent a wave of arousal through your body. “Just say yes...” he whispered into your neck, drawing patterns with the tip of his nose while Dew’s fingertips travelled up your thigh.  

You had to admit, you were easily affected by the Ghouls and their small gestures of affection. At a time when affection was exactly what you needed, you weren’t all that concerned where you got it from. Clearly, it wouldn’t come from the one place you wish it would... And this served a purpose, didn’t it? A means to an end, if you will. Why deny yourself the pleasure? Why deny yourself all the work you’d already put in?  

“Fuck it...” you breathed, rolling your head back as Dew attached his lips to the other side of your neck, suckling softly at the skin where previous bruises had yellowed.  

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we intend to...” Swiss promised, a new fervour in the way he kissed your neck, his hand coming to grip your waist where Dew was pressed against you.  

You were surrounded by them both, their hands wandering, their mouths working you to a heightened state of arousal. Dew’s hand began to squeeze at your inner thigh under your skirt, his nails scratching the skin and coaxing your thighs apart for him.  

You turned your head to face Dew, his eyes hooded and hazy behind the glint of his silver mask. You could see him biting his lip, searching your face for any protests while his hands squeezed and scratched higher and higher up the inside of your thigh but he found nothing. Instead, with a particular sharp scratch to the skin you found yourself whining and latching your lips to his, pulling him to you by his uniform. Dew groaned, shoving his palm against your clothed mound for you to rut yourself again.  

Swiss chuckled against your neck, sinking his teeth into the flesh just enough to cause a sharpness, never enough to burst the skin. You weren’t sure you’d mind if he did at this point, but instead he laved his tongue over the spot, gripping at your waist even tighter and grinding his crotch into your hipbone.  

If anyone had seen the three of you right now, they’d accuse you of being horny teenagers, dry humping and making out unrestricted and messy. Truth be told you allowed yourself to lose control, trusting that the two Ghouls entrapping you would take care of you.  

Dew’s hand pressed so tightly against your heat, pressing your panties into you and dampening them on your arousal. You ground your hips as you kissed him, tongues dancing together whilst shockwaves pulsed through your clit. Your whimpers were swallowed by Dew’s mouth, earning a low growl from deep within his chest. 

Swiss’ cock had hardened in his pants, still grinding into your hip from the angle he was sat beside you. He’d curled himself around you in a way that allowed him access still to your neck, stretched to accommodate Dew on the other side. He purred into your neck, his instincts taking over.  

“Sister, tell us what you want...” he pleaded, reaching to grope at your breast through your habit. You parted from Dew and turned your head to him.  

“Make me feel good... Until I beg you to stop,” you grinned wildly, grabbing him by his waistcoat and crashing your lips to his. Dew watched hungrily, his hand becoming more calculated and switching to his fingers circling your clit over your panties. Your body writhed where you sat, overwhelmed with the feeling of hands everywhere, pleasure tingling through every nerve.  

As your tongue swirled with Swiss’, he unbuttoned your habit, reaching underneath to push his hand under the cup of your bra – another matching piece that Dew was marvelling now he could see your panties under his hand. Swiss broke your kiss, getting a good look at your body now exposed to him. 

“Such a pretty set, sweetheart,” he practically sang, ogling the deep green embroidery of the set you’d put on today, still dressing up for whoever had been lucky enough to see them today. “You put this on for your Papa?” he teased.  

Now, logically you knew Swiss meant no harm with that question. He wasn’t teasing maliciously.  

And yet, somewhat illogically, the mere mention of his name was enough to rouse an anger in you that had you slapping your hand over his lips and holding him still in front of you.  

“Don’t fucking mention him. Just give me what I want, Swiss,” you demanded, resigning to your greed already. You pushed him with all your might, ignoring Dew for the moment and forcing Swiss onto his back. His eyes sparkled behind his mask with mischief, hands reaching for your bare thighs as you straddled him and ripped your unbuttoned habit from your arms, throwing it to the floor. 

Dew quickly moved with you, sitting himself between Swiss’ ankles and shuffling until his chest met your back. His hands gripped your hips and sat you down on Swiss’ bulge, controlling the way you ground your pussy against him. For all of his silence, Dew’s actions spoke volumes. He guided you as you rutted against Swiss, taking your pleasure while he nipped into your bare shoulder.  

With a rhythm created, Dew could focus his hands on your body, removing your bra and pinching at your pebbled nipples. Swiss groaned beneath you, the sight of you mixed with the grind on his cock an intoxicating cocktail.  

“Dew... Dew, get these off her, man,” he pants, pinging at the waistband of your panties. Dew complied, dropping his hands to them and ripping without hesitation, tearing into the material and flinging it elsewhere. “Hope you didn’t like them too much, sweetheart,” Swiss smirked, undoing the zipper of his trousers between you and hissing when you rubbed your folds over his knuckles as he did.  

As Swiss began to undress himself, Dew took it upon himself to make sure you weren’t going a second without stimulation. From behind you, he slid his hands under you, pushing his fingers forwards through your soaked folds until his fingertips circled your clit. Your back arched at the sensation, reaching behind you and around the back of his neck to pull his chest against you. He alternated between dragging his fingers through your slick folds and circling your clit over and over whilst you dug your nails into the back of his head, pulling his lips down to yours to muffle your moans in a desperate kiss.  

Beneath you, Swiss managed to remove his waistcoat and shirt and push his pants down enough to release his length. He stroked himself as he watched the display above him, seeing you get closer and closer to your first orgasm. He began to talk you through it, coaxing you more and more while Dew’s fingers took on a mind of their own.  

“Feels good, huh, baby?” he laughed after a particularly lavish moan escaped your lips and your hips bucked against Dew’s fingers. “Push ‘em inside, Dew. Let her feel you,” he encouraged. Dew did just that, slipping two fingers inside your heat from behind you. You cursed into his mouth, clenching around the intrusion that felt so fucking welcome you almost toppled over the edge just at that.  

Dew growled, curling his fingers as he fucked them in and out of you. The coil inside you was tightening impossibly fast, and within a minute you knew you were set to burst. 

“Are you gonna cum on his fingers, sweetheart? Come on... Give us one,” Swiss cheered you on, stroking himself and using his free hand to cup your breast, pinching your nipple to punctuate his words. When you bucked and writhed, orgasm finally hitting you he praised you, “There we go, hm? Good girl... Cum on his fingers baby, that’s it...” 

You whined and clenched on Dew, biting down on his bottom lip and he fucked his hand into you to get you through it. When the pleasure ebbed away, you leaned back against him, turning your head to look down at Swiss who was smirking, slowly stroking at his now leaking cock. Now able to see his chest, you realised just how built he was underneath his shirt and waistcoat. A thin layer of chest hair contoured his chest and abdomen, right down to where he was touching himself; it drove you wild. 

“Good?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.  

“Mhm. Want more,” you grinned, bending at the waist to hover over him, your hand swatted his away as you leaned.  

“More?” he teased, “Greedy little girl...” You giggled, beginning to stroke him and pushing your lips to his to silence him. Behind you, Dew was busy taking in the view as he sucked on the fingers he’d dove inside you, cleaning himself off. From where you bent over Swiss, he had the perfect view of your rounded and still bruised ass and your exposed, glistening cunt. Tasting you on his fingers ignited something inside him, growling as he licked every last drop.  

Swiss noticed his friend’s eyes trained on your core, hearing his growls and broke your kiss to nod in his direction and show you what you’d caused. You followed his gaze and watched the man who was hypnotised by your taste... 

“I think he likes you,” Swiss flirted, “why don’t you let him have a taste, sweetheart? I’m sure he can give you another with his tongue...” A deeper, louder growl came from Dew’s throat. “See?” 

Looking behind you, you saw Dew’s gaze had fallen on yours as if waiting for permission... “Don’t stop until I’m cumming, Dew,” you demanded, wiggling your hips in front of him.  

Like a man possessed, Dew shuffled back on the couch and bent down, shoving his masked face into your ass and laving his tongue over your core. You fell forward at the force, slamming to Swiss’ chest where he held you tightly against him. Laying against him you could do nothing to pump his length in your hand, but Swiss didn’t mind. Plenty of time for that later... For now, he was enjoying the look on your face as Dew dove into your pussy, sucking and licking and nipping at your clit.  

“Fuck, Dew... So good...” you whined; Dew’s grip on your ass tightened, his nails burning into the bruises still littering your skin. By now the pain of the bruises didn’t bother you so much, only heightening the depravity you found yourself in. Your mind wondered over the last few days, how you’d been used and fucked every single day in the filthiest ways. You’d tried things you never had before, surprised yourself with new kinks and confidence and allowed yourself the freedom to sleep with whoever aroused you at the time. You’d never felt so empowered... 

The memories served to drive you mad with arousal, wanting nothing more than to cum again on Dew’s tongue. Once again, you found yourself close to an end, rutting your hips against his chin. The movement of your hips created short, small ripple-effect moments through your body that were enough to give Swiss a little bit of friction, cock still wrapped up in your hand. He hummed in delight, pressing his lips to yours in a messy kiss.  

“How does she taste, Dew?” he called down to his friend, knowing full well he wouldn’t asnwer with words. Dew growled again, lost in his own greed. He needed more of you, all of you. Your taste was sending him on a straight road to insanity. “Good, it seems...” he smiled sadistically.  

Dew was becoming feral behind you as you rutted against his chin. His tongue dove into you, the nose of his mask adding to your pleasure and winding your coil back up once again until you lost it... You cried out against Swiss’ chest, your hand squeezing his length between the two of you earning a hiss and groan of pleasure. You felt your pussy convulsing, a wave of fresh arousal briefly squirting from you to land on Dew’s tongue as he slurped and drank everything you gave him. 

Dew delivered a spank to your ass as he sat up, licking his lips and wiping his chin of your mess.  

“Unholy fuck, did you squirt on him?” Swiss asked, amazed as you lay on him, catching your breath. You just giggled in response, words failing you. “Shit, I wanna make you do that...” 

“Then... you’ll... need to fuck me, first...” you taunted between breaths.  

“You got it, sweetheart,” he kissed you again, reaching between you both to take his cock from you, only to line it up with your entrance and slowly, begin to push inside you.  

Dew watched on from behind you, slowly undressing himself as he watched Swiss’ cock sink further and further into you. He was surprised at himself, so turned on watching another man sink into where he had just been burying his tongue and fingers. He thought he might feel possessive, jealous even, but he wanted nothing more than to see you fall apart on his friend. He was enjoying this...  

When Swiss bottomed out, he couldn’t help but whimper at the feeling. You felt so warm, so wet around him. Thanks to Dew’s work, you had been able to quickly accommodate him, slick enough to take him without any issues. You sat up, pressing your palms to his chest and rolling your hips against him. Immediately, pleasure returned and that spot inside you fluttered when he grazed it. You needed him, you needed more. Always more, more, more...  

Swiss’s hips met yours, rolling against you over and over. He watched where the two of you connected, seeing his cock disappearing over and over, glistening with your juices. In the space between your thighs and his cock, he could vaguely make out Dew behind you, now completely nude and stroking himself in time with his thrusts.  

“Fuck...” Swiss breathed, turned on at the sight. “Hey, hey baby...” he tapped at your cheek, getting you to open your eyes you’d closed in bliss and look down at him, “Think Dew needs a hand...”  

You looked behind you, seeing Dew completely nude save for his mask, and fucking into his fist much like Copia had been at your feet yesterday. And you got an idea...  

“This isn’t fair...” you whined, slapping a hand down against Swiss’ chest in protest. You stopped moving your hips but he continued for the both of you, refusing to stop. 

“W-what?” he asked.  

“Want more... Want you both,” you whimpered, reaching behind you to stroke at Dew’s cock. He shivered at the contact, and the thought of being buried in you like Swiss was. He wanted you too... 

“B-both of us? Like...” Swiss stuttered, now stilling his hips reluctantly.  

“Inside me, together. Fuck, I need it... Please?” you begged, looking between them both. The Ghouls looked past you and at each other, seeming to have a silent conversation while you waited impatiently. The thought of having both of them inside you; it both scared and excited you. Were you sure you could take them both? Would it hurt? Maybe they wouldn’t be comfortable with it? 

“Dew, if you’re not comfortable man, I get it...” Swiss reasoned; in his mind, he was more than happy to oblige. His cock even twitched at the thought, which came as a surprise to him. He’d never been in such close proximity to another man sexually but he wasn’t opposed to the idea in the slightest.  

Dew gave Swiss a look, paired with a slight twist of his head and started to slowly, once again, stroke himself; confirming that the idea was enough to interest him. 

“Shit, okay... okay, yeah. You think you can take us, baby?” Swiss’ attention came back onto you.  

“With the right prep,” you smirked, looking back at Dew. “Will you help, Dew?”  

He nodded in understanding, his hand sliding between your ass cheeks and further down, until his fingertips met where you sat impaled on Swiss’ cock. Swiss watched intently, his body twitching when Dew’s fingertips came into contact with his shaft. Slowly, Dew pushed in one finger as Swiss pushed himself in too, using the movement to aid the stretch of added girth. You saw fucking stars...  

“Sathanas...” you squealed, and the two stilled in panic. “No, no... don’t stop. It’s good... so fucking good,” you reassured, and the two men continued... In and out, over and over while you got slicker, messier for both of them like your body knew what was coming and wanted nothing more than to get you there. 

Before long, Dew attempted to push another digit in, and slowly but surely, he managed to do the same. Your body was accommodating them both nicely, nothing too rushed, still just slow and gentle. The look on Swiss’ face was a picture, screwed up in his attempts to remain focussed, to not burst into a fit of rutting as hard and fast as he possibly could with how good it felt to be sheathed inside you and have Dew’s fingers pressed against him. 

When you were ready, Dew added a third finger, stretching you to a point you most certainly never had before. His wrist ached at the angle, and so he pushed gently on your shoulder until you leaned over, hovering above Swiss and giving him much better access. The new position somehow made it easier on you too, spreading your legs further to accommodate both intrusions.  

“I... I think I’m ready,” you said once Dew and Swiss had made sure to slowly push inside as deep as possible while you shivered and spasmed at the feeling. “Please, Dew...” 

“He’s coming baby, just a little longer, okay? Wanna be sure...” Swiss reassured, peppering kisses to your neck where he lay. You nodded, letting them work you open a little longer, your slick gathering between them both and creating an easier glide as the seconds passed. Eventually, they were satisfied you were prepared. 

Dew looked over your shoulder to Swiss, checking in one final time that he was still okay with this. Swiss just smirked back at him, uttering a “Go ahead, Dew.” 

To make the initial entry easier on you, Swiss pulled himself out when Dew’s fingers left you. Dew used that same hand to coat himself in arousal, and finally, the two of them lined up beside each other, their tips just barely grazing and yet... Both of them gasped at the touch. The sound didn’t escape you; and by the look on Swiss’ face, it was certainly a pleasant experience. 

Slowly, the two of them pressed into you, sliding gently to fill you together. Dew’s hands gripped your hips, nails digging into the flesh while Swiss squeezed at your thighs, both having to restrain themselves. For you, the feeling of being stretched and filled to your limits was so damn good, you moaned so wantonly that it vibrated through your body and reached them both, tormenting them until eventually they bottomed out together.  

“Shit, Dew... You good, man?” Swiss cried, unable to tear his eyes away from where both their cocks pressed tightly against each other inside you. He missed Dew’s frantic nodding, but at the lack of protest he knew he was safe to continue.  

They began to build a leisurely pace, moving together in sync and dragging themselves over your g-spot in unison. All you could do was grip onto Swiss’ biceps for dear life, and try not to fall apart where you knelt. You’d never been pushed to this limit before, never taken so much at once but with their careful preparation they had managed to make it as easy as possible for you.  

“More... Please, want more,” you hummed, desperate for a faster pace, something rougher and more punishing. You wanted another fucking orgasm... Sure enough, greed had overtaken you.  

“Greedy girl,” Swiss growled, beginning to rock a little faster, mismatching his pace with Dew. Dew tried to keep up, but fell a little behind in rhythm. Surprisingly, that felt better than them both being in sync... Now, they were both hitting your g-spot, one after the other, in a similar rhythm to a heartbeat.  

You were crying out to both of them, expletives and wild moans between mutterings of their names filling the air around you to a backdrop of slick and sloppy noises as both men fucked into you, harder and harder... Dew couldn’t help his own moans, surrounded by you and Swiss at the same time, a whole new feeling he’d never experienced but unholy shit it felt incredible. He didn’t know another cock against his own could feel like this, never knew how much he’d love this.  

Swiss was thinking much the same, enjoying the drag of Dew’s hardness against his own. Both Ghouls were losing their minds inside you. Swiss released his grip on your thighs in search of Dew’s instead, pulling him closer, needing more of him in some form... Dew dropped one of his hands then, able to hold onto both him and you as the two kept pounding into you. 

“D-Dew... Oh, shit, why does this feel – ahhh – so good?” Swiss cried, throwing his head back into the couch. Dew roared behind you, curling his body to press against your back and sandwiching you between the sweaty bodies either side of you. You moved a little to the side, to give them room to get closer to each other, something you could sense they definitely needed while they rutted into you with reckless abandon.  

“C-can I kiss you, Dew? Fuck man, I don’t know, need more...” he pleaded through grit teeth. Dew pushed himself harder against you both and met Swiss in a bruising kiss neither man had seen coming when this all began. But it felt right, it felt good.  

Your head lay on Swiss’ chest, watching the two of them making out as their cocks filled and stretched you. It was all so much, a kind of bliss you’d never encountered. You could feel your end coming quickly, tearing through you as they resigned themselves to the mercy of the other. You gave them no warning, unable to fathom a sentence when a third burst of pleasure soared through your body.  

If Swiss wanted you to squirt for him, he’d certainly got his wish. You gushed on the pair of them, violently shaking at the force of your orgasm. The two of them broke their kiss and Swiss lost his mind, feeling your cunt flooding him.  

“Fucking hell, I gotta cum... I can’t hold this anymore. Dew, do you mind? Can I cum inside her?” You heard him babble as your brain clouded, coming down slowly while you convulsed and spasmed. You absolutely didn’t mind if he did, but would Dew? He was still buried in you too, after all...  

But Dew chuckled breathlessly and tightened his grip on Swiss’ hand, leaning in to kiss him again. He kept his pace up; a sure-fire way of making sure Swiss came inside you, and in turn, on him.  

It didn’t take him long once he got confirmation, stilling deep inside you, pressed against your cervix as his cum spilled from his cock and coated not only your walls, but Dew’s shaft too. He jumped and pulsed, desperate howls lost to Dew’s kiss. Dew kept going, slower than before but still rutting against Swiss and sending ripples of a dull buzz through you while it served to prolong Swiss’s end.  

Spent and exhausted, Swiss lay back, letting his limbs drop to the couch for a moment before he curled them around you, holding you to him still inside you. He wouldn’t remove himself yet, not while Dew was still plunging into you. He felt his spend dripping down his own length and gathering at the base of both his and Dew’s cocks and pictured what that would look like, smiling to himself dumbly as he enjoyed the overstimulation.  

Behind you, Dew had sat back up on his knees to get a better look and yes, Swiss had been right. Where Dew still rocked into you, Swiss’ spend was leaking and mixing with your own. It was the filthiest thing Dew had ever seen, and it shoved him violently into an orgasm of his own, stilling deep inside you like Swiss just had with a strangled roar. 

“Fuck, fill her up, Dew...” Swiss encouraged him, talking him through his orgasm as if speaking words that Dew couldn’t. “She needs you, Dew. Fill. Her. Up.” He spat through grit teeth, while Dew’s cock slid against his own and pushed him into oversensitivity. Dew did as he was told, emptying his load into you.  

The three of you lay atop each other, spent and exhausted. Neither Ghoul made a move to pull out of you just yet, regaining some strength and regulating their heart rates before they could even think of moving. So, you lay squashed between the two, blissfully floating in euphoria.  

“Well, uh... Satan be damned, that was... different,” Swiss laughed, still partially breathless.  

“Felt so good, guys... You’ve no idea,” you hummed, affectionately reaching behind you to pat at Dew’s hand on top of Swiss’.  

“For us too, sweetheart. Can’t believe you’re a squirter...” You swatted his chest weakly with a dumb smile, earning a chuckle from Dew. “Just wish I coulda tasted that... Dew seemed to enjoy you,” he sighed. He had hoped to taste you at some point, but things had moved in a different direction before he could and he was happy to just go with the flow, give you what you wanted.  

And then, he got an idea.  

“Hey, sweetheart?” he asked timidly. You raised your head from his chest with a quiet “hmm?”, waiting for whatever he wanted to ask. “Is that the most orgasms you’ve had in one sitting?” he asked, curiously.  

“Well, I’ve had three in one before but yes, never more than three. Gets kinda sensitive...” you laughed, settling back on his chest, content to lay there in peace with Dew. 

“Well... the first two were mostly just Dew. I never got to give you one of my own,” he pouted. “You think you could take one more?”  

Your head popped back up, looking into Swiss’ eyes and thinking over his proposition. You certainly did feel sensitive, but the idea intrigued you. Could you take another? You weren’t sure, but you’d be willing to let him try...  

“Um... maybe?” you questioned. Swiss smirked. 

“Hey Dew, would it be... just terrible... if I made sure our darling Sister of Sin was sufficiently cleaned up? I think we’ve made a mess...” he chewed on his lip, waiting for an indication from the silent Ghoul behind you.  

Dew sat up then, removing himself from you and taking a look at the mess the three of you had indeed made. He checked back in with Swiss, nodding. 

“Ah, so we did make a mess. Well, sweetheart, I'd like to offer my cleaning services,” he smirked cheekily.  

“I think that’s only fair...” you quipped.  

Swiss sat up, still holding you to him but transferring your weight back onto the couch cushion as he carefully removed himself from you too. You did your best to contract your walls, holding whatever you could inside you for the moment. Now, you sat upright, legs hanging over the edge of the couch and slouched lazily against Dew’s bare chest beside you. Swiss stood up, removing the pants that still clung to his legs by his knees, and then took up a position between your thighs, hooking your legs over his shoulders.  

He looked down at your core, and could see the mess they’d made; covered in slick, cum and puffed up from the relentless pounding. You looked delectable.  

Swiss dove in, gently at first, with his tongue lapping around your core instead of directly centre. You still writhed at the pleasure of it, enjoying the feeling as he tasted the mixture of the three of you on his tongue. Beside you, you felt Dew’s chest tense, his eyes intently trained on Swiss’ disappearing tongue. This was turning him on again, and he was yet to soften from the sex itself... With a little fuel left in the tank, he began to stoke his length, hissing at the sensitivity. 

As Swiss’ tongue dragged over your clit for the first time, you naturally clenched, a small amount of the cum you held inside you slipping out. Swiss dove in to catch it on his tongue, careful to make sure Dew saw it sat there before he swallowed it down. He’d never done anything like this before and part of him worried Dew would find it disgusting, to eat both his and Dew’s cum from you but now Dew’s hand moved quicker, he knew it was having the opposite effect.  

He hummed in satisfaction at the taste, continuing to assault your clit with his tongue and every so often having to clean up another small amount you’d involuntarily released when things got too sensitive. Dew kept stroking himself, his hips jumping if he spent too long on his sensitive tip. You wanted badly to help him, but there was no strength to lift your arms by your sides.  

Vaguely, the pleasure began to stack up again... you were no longer unsure if you could reach a fourth orgasm; you knew you could. Swiss would just need to be gentle – and somehow, he understood that.  

“Dew, I can’t lie, man... we taste good together,” he teased, watching as Dew bit his lip. “You wanna try?” he snickered. Dew nodded emphatically.  

Swiss brought his fingers up to your centre, pushing them easily inside given you’d not long had two decent sized cocks inside you, and gathered the rest of what you were keeping on them. Then he raised them to Dew’s lips, who bent to meet him halfway, and sucked the mess off them.  

Swiss held his fingers up for him as he dove back into your core, now focussing his attention solely on your clit. You whined tiredly at the sensitivity, but shit, you were close again after watching the display beside you. Dew’s hand sped significantly, making sure he sucked every last drop of cum from Swiss’ fingers. He groaned as a second orgasm came closer; he had wanted to wait for your last orgasm to cum with you, but that was looking unlikely now. He just needed a release again. 

He fell back against the couch as his cock spurted another load, clearer this time and far less than he’d emptied into you, but it felt good enough that he rolled his eyes back and had to drop his hand from the overstimulation while his hips bucked out of control.  

Swiss giggled into your core, suckling at your clit a little harder and enjoying the noises you were making. You barely recognised yourself, squealing so highly in overstimulation as your body went stiff, letting his tongue work you over and over until finally, you crashed for one last time.  

Dew caught you as your body slid to the side and into his chest, holding you and shushing you as you hiccupped in a much quieter orgasm than before, too spent and broken for anything too powerful. Your thighs pushed Swiss’ head away as they came together, shielding you from any more overstimulation. He sat back on his heels, pleased with his work as he licked the remnants of you, himself and Dew from his chin. Quietly, you came down again in Dew’s arms, your body jolting with short little bursts of electricity until you finally stilled.  

Four orgasms had taken its toll on you, and whilst the last of them hadn’t been as earth shattering as the first three, it still left you exhausted and weak. Swiss and Dew could see it in you, and allowed you to curl up into them for a while so you could relax, rest up, and get the aftercare you needed from them both. 

The Ghouls spent the rest of the day with you, having cleaned you up – properly, this time. With an actual shower... – and taken good care of you. Swiss had made you some food, something healthier for the three of you than the junk he’d thrown together last time, and the pair of them just stayed put all day, mostly in a relaxing silence as you watched whatever was on the TV.  

You appreciated that – your head was too busy for conversation, exhausted but still hurting. But there were no expectations to play hostess to the guests in your apartment, nor to divulge the mess of emotions in your mind. If you wanted to talk to them about it all, you would. They felt that.  

But you remained in your own head. You thought over the events of yesterday, of the whole week. You re-read Papa’s note in your mind over and over. You stewed over the thought of him caring for you much less than you’d thought, if his display in his office yesterday was anything to go by...  

It all hurt.  

It wasn’t until Dew wiped a tear from your cheek that you even knew you’d been crying. He gave you a look; one that asked what was wrong without having said the words. You weren’t sure why Dew was a mute Ghoul, but you were glad that it never seemed to be a problem for him. People understood what he was thinking quite easily; most of the time it was ‘what the fuck are you looking at?’ but they understood him all the same... He wasn’t a people person, but you were kind to him; a friend. And so, he cared when he saw you silently crying beside him.  

“N-nothing, Dew. I’m good,” you lied. Your voice caught Swiss’ attention then, who also saw the tears.  

“You can tell us, ______. I’m not gonna tell anyone and, well... neither’s Abu over here,” he joked, slapping Dew’s shoulder as he compared him to the silent, grunting monkey from Aladdin. Dew slapped him back on the back of the head. That earned him a smile from you; goal achieved.  

“I just... Have you ever thought of someone in a certain way, and then... they’ve proved you wrong?” you asked them. 

“Well, I thought Dew was straight. Think he proved me wrong today,” he laughed. You did too, appreciating that he was trying to make you smile when you needed it. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?” 

You shook your head no, smile slipping away. 

“You’re talking about Papa.” 

You nodded.  

“I suppose he just... maybe I got too wrapped up in all this,” you sighed, wiping another fresh tear away. Dew’s arm tightened around your shoulders. “Probably should have known that ‘the great Papa Emeritus the Third’ wouldn’t see me as anything more than a notch on his bedpost. Feel stupid now, thinking I’d actually started feeling something for him...” you laughed, no humour behind it at all.  

“Don’t shoo your feelings away just because he’s devoid of them. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, they’re no less real just because he doesn’t reciprocate. Feelings can be dealt with, Sister,” he assured. Strangely, his words felt quite affirming.  

“I just thought he cared...” your voice cracked with more tears, a lump in your throat forming you forced to swallow.  

“You’re part of his congregation, so I think he does care. But... maybe not exactly how you’d hoped, no...” Swiss took your hand and squeezed it. “Listen, you have one more day. One more sin to complete, and then you can figure out with the Dark One what your next steps are. Ask him about Papa, if you need to. I don’t know if it’s a ‘you only get three questions’ kind of situation, but I’m sure he can help. At the very least, I'm sure he can give you a purpose that will take your mind off Papa entirely.”  

You hummed in agreement. Just one more day. How you’d achieve what you needed in that one day, you weren’t sure, but you had the willpower and the tenacity to find something.  

“Big day for you tomorrow. Final sin, the All Hallow’s Ball, a date with Lucifer...” he smirked, winking down at you.  

“Oh, shit... the ball. I forgot about that,” you sighed.  

“Something wrong?” he asked.  

“Just... gotta see Papa,” and Christine, too... awkward. “I think I’d rather not.” Swiss nodded in understanding.  

“Non-negotiable though, isn’t it?” he asked, and you nodded back, “Don’t worry, Dew and I will be there. You can dance with us.” 

“Sure, I’d like that,” you smiled between them both.  

Whilst Swiss’ little pep-talk hadn’t exactly exterminated the sadness that welled up in you now that you’d admitted your feelings towards Papa weren’t strictly platonic, he had at least eased some of the anxiety in your mind about what to do with them.  

Feelings could be dealt with; that was his most important advice, yet. No matter how long it might take, they could be dealt with. You could get through that, and Papa essentially cutting you off here was probably for the best. At least you didn’t have to worry about more nights with him, and those feelings growing exponentially harder to ignore. What you needed to focus on right now, was completing this ritual.  

One more day. One more sin.  

And a date with Lucifer. 

Prev: Day 5 - Envy | Next: Day 7: Pride

A/N: And so, one more sin, and potentially only one more chapter... I'm working on writing it today - there's SO MUCH to put into it, so please bear with me. I may have to upload it in two halves if I can't finish it in time for tomorrow (I've been so busy with work, and Ghostcon over the weekend too!)

A huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading, and @adinferix for fine tuning the Italian translations! 🖤

Tag list:

@call-me-little-sunshine84 @thew0man @zombiesnips-blog @ghuleh-recs @popiaswife @anamelessfool @enchantedbunny @haelithra @aslutforgreyhair @togetherasone @lilylovesdew @copias-sewer-rat @copiaspet622 @deetz-ghuleh @loudwombatmugkid @nimbusghoul @portaltothevoid @angellayercake @sodoswitchimage @siouxbauhaus @lydz1977-blog @bitchywitchygardener @sacrificialsake @the-did-i-ask @ghostfangirlsweden @the-hole-in-terzos-shoe @copiasprincipessa @gothicwonderlust @ladymer @ghulehunknown @onlyhereforghost @solluna00 @nijiru

[my-heart-beat-for-anime]

The true peace (Feyd-rautha x reader x Paul Atreides)

In a spacious, dark room, two hostile families stood facing each other. The characters pierced each other with looks, and if looks could kill, it would look like after a bloody battle. Suddenly the door opened and several Bene Gesserit sisters entered, led by the Reverend Mother . The head woman stood between the two families and began to lecture in a slow, wise voice.,, I summoned you here because I visited both of your heirs recently and they both had a very disturbing vision.” “It is the vision with the girl who has a blue arrow on the head." the young Atreides heir asked with interest in his voice. On the other side, a young man with whitish skin tensed.,, What does this mean Reverend Mother." Lady Jessica spoke with concern in her voice.,, One of our sisters recently had a prophecy that the long lineage feuds would be healed by a girl from another world with an arrow on the forehead, with peace in the heart and with abilities that none of us have known.",, What's the catch, knowing all this, why this meeting, you witches have the opportunity to seek out this woman and then deliver her to whomever you like most fits." Baron Harkonnen snorted disrespectfully.,, The catch is that she is not in our world," replied the older woman.,, So what are you going to do." Duke Leto asked this time. "We found an ancient ritual that should transport them to the world where the girl is, tonight both of them will be sent to that world without delay." Angry screams from both immediately rang out in the room.,,You mad woman, do you expect me to send my heir to another world." the baron angrily retorted.,,I never thought I would agree with Harkonnen, but what you are asking is too much." agreed the duke.,, The problem is that I'm not asking this is important to the creation of the Kwisatz Haderach." Reverend Mother said coldly. But before anyone could object anything else, suprising words came from both young lords.,, I want to go." Everyone in the room shuddered at the determination in their voices. Although the families of both men continued to try to raise objections, no one could change their decision. A final farewell was said and then the two men made their way into the circle the bene gesserit sisters had formed.,, Just wait little lord as soon as we are out of this room my blade will meet your back." Feyd-rauth taunted. "You must not do that at any cost young lord, the prophecy may not be fulfilled if you do not reach that girl together." the Reverend Mother scolded the young man. Feyd-rautha just smirked and nodded, but continued to watch Paul as if he were his prey. Meanwhile, the circle of women began to sing an old song, the words of which only they understood. With those last words, a light appeared in the room, completely engulfing the two heirs. When they both managed to look around, they saw only snow and ice around them. The frost engulfed them all, completely paralyzing them. Suddenly, a woman's voice came from behind them, "Who are you and what are you doing in the White Lotus fortress."

já Doufám, že se vám bude líbit, pokud budete chtít žádost nebo nějaké informace, napište je.

[novaursa]

Of Gods and Men (contact)

This is Dune/GOT/HOTD/FAB/ASOIAF crossover AU that you've voted for. If you always wanted to see House Targaryen in space, I got you. Please note how some of the lore of both universes is bent to blend in both worlds. This is my original idea that I've been cooking for at least two years. Be gentle with my work, and enjoy the ride.

- Summary: House Targaryen survives their ancient exile after being overthrown by House Corrino and the Bene Gesserit. Fleeing to the unknown planet Albiron, the Targaryens build a hidden civilization powered by drakaon crystals, reviving their dragons and creating advanced technology. Millennia later, whispers of their survival begin to surface as the Bene Gesserit confront a mysterious Red Woman on Arrakis, who warns of a coming Prince That Was Promised destined to challenge their control. The Targaryens secretly prepare to return, ready to reclaim their legacy.

- Paring: reader!Daenys Targaryen/Leto Atredies

- Note: For more details about House Targaryen and their technology, please check out the masterlist.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: exodus

- Next part: daenys

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: The reader will have much more larger role in the next part as plot is established better.

The transport starship of House Vex shuddered as it emerged from the shimmering folds of space, settling into the cold, dark void at the exact coordinates it always did. This part of the unknown universe was rarely traveled, its stars dim and uncharted, hidden far beyond the grasp of the Imperium’s prying eyes. The black and sleek ship, known as Vassel's Edge, gleamed under the faint light of distant stars, its wing-like solar collectors retracted as it prepared for its next stage of the journey.

Captain Harl Vex, a stout man with sharp green eyes and a graying beard, stood at the helm, his fingers tapping methodically on the command console as he surveyed the coordinates. This route was familiar to him, yet today something felt different. His ship was not carrying its usual crew; today, several guests from House Ix were aboard, their curiosity piqued by the mysterious buyer House Vex delivered to.

Harl glanced over his shoulder to where the members of House Ix were seated—three of them, watching the starfield with a mix of intrigue and impatience. The leader of the group was Serus Ix, a tall, thin man with cold blue eyes and a keen intellect that had earned him a reputation as one of the finest minds in his House. Beside him sat Xyla Ix, his younger sister, who shared her brother’s sharp features but had a more cautious demeanor. Lastly, there was Daric Ix, an engineer known for his fascination with all things technological, his mind always whirring with possibilities.

“Coordinates confirmed,” Harl muttered under his breath as the ship's scanners hummed to life. “Now, we wait.”

As if on cue, the space before them flickered, and a green light began to sweep over the ship. The Ixians exchanged glances as the green light pulsed along the ship’s exterior, scanning it methodically from bow to stern.

“What is that?” Daric asked, his curiosity piqued as he leaned forward. “Some sort of advanced scanning technology?”

Captain Vex glanced at him but continued monitoring the readouts. “Precautionary measure,” he said calmly. “From the station where we’ll be delivering the spice. They’re very particular about security, especially with the type of cargo we’re carrying.”

Serus leaned in, his eyes narrowing. “Station? I thought we were meeting a buyer directly. Why all this secrecy?”

Harl gave a thin smile, knowing better than to reveal too much to his guests. “That’s how things are done out here, Serus. House Hightower controls the sentinel stations in this part of space. They keep watch for intruders. We deliver the spice there, and it’s transported elsewhere. And today…” He turned to face Serus fully. “…the mysterious buyer has agreed to meet with you, as per our arrangement.”

Before Serus could press further, the comms crackled to life.

“Vassel’s Edge, you are cleared for docking,” came the calm, authoritative voice of the station commander. “Proceed to docking bay three. You have passengers aboard from House Ix?”

Harl nodded, toggling the comms. “Confirmed. House Ix representatives are aboard, as agreed.”

There was a brief pause before the commander’s voice returned. “They will be escorted to the meeting hall upon arrival. Follow docking instructions precisely.”

The communication ended abruptly, and Harl guided the ship forward, feeling the slight pull of the station’s gravity field as they neared the massive structure. The sentinel station loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the backdrop of stars. Its angular design was distinct, built for both defense and secrecy, with long spires extending outward, each armed with powerful weapons and sensors capable of detecting any intruder who dared approach this part of space uninvited.

The docking process was smooth, as it had been many times before for Harl. The massive bay doors of the station slid open, revealing the illuminated interior where several other ships, all smaller and less significant than Vassel’s Edge, were docked. The ship glided in silently, its wings folding back as it gently touched down on the docking platform.

As soon as the docking clamps secured the ship, the bay doors sealed shut behind them, and the interior lights of the station grew brighter. The docking platform was already bustling with activity—station personnel moving about, preparing for the next phase of the spice transfer. But amidst the commotion, a group of armored guards stood waiting by the entrance to the station’s inner corridors.

Captain Vex stood and turned to the Ixians. “This is where we part ways for now. The commander will escort you to the meeting hall. I suggest you tread lightly—our hosts are not known for their patience.”

Serus, Xyla, and Daric rose from their seats, adjusting their formal House Ix attire. “We can handle ourselves,” Serus said coolly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.

The group exited the ship together, stepping down the ramp onto the station floor. The guards were waiting for them, each clad in dark, matte armor that seemed to absorb the station’s artificial light. Their helmets were faceless, their identities concealed, but their presence alone was enough to signal the station’s seriousness about security.

“Welcome to Sentinel Station,” one of the guards said, his voice distorted slightly by the helmet’s modulator. “Follow us. The meeting will begin shortly.”

Without another word, the guards turned and led the group down a long, sterile corridor that wound through the heart of the station. The walls were smooth and metallic, illuminated by thin strips of white light that cast long shadows as they walked. The air was cool, almost too cool, and there was an unsettling quiet that settled over the group as they moved deeper into the station.

As they walked, Daric couldn’t help but whisper to his sister, “This place feels…off. Like there’s something they’re not telling us.”

Xyla gave a subtle nod but kept her gaze forward. “Keep your thoughts to yourself, Daric. We’re guests here, not investigators.”

Serus remained silent, his mind turning over the possibilities of what they might encounter. The technology they had seen so far—advanced scanners, cloaked guards, and now this hidden sentinel station—was far beyond what they had imagined. Whoever this mysterious buyer was, they were clearly operating on a level House Ix had not yet attained. And that intrigued him more than anything.

Finally, they reached a large, reinforced door at the end of the corridor. One of the guards stepped forward and keyed in a code, and with a soft hiss, the door slid open, revealing a dimly lit meeting hall. The room was circular, with a wide table at its center and chairs arranged neatly around it. The air here felt different—charged, as if something unseen was watching them.

As they entered, Serus glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “Where is our host?”

Before anyone could answer, a new voice echoed from the shadows at the far end of the room.

“Patience, Serus Ix. All will be revealed in time.”

The Ixians turned as a figure emerged from the darkness—a tall, slender man with sharp features and piercing eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the low light. He was dressed in dark robes that shimmered like liquid, and though he moved with grace, there was an unmistakable air of authority about him.

Serus stepped forward, his curiosity now fully piqued. “And who might you be?”

The man smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “I am simply a representative of the one you seek. And today, we shall discuss matters of great importance. Matters that will shape the future of your House…and perhaps the galaxy itself.”

Serus, Xyla, and Daric exchanged silent, uneasy glances as the figure before them—the one who had introduced himself as their host’s representative—lingered in the shadows. But something else caught Daric’s eye.

In the far corner of the room, barely visible in the low light, a creature crouched silently, watching them with glowing yellow eyes. Its body was massive, covered in thick, jagged plates of rock-like exoskeleton. Its breath was slow, rumbling, almost volcanic in nature. Daric stiffened, recognizing the creature from his brief studies on unknown ecosystems. It was a Volcanic Stalker, one of the creatures rumored to inhabit remote planets in uncharted territories. The beast’s eyes locked onto him, unblinking and watchful.

Xyla noticed it next, her hand reflexively inching toward her belt where a concealed blade rested. But before either of them could act, the man from the shadows spoke again, his voice calm, almost amused.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a hint of a smirk. “It doesn’t bite—unless commanded.” He stepped fully into the light, revealing more of his features: dark, sharp eyes, and long silver hair tied back in a neat braid. His presence was both regal and intimidating, every movement deliberate. “I am Vaegor, Master of Whispers for House Targaryen. You’ve been brought here to discuss matters that transcend your understanding, but first, sit. We have much to discuss.”

As the Ixians sat, the doors to the chamber opened with a soft hiss, and four figures entered the room. Serus, Daric, and Xyla turned to see who approached, and their breath collectively caught in their throats.

Leading them was Dragonlord Aenys Targaryen—a figure of unmistakable authority. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his regal face framed by long silver-blond hair, eyes a deep violet that seemed to glow with the intensity of one who commanded dragons. His presence filled the room with palpable power, his black robes embroidered with a subtle red three-headed dragon, the sigil of his House. His gaze was calm but fierce, the weight of centuries of tradition behind him. He moved with the grace of someone who had nothing to fear.

Behind him were his three children. First, his eldest son Aelor Targaryen, a young man with strong, chiseled features. He shared his father’s silver-blond hair, but his eyes were darker, like polished amethyst. He wore armor under his cloak, displaying his role as both prince and warrior, his expression cold and unreadable.

Next was Maelor, the younger brother. His resemblance to Aenys was striking—almost identical in appearance except for a faint scar that crossed his left brow, a mark of some past battle. His lilac eyes scanned the room with a playful glint, though his presence was no less commanding. His movements were more fluid, almost casual, yet there was an undeniable danger lurking beneath his calm demeanor.

And finally, you, Daenys Targaryen, Maelor's twin. Your pale blonde hair framed a regal face that bore the marks of your father’s lineage, though it was softened by a scattering of freckles across your cheeks. Your eyes were lilac, like your twin brother’s, but there was a depth to them that seemed to flicker with fire, as if the very soul of a dragon rested within. You were dressed in dark, flowing garments embroidered with symbols of your House, and you carried yourself with the grace of someone who spent more time on dragonback than on land.

Vaegor’s voice broke the silence, gesturing toward the newcomers. “May I present Dragonlord Aenys Targaryen, and his children: Aelor, Maelor, and Daenys.”

At the mention of the name Targaryen, the Ixians immediately stiffened. Serus, who had been the most composed, shot up from his chair, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief. His hand instinctively reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.

“House Targaryen?” Serus blurted out, his eyes darting between the four figures. “Impossible. You—you’re supposed to be—”

“Sit,” Aenys commanded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. It wasn’t a shout, but the sheer authority behind the word was enough to make Serus’s knees buckle. He slumped back into his chair, unable to defy the Dragonlord’s presence. The room fell deathly silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Aenys’s violet gaze lingered on Serus for a moment longer before he slowly took his seat at the head of the table, his children standing behind him, their expressions unchanging. He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, as he addressed the Ixians.

“I believe you called this meeting to negotiate an exchange,” Aenys said, his voice measured, cold, and powerful. “You seek our technology, and in return, I wish to know—what do you offer?”

Serus, still visibly shaken, struggled to regain his composure. Xyla, quicker to adapt, took over, her voice steady despite the tension. “We… we offer you more spice, the strain your House has required in the past. We can increase the quantity and—”

Aenys waved his hand dismissively. “We have no shortage of spice,” he said. “What you fail to realize, Ixian, is that on this side of the universe, spice is not the driving force behind power. We care little for your melange beyond its limited use. Now…” His voice darkened slightly, “I suggest you rethink your offer.”

Xyla faltered, unsure of how to proceed, but Serus quickly interjected, trying to salvage the negotiation. “Perhaps, then, we could offer something more… lasting. A mutual exchange of knowledge. We control a harvesting field on Arrakis—one with access to the specific strain of spice you seek. We can offer you independent access to it, so your House may harvest the spice for your needs without reliance on intermediaries.”

Aenys’s eyes narrowed slightly, and a smile—more predatory than pleased—touched his lips. “Interesting. It seems you understand your position well, Serus Ix. You’re desperate, I see, but clever.”

Vaegor, the Master of Whispers, stepped forward, pulling out a piece of parchment from his robes and placing it before Aenys. The Dragonlord signed it with a flourish and then slid it across the table to the Ixians. Xyla’s breath hitched as her eyes fell on the parchment. In the corner of the document was the unmistakable seal of House Targaryen—a three-headed dragon in red wax, sealing the agreement.

Aenys leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on Serus. “You will deliver this agreement to your Emperor,” Aenys said, his voice soft but laced with an unmistakable threat. “And let it serve as a warning to him. House Targaryen has returned, and the things to come will make even the most powerful Houses of the Imperium tremble.”

Serus, his heart pounding in his chest, nodded stiffly, unable to tear his eyes from Aenys’s cold, violet stare.

As the Ixians gathered their things, preparing to leave, one thought echoed in their minds: House Targaryen, the House thought to be destroyed millennia ago, was not only alive—they were stronger than ever. And they were preparing for something that could change the balance of power in the galaxy forever.

The grand chamber of the Imperial Palace on Kaitain, with its towering columns of polished marble and intricately woven tapestries, was unusually quiet. Normally bustling with courtiers, representatives from the Landsraad, and the Emperor’s various advisors, today it was a scene of growing anticipation. Serus Ix, along with his House delegation, stood before the Emperor himself, flanked by the shadowy figures of the Spacing Guild’s representatives.

Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV sat upon his gilded throne, his expression unreadable as he held the parchment in his hands. His elaborate robes, adorned with the finest silks and jewels, did nothing to soften the cold fury building in his gaze as he scanned the document. The Imperial Court had never been known for warmth, but today annoyance in the room was well felt.

Serus shifted his weight uneasily. He had delivered the parchment just as instructed, but now that it was in the Emperor’s hands, the weight of what he had seen on that distant sentinel station seemed heavier than ever. The Targaryens—an extinct House by all accounts—were not only alive, but they were thriving, powerful enough to conduct negotiations that would change the galaxy. And now, the Emperor was reading their terms.

As Shaddam’s eyes reached the bottom of the parchment, they landed on the seal—the unmistakable sigil of House Targaryen: a red three-headed dragon imprinted in wax. His expression darkened, and the room seemed to grow colder.

Shaddam’s gaze snapped up, fixing Serus with a piercing look that seemed to burn through his very soul. “Is this a joke?” the Emperor asked, his voice low and deadly, laced with disbelief and a simmering rage. “You bring me this? An artifact of some long-dead House? Have you lost your mind, Serus?”

Serus straightened, trying to steady his voice. “It is no joke, Your Majesty. I saw them with my own eyes. I spoke to the Dragonlord himself, Aenys Targaryen, and his children. They are very much alive. They control a strain of spice unlike anything we’ve encountered—”

Shaddam stood abruptly, his robes billowing as he stepped down from the dais, his face mere inches from Serus’s now. “And you claim to have made a bargain with them? With ghosts? With the very House that once tried to challenge the rule of House Corrino?”

Serus swallowed hard, his mind racing. “Yes, Your Majesty. House Targaryen is no ghost. They’ve remained hidden in the unknown regions of space, and they have advanced far beyond what we could have imagined. They agreed to terms—”

“Terms!” Shaddam interrupted, his voice echoing through the chamber. “They have no right to terms.”

The Emperor’s fingers tightened around the parchment before he thrust it toward the nearest representative of the Spacing Guild, a tall, pale figure with a cloak that seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the dim light. The Guild Navigator, whose face was obscured by the folds of his robe, took the document without a word, but the air around him seemed to shift as he examined the seal.

For a long, tense moment, the chamber was silent as the Navigator carefully inspected the parchment. Then, slowly, the Guild representative turned his head slightly, his voice a low rasp. “This sigil…is authentic.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber, but Shaddam silenced it with a single gesture. His fury had turned to cold calculation now, his eyes narrowing as he looked back at Serus.

“You claim to have spoken to this Dragonlord,” Shaddam said, his voice calmer but no less dangerous. “And you saw his…children?”

Serus nodded quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty. They are powerful, and they are not afraid to make their presence known. They have offered House Ix a chance to share in their technology in exchange for exclusive rights to a specific spice field under our jurisdiction on Arrakis.”

Shaddam's eyes darkened further as he processed this. His mind was already calculating the implications of this revelation. House Ix, aligned with a surviving Targaryen faction—this was more than just a political inconvenience. This was a threat to his rule, and to the entire balance of power in the Imperium.

He turned sharply to Serus. “You and your House will not speak of this to anyone,” Shaddam commanded, his voice brokering no argument. “Not to the Landsraad, not to the Spacing Guild, and certainly not to the Bene Gesserit. This stays between us until we confirm the validity of these claims and until this…danger is contained.”

Serus hesitated for a moment but then bowed low, his heart racing. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

But as he straightened, his mind was already working. The Targaryens had offered something far more valuable than the spice itself—knowledge, power, and a chance to align with a force that could potentially rival even House Corrino. If what Serus had seen was real, the balance of the entire galaxy could shift. And he knew one thing for certain: whichever side he chose in this coming storm would determine the future of House Ix.

The Emperor, meanwhile, turned to the Guild representatives. “You will investigate the location of this spice field. I want every detail. If there’s any truth to what Serus claims, we cannot let this go unchecked.”

The Navigator’s cloaked head dipped in acknowledgment, though the inscrutable expression behind the robes remained hidden. “We will investigate, Your Majesty. But be warned… if House Targaryen has indeed returned, they may not be as easy to contain as you think.”

Shaddam’s jaw tightened at the Navigator’s words, but he gave no reply. Instead, he turned back to Serus, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “You are dismissed, Serus Ix. You and your House are now bound to this silence. Fail to obey, and the consequences will be severe.”

Serus bowed once more, backing out of the room as the Emperor’s gaze followed him, cold and threatening. The doors to the chamber shut behind him, but Serus’s mind was already far from the gilded halls of Kaitain.

As he stepped into the shadowed corridors of the palace, Serus felt the weight of his decision pressing down on him. On one hand, obedience to the Emperor. On the other, the potential alliance with the most powerful House the galaxy had never forgotten—House Targaryen, reborn in exile.

For the first time, Serus truly understood the danger that lay ahead. But his mind, ever pragmatic, began to turn toward the future. The Emperor could issue his orders, and the Guild could investigate all they liked. But once dragons returned to the stars, no command from Kaitain would be able to stop them.

And Serus Ix would need to decide—whether to stand with the crumbling Empire of Shaddam Corrino or to pledge his allegiance to the rising flame of House Targaryen.

For in the coming war, neutrality was not an option.

The icy winds of Arctis howled across the desolate expanse of the frozen planet, biting through even the most advanced thermal suits of the Atreides forces as they huddled in the shelter of a hastily constructed outpost. The sky above was a constant swirling gray, the heavy clouds thick with snow, casting an eternal twilight over the ice-covered landscape. This world was a brutal, inhospitable place—its temperatures always well below freezing—but it was also strategically vital. Positioned at the very fringe of Atreides territory, it served as a critical point of control in the ongoing struggle between House Atreides and their bitter rivals, the Harkonnens.

Duke Leto Atreides stood at the edge of the outpost’s overlook, his cloak flapping in the wind as he stared out across the snowy plains. His breath formed faint clouds of vapor in the frozen air, but his gaze was steady, focused. This was not the first time the Harkonnens had made a move in contested space, but something about this situation felt different. Strange. And it concerned him.

Duncan Idaho, his most trusted swordmaster, approached from behind, his footsteps crunching in the snow. “My Lord,” Duncan said, his tone quiet but urgent. “Our scouts have confirmed Harkonnen forces are moving deeper into the eastern sector. We’ve also detected strange activity near their base. It’s… divided their attention.”

Leto turned, his expression darkening. “What kind of activity?”

Duncan glanced toward the tactical console set up inside the shelter. “Unknown, my Lord. But it’s enough to pull Harkonnen resources away from their main defense. They’re not focused entirely on us.”

The Duke’s brow furrowed as he considered this. “They’re being distracted?”

“More than that,” came a gruff voice from behind them. Gurney Halleck, Leto’s loyal warmaster, approached, his scarred face creased with concern. “We’ve picked up starship signatures entering and leaving Arctis’s orbit—unknown ships. Our sensors can’t get a clear reading, almost as if they’re cloaked by some kind of technology or interference. The planet’s extreme conditions are messing with our equipment, but it’s more than just the cold.”

Leto’s eyes narrowed. “Cloaked ships?”

“Or something close to it,” Gurney replied grimly. “Hawat is already analyzing what we’ve got, but he says whatever’s happening here is beyond what either the Harkonnens or we have access to. This is something… different.”

Thufir Hawat, Leto’s master of assassins and the greatest Mentat in the Imperium, stood nearby, watching the exchange with his cold, calculating eyes. His mind worked faster than most, and he had already drawn several conclusions before any of them had finished speaking.

“We don’t have much data,” Hawat said, his voice clipped, efficient. “But we know this: someone else is playing in this frozen field, and they don’t want to be found. They’ve drawn the Harkonnens’ attention, but we’re not immune to the consequences of whatever game they’re playing. The unknown activity is concentrated near the Harkonnen base, but it’s close enough to our location that it could interfere with our operations.”

Leto’s expression hardened. The cold winds of Arctis might have frozen the planet, but the battle for control here was heating up. The Harkonnens had escalated their presence on Arctis, no doubt hoping to force a confrontation, and now it seemed they weren’t alone in their schemes. The unknown starship signatures added another layer of complexity to an already volatile situation.

“If the Harkonnens are distracted,” Leto said, “this might be our best chance to strike before they consolidate their forces. But we can’t ignore this other activity.”

He looked to Duncan and Gurney. “We’ll investigate both—whatever the Harkonnens are doing, and this unknown presence. I want answers before we engage in a full-scale confrontation.”

Duncan nodded. “We have a tactical advantage if they’re divided, my Lord. If we move quickly, we can investigate the source of these unknown ships and the activity near their base without drawing their full attention.”

“I agree,” Gurney added, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. “But we need to be careful. Whoever’s out there isn’t playing by the same rules. They’ve got technology that’s far beyond what we’ve seen, and if they’re operating here, it means they’re invested in this conflict. We don’t know what they want yet.”

Leto paced for a moment, weighing the risks. The cold bite of the wind and the ever-present tension between the Atreides and Harkonnen forces swirled in his mind, but there was something deeper gnawing at him—this unknown factor. The possibility that a third party was manipulating the situation couldn’t be ignored.

He stopped and turned to face his men. “We can’t wait for the Harkonnens to make the first move. Duncan, Gurney, prepare the men. We’ll send strike teams—one to probe the Harkonnen base and watch for retaliation and the other to investigate the unknown activity. We’ll hit both targets simultaneously and find out what’s happening here.”

Hawat stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “I’ll oversee the scouting of the unknown presence. If there’s a larger plot at work, I’ll find it.”

Leto nodded, his decision made. “We move at dawn. Prepare the forces. We’ll take control of this planet, but we’ll do it on our terms.”

Duncan, Gurney, and Hawat all gave sharp nods before turning to leave, their tasks clear. As they walked away, Leto stood alone for a moment, staring out at the endless white expanse of Arctis. The wind howled louder, and in the distance, he could see the faint glimmers of movement—Harkonnen forces, just on the horizon.

But beyond them, there was something else. Something hidden. Something dangerous.

As Duke Leto turned back toward the outpost, preparing for the battle ahead, one thought kept echoing in his mind: the Harkonnens weren’t the only threat on this frozen world.

And whatever this unknown presence was, it could change the balance of power in the galaxy.

He only hoped they were ready for what they would find.

The winds of Arctis were relentless the next morning, cutting through the layers of thermal gear worn by Duke Leto and his elite soldiers as they pressed forward into the endless snowfields. The cold was so biting it seemed to seep into their bones, but the Atreides were disciplined, their determination unwavering despite the planet's hostile environment. The icy terrain crunched underfoot as they made their way deeper into the region where the strange activity had been detected.

Duncan Idaho had split off with a squadron to the east, tasked with probing the Harkonnen base and the surrounding areas, while Gurney Halleck led another group to the west, scouting for potential ambushes. Leto had remained with Thufir Hawat, the Mentat whose abilities made him invaluable for solving the riddles of this mysterious situation. Their own squad of Atreides soldiers—veterans of countless engagements—moved like shadows in the frozen landscape, their black and green armor stark against the white snow.

As they pressed on, one of Leto’s men, Sergeant Kellor, held up his hand, signaling for a halt. His visor was scanning the horizon, his breath clouding in the freezing air.

"Sir," Kellor said, his voice crackling over the comms. "We’ve picked up a strange communication frequency. It's intermittent, but definitely coming from somewhere nearby. We can’t make heads or tails of the language used, though. The computer’s unable to translate it."

Leto's brow furrowed as he glanced at Hawat, who had moved closer, his analytical mind already at work. "Play it," Leto ordered, his voice calm but with an edge of curiosity.

Kellor nodded and tapped a few commands into his handheld device. The crackling static of the transmission cleared for a moment, and then a strange, melodic language filled the airwaves, harsh yet flowing, each word clipped yet carrying an odd rhythm. The sound was like nothing Leto had heard before—alien, otherworldly.

The Duke exchanged a glance with Hawat, who remained silent as he listened carefully, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the unfamiliar cadence. The rest of the soldiers stood quietly, their faces tense with confusion as they waited for Hawat’s assessment.

After a moment, Hawat shook his head, still staring at the ground as if deep in thought. "This… this is unlike anything I've encountered," he said, his voice quiet, as though admitting the strangeness was something unnatural for a Mentat. "I've processed hundreds of languages, dialects, and communication codes—this doesn’t match any known language or communication in the Imperial database."

Leto frowned, feeling the weight of the moment. "Are you saying the language is alien in nature, Thufir?"

Hawat looked up, the cold wind making his aged features appear even more severe. "I can’t say for sure, my Lord," he replied carefully. "But this language isn’t recorded in any of the archives I’ve accessed, not even in obscure historical records. If it's from the known universe, it has evaded detection for centuries. It could be something ancient… or it could be something entirely unknown."

Leto's eyes flickered with unease. "Could it be something the Harkonnens are involved with? Perhaps they’ve found some way to mask their communications."

Hawat's lips pressed into a thin line, calculating. "Possible, but unlikely. Even the Harkonnens don’t have the capability to create an entirely new language that doesn’t register in the databases. They might be brutal, but they’re not that subtle."

Leto folded his arms across his chest, looking out over the icy landscape as the strange transmission continued to play softly in the background. The language—though unrecognizable—held a sense of power, a kind of ancient authority that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. What was happening on Arctis? Who—or what—was behind this?

Before Leto could respond, the communication channel crackled again, this time shifting to a frequency they recognized all too well: the harsh, guttural tones of Harkonnen comms.

A voice came through, cold and authoritative, instantly recognizable. It was Feyd-Rautha, the sadistic nephew of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen and heir to the Harkonnen dynasty.

"All units, this is Feyd-Rautha," his voice came through the comms, clear despite the interference. "We’ve detected Atreides forces in the region. Press forward and engage them if they approach. Do not let them interfere with the operation. Prepare artillery in the ravine and set an ambush. I want her captured alive. No mistakes."

Leto’s head snapped toward the comm device. "Her?" he repeated under his breath, exchanging a puzzled glance with Hawat.

Hawat’s keen mind was already racing, analyzing the situation. "Whoever this 'her' is, it seems important enough for Feyd-Rautha to mention specifically. And they’re setting an ambush, expecting her to fall into it."

Leto's face hardened. "Who could they be after? We haven't received any reports of an allied presence here, and no one outside House Atreides should be involved in this sector."

Hawat nodded thoughtfully. "It’s possible the unknown presence we've been detecting is their target. They could be focusing on this other entity—whoever or whatever it is—and they’re trying to capture it alive. This would explain why their attention has been divided between us and this unknown activity."

Leto ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. Between the mysterious language, cloaked starships, and now a Harkonnen ambush set for an unidentified target, things were growing more complex by the minute. This was no longer just a skirmish for control of Arctis—it was a web of intrigues with more than two players. The unknown ships that had evaded detection, the strange communications in an unrecognizable language, and now the Harkonnen pursuit of someone—or something—they wanted alive.

Leto turned to his men, his voice steady and commanding. "We proceed as planned. We’ll investigate the source of the unknown activity first and gather more intel before engaging the Harkonnen forces. Be prepared for anything—we don’t know who or what we’re dealing with, and we need to avoid getting caught in Feyd-Rautha’s trap."

The men nodded, tightening their grips on their rifles and checking their equipment. Kellor and the other soldiers moved quickly, their faces hard with focus as they prepared to head into the cold unknown.

Leto glanced at Hawat. "Stay sharp, Thufir. If this is something beyond what we understand, we’ll need every ounce of your expertise."

Hawat’s face remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with the intensity of a man whose mind was already unraveling the strands of a complicated puzzle. "I’ll do what I can, my Lord. But this situation is like nothing I’ve encountered before."

The wind howled as the squadron of Atreides soldiers began their march across the frozen terrain, their black silhouettes cutting through the snow. Somewhere ahead, in the icy ravines and under the gray skies, lay answers to the mysteries that had plagued this mission from the beginning. The Harkonnens were closing in on a target they desperately wanted captured, but Duke Leto knew there was more to this than just a battle over territory.

There were new players in the game—players who wielded unknown languages and technology that defied Imperial understanding.

And whatever forces were converging on Arctis, Leto was determined to uncover the truth.

The cold air bit into his face as they pressed forward, the distant hum of unknown ships hidden in the clouds above, while Feyd-Rautha’s voice still echoed in the back of his mind.

"I want her captured alive."

Who was she?

And what secrets did she hold that could sway the balance of power in this frozen war?

The biting wind of Arctis clawed at Duke Leto’s face as he and his men pressed forward, the ice beneath their feet cracking with each step. The cold felt more oppressive now, not only because of the temperature but because of the growing tension. The mysterious communication, the Harkonnen ambush, and now the unknown forces—it was all a dangerous puzzle, and Leto knew they were walking into something far bigger than a mere territorial skirmish.

They rounded a bend in the frozen terrain when Sergeant Kellor, moving ahead of the group, stopped abruptly and signaled the others to halt. His visor focused on something embedded in the ice just ahead, partially hidden by the snow. Leto stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he approached.

There, carved into the rock face and faintly illuminated by the low light of Arctis’s sun, was a sigil. A three-headed dragon, carved with precision, its wings stretched wide in a majestic, powerful pose. It was unlike any emblem Leto had seen in his years as Duke, and as he studied it, he felt a strange chill run down his spine—something beyond the cold of the planet.

“I don’t recognize it,” Leto said quietly, running his gloved fingers over the smooth carving.

One of the more experienced soldiers who had been trailing behind with the rest of the men, stepped forward to examine the sigil. “Nor do I, my Lord,” he said, his voice thick with caution. “It’s nothing like any House sigil we’ve encountered in the Imperium.”

Thufir Hawat, ever calculating, approached last, his eyes scanning the sigil with intense focus. “It’s not in any of our records,” he confirmed after a moment. “No known House or faction uses this symbol. This is… ancient, perhaps. Or new—something we’ve never encountered before.”

Leto stared at the three-headed dragon for a moment longer, his mind racing. Something about the design felt intentional, as if it held a deeper meaning. He didn’t know what it was, but he could feel its significance like a weight pressing on his chest. The unknown forces they were dealing with—whoever they were—had marked their presence here, and it was clear now that the Harkonnens were aware of them too.

“We press on,” Leto ordered. “Whatever this is, we need to know who or what we’re dealing with.”

As they continued deeper into the icy landscape, the faint sound of distant gunfire reached them. It was intermittent at first, but quickly grew louder as they approached. The sounds of a skirmish—blaster fire, the roar of engines, and the unmistakable clamor of combat—echoed through the frozen ravines.

Before Leto could issue new orders, the comms crackled to life, and Duncan Idaho’s voice came through, tense but composed as ever. “My Lord, we’ve just engaged Harkonnen forces. They’re not willing to negotiate—they’re attacking on sight. They’ve set up an unauthorized military base in this region and appear to be mining something.”

“Mining?” Leto repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Any sign of the unknown presence?”

“None yet,” Duncan replied, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. “So far, it’s just angry Harkonnens. But whatever they’re mining, they’re guarding it fiercely.”

Before Leto could respond, the sound of engines roaring overhead made the entire squad stop and look up. Through the swirling snow, they saw Harkonnen ornithopters streaking across the sky, their dark, beetle-like bodies weaving through the clouds.

But they weren’t alone.

Leto’s eyes widened as he spotted other ornithopters engaged in a furious dogfight with the Harkonnen craft. These new ornithopters were unlike anything he had ever seen before. Their design was sleek, almost organic, with dragon-like wings that flapped in a rhythmic motion, propelling them through the air with an uncanny fluidity. Their hulls were dark, shimmering with strange patterns that shifted in the light, making them difficult to track as they maneuvered with extraordinary agility.

“Those aren’t Harkonnen,” Kellor said, his voice laced with astonishment. “Or any craft from the Imperium. I’ve never seen designs like that—not even from Ix.”

Leto’s mind raced as he watched the alien ornithopters engage the Harkonnen forces with brutal efficiency, their strange, draconic forms weaving through the air as if they were living creatures rather than machines. Blaster fire lit up the sky as the Harkonnen ornithopters desperately tried to keep pace with their attackers, but it was clear the unknown craft were superior in every way.

“What in the name of the Emperor…” Leto muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, and the sounds of combat intensified from the ravine ahead. Without wasting a second, Leto signaled for his men to follow him as they moved to a nearby vantage point overlooking the ravine. What they saw below sent a ripple of shock through the Atreides forces.

The ravine was a chaotic battlefield. Harkonnen soldiers, their black-and-yellow armor standing out against the snow, were locked in brutal combat with unknown forces. These new combatants moved with an elegance and ferocity that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Clad in dark armor that shimmered with the same shifting patterns as the alien ornithopters, these warriors fought with a combination of energy weapons and what appeared to be swords—sleek, deadly blades that carved through Harkonnen soldiers with ease.

Leto scanned the battlefield, his heart pounding. The unknown forces were smaller in number, but they fought with a precision and intensity that was overwhelming the Harkonnens. And above all, there was something… regal about them, something that reminded him of ancient stories of noble warriors, legends of long-lost Houses.

“What are we seeing?” Kellor whispered, his voice filled with disbelief.

Leto didn’t answer immediately, his eyes locked on the chaos below. He could see the Harkonnen forces were struggling, and the sounds of artillery preparing in the distance confirmed that Feyd-Rautha’s plan was already in motion. They were trying to capture someone—whoever these unknown forces were, they were the target.

“We need to make a decision,” Hawat said, his voice low and urgent. “Do we engage the Harkonnens now, or wait?”

Leto’s mind raced. The Harkonnens were setting up an ambush, preparing to take one of the unknown fighters alive. The mystery of who these new players were gnawed at him, but one thing was clear—they were not Harkonnen allies. And in this frozen war, an enemy of the Harkonnens might just be an ally worth risking.

Leto made his decision, his voice firm and steady. “We aid the unknown forces.”

Kellor nodded, already moving into position. The Atreides soldiers, disciplined and battle-hardened, began their advance, preparing to enter the fray below.

Leto glanced at Hawat, who simply gave a small, knowing nod. Whatever was happening here, the Atreides were about to gamble on a new piece in the deadly game of Houses.

The battle was chaos, pure and unrelenting. Leto and his men charged down into the ravine, their rifles and blasters cutting through the freezing air as they joined the fray alongside the unknown forces. The sound of energy weapons echoed across the icy terrain, mixing with the clatter of steel and the guttural shouts of Harkonnen soldiers. The Atreides elite moved with precision, each strike calculated, their disciplined tactics overwhelming the scattered Harkonnen forces caught in the heat of battle.

But as the skirmish raged on, the sky above began to darken further, the winds of Arctis growing fiercer. A blizzard was rolling in fast, the snow whipping around them in thick, swirling clouds that obscured vision and muted sound. The temperature plummeted, the icy wind slicing through their gear with cruel efficiency.

Leto ducked behind a rocky outcrop, scanning the battlefield. The unknown warriors fought like a well-trained phalanx, their movements fluid, graceful even. They fought hand-to-hand with swords that shimmered with a strange energy, their forms difficult to track in the blizzard, while Harkonnen forces struggled to hold their ground.

Just then, a sudden rumble beneath the ground signaled the arrival of more Harkonnen artillery. Leto’s comms crackled to life as one of his soldiers shouted over the noise, “Heavy Harkonnen reinforcements inbound, my Lord! Artillery moving into position!”

The ground trembled as Harkonnen tanks and artillery rolled into the ravine, their massive cannons swiveling toward the embattled forces. Explosions rocked the frozen ground as heavy artillery shells began to fall, sending plumes of snow and ice into the air. The battlefield had descended into a brutal slugfest, and the freezing winds only made it harder to see, hear, or strategize.

“Push forward!” Leto shouted, his voice barely carrying over the storm. “We can’t let them surround us!”

The Atreides forces continued their advance, but as the blizzard intensified, something strange cut through the howling wind. It was a sound, sharp and high-pitched—a shriek that seemed to come from above, distant at first but growing louder with each passing second.

Leto looked up, straining to see through the swirling snow. His heart pounded in his chest as the shriek pierced the air again, this time closer. He could make out flashes of something—dark shapes moving through the storm, circling overhead. He tried to focus, to make sense of what he was seeing, but the blizzard was too thick.

Then, suddenly, fire exploded from the sky.

Two Harkonnen ornithopters, their engines roaring as they maneuvered through the storm, were struck by something unseen. They burst into flames, spiraling down from the sky, crashing into the icy ground below in fiery explosions. The shockwave knocked several Harkonnen soldiers off their feet, while the remaining ornithopters struggled to evade whatever had attacked them.

Another shriek cut through the storm, followed by the faint whistle of something large slicing through the air. Another Harkonnen ornithopter was struck, its hull exploding in a brilliant flash of fire as it fell in a blazing arc toward the ground. The heat from the explosions briefly warmed the frigid air, casting flickering shadows through the blizzard.

Leto’s eyes narrowed as he tried to discern the source of the attack, but the storm obscured everything. All he could hear were the shrieks and whistles, and then more explosions as Harkonnen forces began to retreat, their voices echoing in panic through the comms.

“They’re retreating!” Gurney’s voice came through, his tone both surprised and urgent. “The Harkonnens are pulling back, my Lord!”

Leto crouched behind the cover of a large boulder, his breath coming out in heavy clouds as the explosions gradually subsided. The sounds of battle were fading, replaced by the howling wind and the eerie quiet that followed. Whatever had attacked the Harkonnens had forced them into retreat.

Suddenly, through the snow, Leto saw a figure approaching, emerging from the storm like a ghost. The figure wore sleek, dark armor that shimmered in the dim light of the fading explosions. As the figure drew closer, Leto could make out the faint glow of a symbol on the armor’s chest—the same three-headed dragon sigil they had seen carved into the ice earlier.

The figure stopped a few paces from Leto and his men, lifting the visor of his helmet to reveal a young man’s face, though most of his features were still obscured by the armor.

“I am Aelor,” the young man said in a calm, confident voice, his eyes sharp and piercing beneath the helmet. “And I believe I owe you thanks for your assistance, Duke Leto of House Atreides.”

Leto blinked in surprise, his breath catching for a moment. The man had spoken his name with certainty, as though he had known exactly who they were all along. “You know who we are?” Leto asked, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

Aelor smiled faintly beneath his helmet. “Of course. We have been watching your House for some time, though you may not have been aware of it.”

Leto’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you exactly? This planet is under Atreides jurisdiction.”

Aelor’s expression became more amused, the cold wind whipping around him as he crossed his arms. “This planet,” he said slowly, “and all the others you call your domain, once belonged to us. Long ago.”

The cryptic response only deepened Leto’s unease, but before he could press for more answers, Aelor gestured toward the stormy landscape. “This is no place for conversation. There is much to discuss, but not out here in the cold. Our base is not far from here. Follow me, and I will explain everything.”

Aelor spoke a few quick words in the same unknown language Leto and his men had overheard earlier, and moments later, several alien-looking vehicles rolled up through the snow. Their design was unlike anything Leto had seen in the Imperium—sleek and organic, as though they were crafted from living metal. The transport vehicles stopped beside Aelor, their hatches sliding open with a hiss.

Leto hesitated for a moment, his instincts warning him against walking into an unknown situation, but there was no denying that Aelor and his forces had saved them from being overwhelmed by the Harkonnens. Whoever they were, they had power—power that Leto needed to understand.

He turned to his men, his decision made. “We’ll follow them. But stay alert.”

As Leto and his men began to climb into the alien transport vehicles, he activated his comms, reaching out to Duncan and Gurney. “Duncan, Gurney, report.”

Duncan’s voice came through, steady despite the wind. “My Lord, we’ve just secured the area. The Harkonnens have retreated, but they’ve left behind traces of their mining operation. Whatever they were after, they were pulling resources fast.”

“Did you encounter the unknown forces?” Leto asked, his eyes scanning the strange interior of the transport vehicle.

“Negative,” Duncan replied. “We’ve only dealt with Harkonnens so far. No sign of anything else.”

Leto paused, glancing at Aelor, who was giving orders in his own tongue to the other soldiers. “We’ve made contact with an unknown force. I’m following their leader now—he’s taking us to their base. Keep an eye on the Harkonnens and secure our position, but be ready for anything.”

“Understood, my Lord,” Gurney chimed in. “Be careful. Whatever this is, it’s not something we’ve seen before.”

Leto cut the comms and settled into the transport as it hummed to life, gliding smoothly over the snow and ice. As the vehicle moved through the storm, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just stumbled upon something far greater than they had ever anticipated.

The transport vehicle hummed steadily as it glided through the blizzard, cutting a path through the thick snow that swirled around them. Inside, the atmosphere was stifling. Duke Leto Atreides sat near the front of the transport, observing the man seated across from him—Aelor, the leader of these unknown forces. Beside Leto, Thufir Hawat sat in silence, his sharp mind undoubtedly racing to process the implications of everything they’d witnessed. A few of Leto’s most trusted men, who had managed to fit into the vehicle, remained quiet but alert, their eyes darting around the strange alien interior.

Leto, his curiosity piqued but tempered by caution, turned his gaze to Aelor. The young man sat with his helmet still on, but through the visor, Leto could see the faint glimmer of his eyes, steady and watchful.

“What are your people doing here?” Leto asked, his voice measured, though his instincts told him there was far more to this situation than a mere skirmish with the Harkonnens.

Aelor leaned back slightly, his armored form relaxed yet commanding. His voice was calm when he replied, though there was an edge to it. “House Harkonnen became aware of our presence some time ago. They’ve been trying to dig out what remains of our underground structures—structures that have been buried for centuries. They seek to take what does not belong to them.”

Leto raised an eyebrow, intrigued but wary. “And what exactly were these underground structures used for? They must be important to draw the Harkonnens’ attention.”

For the first time, Leto saw Aelor hesitate, his eyes briefly widening behind his visor, though he quickly composed himself. There was something deeper here, something that Aelor wasn’t revealing.

“They can’t use what’s inside,” Aelor said after a brief pause, his tone more guarded now. “But it is not theirs to collect. The Harkonnens are digging for something they don’t understand.”

Leto studied Aelor carefully, but before he could press further, Hawat leaned forward, his cold, analytical voice breaking the silence. “We intercepted Harkonnen communications before we engaged them. Feyd-Rautha mentioned they were after someone—her specifically. Who is this person they’re so desperate to capture?”

Aelor’s gaze shifted to Hawat, and this time, there was no hesitation. “They’re after my sister,” he said plainly, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness. “She was the one who disrupted their operations. The Harkonnens know they can’t use what’s in the structures, but they believe capturing her will give them leverage.”

Leto exchanged a glance with Hawat, their minds both running through the implications. The Harkonnens were desperate—enough to launch an all-out assault to capture one person. Whatever was buried in those ancient structures, it was important enough for them to risk everything.

Before Leto could ask more, the transport began to slow, and Aelor’s voice cut through the silence. “We’ve arrived.”

The vehicle came to a stop, and as the doors slid open, a blast of cold air greeted them. Leto and his men stepped out into a base unlike anything they had ever seen. The structures were sleek, dark, and seamless, built with a design far more advanced than anything in the Imperium. But what struck Leto most was the banners that hung from the tall spires around the base—banners bearing the three-headed dragon symbol he had seen carved into the ice earlier.

“This way,” Aelor said, gesturing for them to follow.

As they moved deeper into the base, Leto couldn’t help but notice how the design felt both familiar and alien. There was an elegance to the architecture, a flowing, organic quality that reminded him of ancient stories from his studies as a boy.

They entered the central structure, and Aelor led them into a large command center. Inside, a team of soldiers worked at strange, holographic consoles, their faces hidden by sleek helmets. A massive map of the surrounding area was projected above them, showing the positions of both Harkonnen and unknown forces.

Aelor turned to face Leto and his men, and with a quiet hiss, he removed his helmet. The sight of his features caught Leto off guard. Aelor was young—his face regal, with high cheekbones and silver-blond hair that fell in soft waves around his shoulders. His eyes, the same piercing violet that Leto had only seen in old records, glowed faintly in the dim light of the command center.

For a brief moment, Leto took a step back, his heart racing as a flood of recognition washed over him. The sight of Aelor’s face—his silver hair, his violet eyes, the unmistakable grace of his movements—triggered a memory long buried in the depths of Leto’s mind.

“Welcome, Duke Leto,” Aelor said, his voice now softer, more formal. “To House Targaryen’s command center.”

The words struck Leto like a blow. House Targaryen. The name sent a shockwave through his thoughts, dragging him back to his youth, to the old histories he had studied in the Atreides archives. He had read of House Targaryen—once a powerful dynasty, one of the most feared and revered Houses in the galaxy, known for their dragons and their near-mythical strength. But they had been eradicated—wiped out thousands of years ago in a war that had shaped the balance of power in the galaxy for millennia.

Yet here they were. Alive. And not just alive, but powerful—strong enough to face off against the Harkonnens with technology far beyond anything Leto had ever seen.

Leto felt a surge of disbelief as the implications of what he was witnessing set in. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form words, a sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

“Duke Leto,” Hawat said, stepping forward, his voice a warning. “Stay focused.”

Leto blinked, his mind snapping back to the present. He glanced at Hawat, who was watching the situation with the same sharpness as ever, though Leto could see the tension in the Mentat’s eyes. This was no ordinary encounter. Whatever House Targaryen had been in the past, they were a force to be reckoned with now.

Aelor, watching Leto carefully, smiled faintly. “I see you recognize the name. Good. It saves us some time. There is much to discuss, Duke Leto, and many answers I’m sure you seek. But for now, we must prepare. The Harkonnens won’t stop their pursuit of my sister. And if they succeed, they may uncover things that should remain buried.”

Leto, still processing the magnitude of what was happening, nodded slowly. His thoughts raced, but there was one question at the forefront of his mind.

“What do you intend to do?” Leto asked.

Aelor’s violet eyes gleamed with determination. “What we have always done, Duke. Protect what is ours. And in the process, perhaps we can show you that this galaxy is not as small as you once believed.”

The warning in his words hung heavy in the air, and Leto realized with certainty: whatever lay ahead, the fate of House Atreides—and perhaps the entire galaxy—was about to change.

- A/N: The timeline of these events will be made clear as the story expands. Everything written here has a purpose for future events that will happen.

[triluvial]

There are whispers, stirrings.

There are rumours that Arrakis' control - for so long solidified in the pearlescent hands of the Harkonnen family - was wavering. That the emperor was already seeking out a replacement family.

Their first hint of this was Duke Leto reaching out and flat out telling them that the emperor had offered his family control over Arrakis and the entire imperial spice trade. While the Baron pretended very, very hard that this wasn't information that was blindsiding the entire family, Leto went onto explain that he didn't want to move off of safe, plentiful Caladan while the mother of his children was so, profoundly pregnant. Duke Leto doesn't want to start any shit with the Harkonnens either, so he wants them to hear the truth from him even though "I'm sure you're up to your ears in reports from your network of spies."

There was no network of spies. Who tf would risk their lives for a house that would be twice as likely to kill them themselves? Baron Vladimir successfully pretends otherwise for the rest of the video call.

However, that gives the Baron an idea of how to proceed. They can't trust the Atreides on their words, but they cannot ignore such a serious warning.

However, it would all be too suspicious - if the risk of losing the control of spice was real - for random Geidi Prime natives to show up at the Emperors home. He had a truthsayer, and they couldn't exactly blend into a crowd. But there was a better plan, they would join with a different house, one friendly with the Emperor and be invited alongside them to the Emperor's side. It would be an insult for the Bene Gesserit assistant to the crown to start questioning the staff of a beloved guest.

So Feyd joined a small battalion. Not even as the leader, though he could hear the other men shifting in anxiety whenever he sighed in a specific way over the general's decisions. And they were sent to bring that month's trading products from Pallosan III to Geidi Prime.

Feyd and his team arrive late on purpose. The ruling family had no choice but to offer to let them stay the night. They humbly accept, feigning the quiet servitude that Harkonnen servants are famous for.

Under the cover of darkness, they fake a break in. They fake an assassination attempt. Then the eight, perfectly normal Harkonnen servants fight off the attackers before the citadel's alarms are even raised.

Reader's family is overjoyed. Baron Harkonnen is even more overjoyed to receive and approve their request for the eight 'heroes' to stay on Pallosan Three until the reason and origin of the assassination attempt is found and eliminated. Vladimir is so glad that his people could be of use to such dear, treasured allies, and if his heir had been there Feyd could have probably fought off the assassins single handedly, but it's good that the relatively unskilled fighters managed on their own.

This bolsters the Harkonnen reputation, not only is their noble family incredibly dangerous but even normal servants sent to transport food are more skilled than most family's trained guards.

Feyd knew this would be a long mission. He'd never done anything like this, but a Harkonnen had to be present to make hard decisions and he was the least-recognisable of the three ruling members of the family.

Three weeks later there's a real break in. It probably wasn't an assassination attempt but as he is the only one alive when the guards and royal family come running in after the alarms go off, Feyd can tell whatever story he wants.

Later that day, the youngest princess comes and brings Feyd a drawing of him in thanks. He's monstrously tall, towering over a terrible depiction of the citadel. The sun is black, apparently the only thing the child knew about Geidi Prime.

Feyd looks over the shoulder of the child at where her older sister was standing. Then he feigns being moved by the drawing. He's rewarded by two smiles, one gap-toothed and the other as beautiful as the dawn. He feels his stomach flip awkwardly. He folds up the drawing and puts it inside his armour.

"You made her day, you know." Princess Irulan's closest friend says, sitting next to Feyd as he sharpens his sword later that afternoon. "She's right now bugging our captain of the guards so that he'll teach her swords so she can be a Harkonnen when she grows up."

"Uh..." Feyd manages.

"Of course, that's not how it works, but she's young." She allows, and she's sitting close enough that Feyd can tell her dress isn't just solid blue but actually embroidered in the same colour with shiny silk thread. "You're an amazing warrior, the Baron said only his na-Baron was skilled enough to fight an assassination team alone but you were barely sweating."

Reader runs a hand down his bare arm, as if to demonstrate where the sweat would be. Feyd has had sex with his harpies on his balcony, where any citizen could look up at them. Yet, somehow this makes him feel more exposed.

"I have to leave the citadel tomorrow and I know it's during the time that you normally train but I wanted to ask if you, or some of your friends would accompany me for safety. I cannot order you as you are all just guests here, but with two attempts on my life I am a little frightened." Reader either smooths her dress down, or wipes her sweaty palms on her skirt - Feyd isn't sure which.

"You know my training schedule?" Feyd asks, a grin on his face. He'd never seen her watching him train with his men but from the maroon flush on her cheeks he was now sure that she had.

Reader looks down, embarrassed. And that's when Feyd remembers he is not the Harkonnen heir right now, able to flirt and propose to any highborn woman he sets his heart on. He's a lowly servant and may as well be an earthworm pining after Shai-Hulud.

This is going to end in tears.

He agrees to go.

Ok this was supposed to be a quick idea where Feyd had to pretend to be a commoner while spying on Reader and her family, and Princess Reader fell for him while thinking they could never be together but the uhhhh political thriller explanation for why he was spying got a little out of hand. That's my bad. (also Political powerhouse Reader is maybe my fave trope atm as evidenced by 1, 2, 3 and now 4)

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

How would Tom Riddle fare if one day he was transported to the world of Dune, would he survive?

You mean on Arrakis during the events of the first novel?

Well, he would potentially have a wild time.

The thing about Dune is that it's all about the significance of ecology and the effects that can have on a civilization. The world of Arrakis is unbearably harsh, is virtually only desert, and water is everything. Every bit of life that has survived has done so by being obsessed with water, even those who live in luxury, they show that luxury by growing plants/displaying their wealth through water in fountains.

The world is incredibly hostile and dangerous and that's not even getting to the people.

However, if you're a terraforming ubermensch, then these physical dangers need not necessarily apply to you. Tom Riddle, as an extremely talented wizard proficient in wandless magic (important if he lost his wand in the crossing) would be able to do things like make sure his own moisture doesn't evaporate in the extreme heat, summon water from the atmosphere or deep underground in a way that even the Fremen simply can't, easily terraform his environment to be able to support plantlife in a way that takes us non-bullshit magical people decades if it succeeds at all.

Tom's in a good position, then, to be able to survive even if he's dropped in the middle of the desert (which is 99% of Arrakis as the vast majority of it is uninhabited).

And if he gets picked up the Fremen then Tom's in the very weird position of not being the Kwisatz Haderach, he can't see every possible future/the expansive past the way Paul can, nor is he a Mentat (trained extensively to be able to perform computational tasks to replace traditional computing because of evil robots centuries ago), but having a lot of helpful things very similar to the Bene Gesserit and in some ways better than them (the ability to process and survive poisoning, the ability to compel others, the ability to understand others extremely easily and supernaturally, resistance to these techniques from others). Tom can't see the expansive past the way Bene Gesserit reverend mothers can (through those that came before them) but he has a good immunity to their tricks which will help him from being completely played.

And depending when this is, Tom is immortal and has made horcruxes that presumably can't be destroyed in the world of Dune where there's no basilisk fangs or similar material.

So, Tom's in a very very good position, and the only thing that might get him is while he's getting his bearings if he doesn't fully understand the nuances of where he is, what's going on, so and so forth and end up getting played by whatever faction is using him. Especially as right out of the gate Jessica, incredibly competent, would clock him as a potential threat to Paul (as Tom is also a young miraculous man who in some ways is flashier than Paul and might distract/dissuade the Fremen away from supporting Paul).

But he has a good shot.

[ahandfulwithquietness]

Lawrence of Arrakis

It’s possible that Frank Herbert was inspired by David Lean's movie "Lawrence of Arabia" (rather than the actual history) while writing his famous book "Dune". Mainly when creating the character of Paul Atreides, because, as we can see, he has many similarities with Lawrence. However, both figures also have few differences. Here is a comparison of their characteristics: (WARNING: spoilers from "Dune" first book and two first movies)

What do they have in common: -A foreigner move into desert lands where he finds indigenous people who are ready for rebellion against exploitative rulers -White savior trope- Middle Eastern/Fremen People need Western leadership to be successful in battle -"Noble savage" trope, the Indigenous People have no real political consciousness -Both Paul and Lawrence had to blend in with a foreign culture (and be able to survive in the desert), but they didn't change their identity entirely -They demonstrated self-control during trial by pain (the match scene for Lawrence and the box of pain for Paul) -Both were a link between Indigenous and Imperial World -They knew how to use the "desert power" and lead guerilla warfare -Both use indigenous animals- camels/sandworms- for transportation and military purpose (giant sandworms also resemble the trains coursing through the Arabian desert) -They control everything and cannot fail. They become some sort of "superior beings", filled with hubris (Lawrence from the movie, rather than historical one) -Paul was the author of "Pillars of the Universe" and Lawrence wrote a book titled "Seven Pillars of Wisdom" -Both had unmarried parents and choose their own name (but were known by many) -Also both had VERY blue eyes

What are their differences: -Lawrence needed to be accepted by the Beduins whereas Paul was protected by Bene Gesserit -Lawrence didn’t want unnecessary violence and Paul believed that violence and killing is just a way to achieve his goal Lawrence wanted indepence for Arabs and was ashamed of how they were treated after the war by the Western Powers. Paul, to the contrary, intentionally used the Fremen and their military potential to achieve his own goals and lead them into an intergalactic jihad -Paul became a religious leader, while Lawrence had not

There are also a lot of Arabic and Muslim references in Herbert's books but that's maybe for another post.

For further reading I highly recommend these articles, on wchich this post is based on: The Orientalist Semiotics of Dune Lawrence of Arabia, Paul Atreides, and the Roots of Frank Herbert’s Dune Lawrence of Arrakis

[motherofdogs1010]

helloooo can I request?? (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧ no pressure! I just really want to read something like this and I never seen anyone wrote this type before, so Paul Atreides right? Dark yandere boy, the thing is it's force marriage and he doesn't like the reader at first (due to loving chani) the reader suffers and she has to raise the child (duh cause needed for the marriage contract thingy) now for the fun part hehe

She's sick. Like sick sick, she tends to forget small things like have she ate dinner, what's day is it to suddenly she can't remember who she is, where is she.

So she has girlfriends who was like, she needs to have fun in the world and have stress free life. They traveled with the child, the mother and daughter/son bonded and sadly their travels was cut short due to lack of fuel (or whatever transportation they have, and it runs down and they need to fix it.) What's more fun? They run down to where Paul and Chani is (forgot the spelling)

Paul was like "What are you doing here?"

Reader was confused, and looked around to her friends who is panicking, she looked at Paul and said, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

And her child not meeting his father formally has no idea who the heck he is HWHAJAKDNNA

And then bro is obsessed the fact that she looked so much happier? Beautiful something, idk he is so draws that she can't remember and got possessive or something.

And than give it angst ending akdbamnd I think I went overboard to what I want to happen whhahaha hope it's not too much, again no pressure and I loved your dark Paul Atreides story waiting for an update to it (forgot the title HWHAHAH)

No pressure (⁠っ⁠˘⁠з⁠(⁠˘⁠⌣⁠˘⁠ ⁠)

Ohh! I like this idea!

Adding on, I can imagine some Bene Gesserit bullshit mind control thing that made Paul believe that Chani was his love, but in reality it was Y/N because she came from a lower House on Caladan and didn't fit into their breeding program.

And on top of that!!! Maybe one of the sisters was slowly poisoning Y/N and that's why she was so sickly until she got off Caladan!

[holybatgirlz]

going to the chapel | chapter 1

read on ao3 (next chapter)

Summary:

“Three days?” she yelped. “I thought you said next week.” “Three days is next week.” Sophie frowned. “Oh. You’re right. Monday, then?” (An Offer from a Gentleman by Julia Quinn, Chapter 23) What happened in the days leading up to Benedict and Sophie’s wedding.

Word Count: 8.3k

--

Friday

Benedict was in a perpetual state of joy and bliss from the moment he woke up.

The morning after freeing his fiancee – his Lady in Silver, the wonderful, beautiful, kind, lovely, stunning Sophie Beckett – from a jail cell she’d been whisked away to while his back was turned and a near sentence of penal transportation to Australia, the bliss he felt was one he’d never experienced before. And one he only prayed would continue. 

The woman of his dreams, a woman he’d thought lost, one he hadn’t even realized had been standing before him for close to a month until a few days ago, was currently held protectively in his arms. Snoozing peacefully, with her mouth open slightly as she slept with her head against his chest, her golden curls tickling his chin and jaw. Her smooth, unblemished skin almost glowed in the sunlight peeking through the curtains in thin slivers.

She slept without a care for the world, still sleeping off their exploits from the night before. Benedict could only lay there and stare, watching as her chest gently rose and fell. The only thing covering her modesty right now was a thin blanket covering the two of them. 

He could spend the rest of eternity like this. And he wanted to. He wanted to stay here, forever. Undisturbed. 

“Good morning, Benedict,” a familiar, maternal voice suddenly says behind him.

Fuck.

Benedict froze, recognizing the voice immediately. And she certainly could not have interrupted him at the worst moment. 

When he had placated Sophie during her mid-night panic, assuring her his mother would not mind she’d spent the night with him, he had not been expecting said mother to just show up in his lodgings the next morning. He’d hoped she’d remain at Number 5, silently judging him over her morning cup of tea after he returned Sophie and joined them for breakfast. 

But his darling mother was in fact standing next to the bed as he turned to look over his shoulders, staring down at him with an arched brow and her hands holding her small purse in front of her. An unimpressed expression sat on her face, one that made it evident she was not pleased by his actions. 

How long had she been standing there? Watching him and Sophie sleeping. Not to mention, how the hell did she get into his lodgings? Lord above, Benedict was going to need to speak to his valet of who was allowed into his home while he slept (and certainly if Graves wanted to keep his job for the foreseeable future).

But he’d deal with Graves later. He had his mother to deal with currently. 

“Good morning, mother,” he slowly replied, finding courage quickly as he carefully rolled towards her and untangled himself from Sophie, trying not to disturb her as he moved. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Well,” she began, voice raising in the sing-song way his mother usually used was partially irked by him or his brothers. Or others. Benedict could feel the sarcasm coming on. “When I realized Sophie had not returned last night, I grew concerned that something may have happened. I thought it best to come check that you were both alright,” she told him flatly.

Benedict coughed, awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Well, as you can see, mother, we are both perfectly fine,” he said.

“And in the nude,” she pointed out simply, cocking her head to the side. “When I promised you a letter from the Archbishop for you to marry Sophie, which I’d like to inform you your brother received this morning, I at least hoped you’d be able to control yourself till then,” she then shook her head in disappointment, tutting to herself. “Three days, Benedict. Could you have not waited?” 

It was already a little late for that.

But Benedict was not about to tell her about that little incident.

Next to him, Sophie shifted suddenly, a soft moan escaping from her lips as she moved, making Benedict jerk with panic. If she woke up and found his mother in the room with them, she’d be mortified. Panicked. That was the last thing he needed. 

“You need to leave,” he told his mother, shooing her towards the door.

“Benedict–” she started. 

“Mother, can you please leave?” he hissed at her quietly, trying to still be polite but an aggressive edge leaked into his tone. 

Sophie rolled on to her back next to him, her eyes still thankfully closed as she settled again, letting out a soft, airy sigh. It appeared they had not fully woken her yet. Her breathing was still calm and steady. It was a miracle she hadn’t already awakened from her peaceful slumber, Benedict knew she was a light sleeper, but that could change soon. She could open her eyes at any moment. 

His mother rolled her eyes at him. “I expect you both dressed and downstairs in the next hour, Benedict. There is much to do if you two are to be married on Monday.” 

“Yes, yes, of course, now go,” he ordered hastily. 

His mother only scoffed at him, shaking her head at him, before making her way out of the room, the sounds of her footsteps as she headed down the stairs echoed through the home. 

And the moment she disappeared, the door clicking shut behind her, Sophie woke up.

She shifted again, moving her arms above her to stretch, the blanket slipping down and exposing her lovely chest as she did. 

“Good morning,” she mumbled happily, a beautiful smile gracing her lips as she blinked the sleep from her eyes and looked up at him.

“Good morning,” Benedict returned and he couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and kissed her soft, plump lips.

And Sophie reciprocated with ease, her hand drifting up to cup his face, her thumb rubbing over his jaw sending sparks through him. He’d only wanted to give her a quick peck, but the feel of her against him, the taste of her, was intoxicating, making him deepen the kiss as he pushed Sophie down against the bed. His hands finding her hips, then her thighs and then–

The realization his mother was currently mere feet away downstairs snapped him back to his senses. She’d come right back up here if they took too long and Benedict did not want to be caught destroying Sophie’s virtue by her. 

Sophie gave him a disappointed pout when he pulled away, one that quickly turned back into a smile. She looked even more beautiful somehow. Her golden curls sprayed out around her head on the pillow like a radiant halo. The sunlight made the honey colored strands shine. She practically glowed. 

Then she yawned. “I should get back to Number 5,” she told him, voice still laced with sleep. “Your mother must be worried about when I’m returning.” 

Right.

“About that…” 

—

“She saw us in bed?”

Sophie had been up and moving the moment Benedict informed her his mother was waiting for them downstairs, hastily throwing on the dress Violet had been kind enough to bring over with her. Another one of his sister’s old gowns. This one was one of Daphne’s, a soft baby blue with silver embroidered leaves wrapping around the skirt and on the tulle sleeves. With a matching silk capelet in the same color. 

Baby blue, the Bridgerton colors. His mother was dressing her as if she was already a member. Frankly, she had been since Sophie arrived. She’d never been made to wear any maid’s uniform. As if his mother somehow knew she would inevitably join their family before one could be made.

God, Benedict would forever be grateful to his mother, who had accepted Sophie as one of her own and treated her as if she was another Bridgerton daughter. 

Benedict watched as Sophie pulled her loose, messy curls up and into a bun, pacing back and forth in her panic.

“Sophie, it’s fine–” he started, trying to calm her down.

“She saw us in bed! Together!” Sophie repeated, a loud whispered hiss.

“There isn’t much she can do about it now,” Benedict returned with a laid back shrug, which only made Sophie spiral faster. Pushing off the bed and up to his feet, he came to her side, gently resting his hands on her shoulders, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Sophie, we’re going to be married in a few days. It’s not like we’ll be sharing a bed for the foreseeable future.” 

“Your mother just saw me in bed, naked, laying next to you!” Sophie quietly hissed again.

“You were completely covered. She saw nothing,” he assured her with a light, playful tone, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. 

Sophie gave him a look, one that only made him chuckle as he moved in to kiss her gently on the lips this time. She let him, relaxing a little against his body, although her lips were still pursed with discomfort and embarrassment when he pulled away.

“Come on,” he told her, retying the capelet ribbons for her.

She followed him without argument, still nervous as they made their way down to where his mother was waiting for them. 

But Violet Bridgerton only acted like nothing had happened, smiling warmly at Sophie as she greeted her, embracing her in a quick, maternal hug. One that allowed her to shoot Benedict a disapproving look over Sophie’s shoulder, as if he was at fault for Sophie’s spending the night.

Well, he was, but Benedict felt no shame or guilt over it. Only flashing his mother a mischievous, proud smile. 

“I’ve already called for the modiste now that we have the Archbishop’s approval. Madame Delacroix was kind enough to come to us to get your measurements. You’ve had such a hectic last few days it may be easier she come to us so you can take it easy today. I have a few ideas for floral arrangements that we can go over and the cook will need to know your favorite meals so we can have them for the reception. But first, let's get you back to Number 5 so you can eat something.” 

“Oh?” Sophie blinked in surprise, her mind seemed to have stalled as she tried processing all the information his mother had just given her. The realization hit her that there was much to do if they were to be married on Monday. 

“Is everything alright dear?” his mother asked.

Sophie looked between the two of them, nervously. “I only thought it would be a simple wedding. What with the rush.” 

Violet frowned. “Why ever would we do that? We can keep the ceremony and reception small, if that's what you want, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve a full celebration."

Seeing the wide eyed, nervous expression Sophie gave her back, Violet gave a small chuckle.

“You’ll be fine,” she assured her, smiling fondly. “I’ve been through this process before. You have nothing to worry about.” 

“If anyone knows how to plan a wedding, it’s my mother,” Benedict added, coming up behind Sophie.

“Which reminds me. You–” Violet said, pointing a finger at her second born. “–are going with your brother to the tailor. Today. I don’t want you anywhere near Number 5 until dinner.” 

Benedict’s smile dropped. He still wasn’t ready to part from Sophie, not after everything they’d gone through yesterday. The past few days. He still had much he wanted to speak with her about, and he’d hoped to be able to spend more time with her, even if it meant suffering through discussions on flower arrangements and wedding preparations. For Sophie, Benedict would endure anything. He wanted her to have everything and anything she wished. 

And he wouldn’t deny he had every desire to see her in her gown before the ceremony. Something he knew his mother and sisters would make sure did not happen. 

“Can it not wait till this afternoon?” he asked his mother. “I have more than enough suits the tailor can work off. I’m more than welcome to assist you two with the other preparations.” 

Violet only raised a brow at him. “I do believe your brother has some matters to discuss with you now that you are to be married. Regarding your inheritance. Besides, I think you two will be alright spending time apart for the next few days. Don’t you?” 

Sophie's cheeks went pink as she stood between them, no doubt reminded about what Violet had discovered her doing with her son.

Benedict groaned, shoulders slumping as he whined. “Mother–”

Violet only held up a hand, silencing him. “Come. Sophie needs her breakfast and Miss Delacroix will be arriving before noon. No point standing here discussing matters so let us go.” 

Linking her arm with Sophie’s, Violet then began leading her from the room. Sophie flashed Benedict a worried look over her shoulder as she was taken away, but Benedict could do nothing to stop.

Had he been smarter, he could have departed to Gretna Green this very morning, before his mother arrived, but there was nothing that could be done about it now. His mother wanted to see him married, and to Sophie there was no doubt about it, and now that she had her chance, she was going to make sure he got the exact same treatment Anthony and Daphne had gotten when they tied the knot. 

Christ, it was going to be a long weekend.

Sophie, never the one to believe she would one day marry (let alone have the money to afford more then a small service), had been unaware up to this moment exactly how many different shades of white a bridal gown could come in. 

Ivory, champagne, off-white, cream, pearl, seashell, diamond, porcelain. It was all beginning to make her head spin. 

She was beginning to believe it was nothing but a scam.

(Not that she thought it appropriate to be wearing white to her wedding in the first place, given her virtue had flown out the widow quite quickly when she found herself alone with Benedict. Twice now.) 

But Violet and the modiste were still debating which shade of white her gown would be, all while Sophie stood between them wearing nothing but a simple cotton shift, with a million little silver pins sticking in it, one Madame Delacroix had her wear so she could better gauge her measurements. Sophie was certain this was how dolls felt. 

Violet held up another swatch of white fabric next to Sophie’s face and hummed. 

“The silk you have in pearl does make her look quite heavenly, but the diamond white one makes her hair almost glow,” she said to Madame Delacroix as she held the fabric swatch next to another one, seeming utterly confounded by the two fabrics. “What do you think, Sophie?”

If she was honest, they looked exactly the same. They all did.

“I like them both,” she supplied, weakly, frankly unsure which was which.

“You said that about the last two fabrics,” Hyacinth called out from the settee, where she and her sisters had all been watching and commenting from afar. 

The youngest Bridgerton and her elder sister Eloise seemed to be utterly bored by the conversation at this point, while Posy and Francesca, who was newly engaged just like Sophie, were completely enraptured by what was happening. No doubt Francesca was planning on how her own wedding gown would look. Madame Delacroix had brought with her a book of new designs she was working on, which Francesca had slowly been going through as the modiste tended to Sophie, studying each drawing as if looking at the layout of a battlefield map and going through the same batch of white fabric swatches her mother had been going through for Sophie’s dress.  

“I think they're both lovely,” Posy added sweetly. 

While still a little nervous, Posy seemed to already be adapting well to her new life living with the Bridgertons. Her items had been unceremoniously dropped at the doorsteps of Number 5 by a carriage from Penwood House, which Sophie and Benedict had witnessed when they arrived at Number 5 that morning. The Penwood carriage was already departing down the road as the Bridgerton one pulled up.

And while there was some skepticism from Eloise and Hyacinth towards their new ward and roommate, that Sophie had noted when she arrived, no doubt confused as to how Posy Reiling had ended up coming to stay with them, they’d softened somewhat upon the realization that Sophie was quite happy to see her. 

Her future sisters-in-law still did not know the full story of Sophie’s background, that was still only between Sophie, Violet, Benedict and Anthony for now (although Sophie had a suspicion Francesca may have already caught on and that the viscountess Kate probably knew as well), but none of them objected to the news Sophie and Benedict were to be married. Hyacinth especially was ecstatic at the news Sophie would now be her sister and had already declared herself the flower girl for the ceremony, without Benedict or Sophie’s asking her. 

“They look the same if you asked me,” Eloise remarked flatly, not even looking up from the book she was reading as she lay slumped against the settee.

Violet’s lips pressed into a tight line as she regarded her daughter. The older woman appeared to be trying not to lecture her daughter on the obvious differences between the two fabrics and was so far successful at holding her tongue. 

“I think we’re getting a bit too caught up on the details, mother,” Francesca, ever the mediator, added kindly. “Sophie will look beautiful in whatever gown she wears, but maybe she should be the one deciding that.”

“Oh, I really don’t mind,” Sophie told them all. 

“No, no, Francesca’s right,” Violet replied, giving her a warm smile. “My apologies, I’m getting a bit too excited aren’t I? Why don’t you and Madame Delacroix discuss while Hyacinth and I decide on her outfit for Monday?”

Behind her Hyacinth immediately perked up. The young girl jumped to her feet and speedily raced towards the more colorful and bold fabric swatches the modiste had also brought with her, all laying on the nearby table, snatching up a few she’d been eying from afar. 

“Of course, Lady Bridgerton,” Madame Delacroix said with a polite nod.  

As Violet practically glided to where Hyacinth was standing, the two beginning to discuss her flower girl dress, Sophie was left awkwardly standing with Madame Delacroix, who had also seemed equally uncomfortable at the idea of being left alone with her and had been since their introductions. 

But the modiste quickly plastered on a cheerful smile, one Sophie recognized as a laborer’s smile. Put on to placate employers and customers no doubt. “Now, Miss Beckett, what did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Um…” Sophie hesitated. “I’m not quite sure.”

“Are there fabrics you prefer? A style sleeve or cut you like? Lace or frills? Details? With the time constraints we’re under, I’ll be limited to what fabrics I have in my shop currently. I won’t be able to get a custom embroidery for you I’m afraid,” the modiste explained. 

“Oh, that’s alright,” Sophie told her, feeling utterly out of her depth and overwhelmed. 

Madame Delacroix seemed to notice her discomfort. “Why don’t we start with colors? Something simple maybe? White?”

She gave her a soft smile as she spoke, one which assured Sophie she would be perfectly fine with whatever she chose.

Sophie nodded. “Yes, I think plain old white is fine with me.”

“Now, do you prefer silk or cotton? Velvet will be a little too warm with the summer weather we are having but cotton or linen will breathe a little better. Linen breathes the best and will keep you cool, but silk is light too and has the added bonus making the gown look more regal and expensive. Because it is,” the modiste added with a wink.

“Oh, I think linen will be fine. I don’t want to be spending too much–” Sophie quickly started.

“Anthony asked me to inform you not to worry about cost so you can pick whatever you please,” Violet called out from across the room, not looking up from the designs she was reviewing with Hyacinth. “And silk will feel much softer than linen.” 

“As long as it does not rain, you will look incroyable ,” Madame Delacroix told her.

Sophie frowned, noting once again that something was off about the modiste’s french. While Sophie’s father had been rather hands off in her care growing up, he had gotten her a French tutor straight from Paris, one who had made sure Sophie’s accent and pronunciation of the French language was not one of a lowly peasant but one that matched with the educated and wealthy nobles. Something Sophie had always found funny given her tutor was an old revolutionary, who’d been more than welcomed to explain to her his experiences in Paris during the revolution and the bloody Reign of Terror which had followed (and in gruesome detail) without her even requesting him to, which had been quite a lot for the then seven year old Sophie to take in. But while he would philosophize to her about the rights of the people to live freely without a monarchy and his beliefs about how laborers should be treated, he was an educated man who cherished his language and was particular about the way it should be spoken. 

But it wasn’t the accent that had caught Sophie’s attention, it was that Madame Delacroix seemed to only use a small set list of words, mainly compliments, simple words too like 'hello' and 'goodbye,' while also writing all of her notes and measurements in English. Which was odd, given Sophie assumed all of the modiste’s personal matters would be written in her native language. It had been the same with her old tutor. 

She was beginning to wonder if Madame Delacroix was truly the French Parisian she claimed to be.

“I suppose silk will be fine,” she told her with a small nod. She’d probably look quite nice in silk and a soft fabric would be more comfortable, even if she was certain she would be sweating buckets due to her nerves.

“And while I would recommend you add gold details, I believe silver would be Mr. Bridgerton’s preference?” Madame Delacroix said somewhat knowingly. 

Sophie found herself nervously nodding in agreement. She wouldn’t deny she enjoyed the idea of calling back to their first meeting. Benedict would certainly enjoy it. 

Madame Delacroix smiled as she pulled at the fabric of the pinned dress Sophie was in, eyeing it as if she was imagining the finished product in her mind. 

“I have a few embroidery fabrics I can show you that I think will go nicely. And I know Mr. Bridgerton enjoys a lower neckline versus a cinched waist. He always says it's because of the detail in the embroidery of the fabrics, but that’s never where his eyes truly look. But he does find simplicity to be quite pretty too. And I think you’ll look good in a low square cut or maybe a sweetheart with a tulle or chiffon overlay. Like a Grecian goddess. I have a nice silver white with some lace doves I think will look good. He’ll certainly enjoy it,” Madame Delacroix continued with a fond chuckle.

Sophie nodded along, but found herself momentarily surprised and confused by some of the words she was using. “I’m sorry? He’ll enjoy what?”

Which is when Sophie also realized the modiste somehow knew about Benedict’s searches for the Lady in Silver. That had never been in a Whistledown Report, and Benedict told her he’d limited his conversations to family and a few close friends. 

Madame Delacroix's smile faltered for a moment, her eyes widening as if she’d been caught before she laughed and waved her hand flippantly at her. “I mean men are so easily distracted, no? From how his sisters speak he sounds to be so blinded by your beauty and charm all we can do is amplify it. And with Mr. Bridgerton being an artist, should detail not reflect in his bride’s gown?” 

“Um, I…I suppose,” Sophie replied, still feeling a little confused. 

The modiste had sounded so familiar with Benedict, as if speaking of an old friend-an old flame, that Sophie was momentarily thrown by it, but she supposed Madame Delacroix, one of the most popular modistes in all of London, was so used to dressing the nobles and wealthy women of society she’d come to learn quite a lot about what man liked and did not like.

And, Sophie couldn’t ignore that the Bridgertons typically had their gowns all done by her, she’d probably overheard something during a fitting. Violet might have spoken to her about her sons for all she knew. 

“When I’m done with your gown you look as though you came out of one of his paintings. And he certainly won’t be able to keep his hands off you,” Madame Delacroix added. Then, a little louder, she announced. “Well, I believe I have everything I need for your gown, Miss Beckett. Lady Bridgerton, have you and Miss Hyacinth decided on her gown?”

“Yes, I believe Hyacinth knows exactly what she wants,” Violet replied, sounding somewhat exasperated, as she sat next to a very excited, vibrating Hyacinth. 

“Let me help you get out of this first so you can change,” Madame Delacroix told Sophie as she began plucking some of the pins from the fabric wrapped around her. “I’m certain you are tired of standing around like a stiff mannequin.” 

Sophie nodded her understanding, still processing their interaction, but she found it best to just shrug it off. It was easily explainable, nothing she needed to worry about.

And, if anything, she could probably talk to Benedict about it. If it truly was still bothering her.

“How the hell were you able to stay so calm when you were getting married?” Benedict called out as he slumped into a chair in his brother’s office, while Anthony bee-lined for the whiskey the moment behind him. 

The pair of them had just returned from a visit with the tailor, one where Benedict thought his head was going to explode from how many unnecessary suggestions the owner had kept making. Just make a simple wedding suit, in black, there was no need for anything extra. The damn man should already have his measurements. It shouldn’t be so difficult. 

And the longer they had stayed there, the longer he was kept from reuniting with Sophie.

Anthony downed the large glass he’d poured, personally at his wits end with his brother after their adventure at the tailor, then poured two more. He brought both over with him as he headed to his desk and handed one to Benedict as he passed. 

“Because I’m an incredibly patient man, who knew that I had not only fulfilled my duties to this family but was marrying the woman I loved,” his brother informed. “It was worth the wait.” 

“Are you referencing the first or second one when you say that?” Benedict mockingly asked, getting a sharp glare for it in return.

“The second,” Anthony deadpanned. “Obviously.” 

Benedict snickered as he took a sip of his glass. “I’m still surprised you and Kate didn’t pressure the Archbishop for permission to marry earlier.”

“We certainly thought about it, but there was enough going on that a three week wait would give the ton enough time to move on. And Whistledown gave us the added blessing by barely writing about it,” Anthony returned as he took a seat, slumping into his chair in a similar manner to Benedict yet somehow still rigid and with a noble ease becoming of a viscount.

“She’ll certainly have something to say when she hears about this,” Benedict remarked. 

“As will the rest of the ton no doubt,” Anthony added.

Benedict felt his gut twist inside him at the thought, but in all honesty it was something he had no interest in discussing right now. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, the way the ton would react to his choice in a wife would happen. And in the way he knew it would. 

But while he could care less about what the ton thought about him, he was more worried about Sophie. She was no doubt about to get wicked assumptions and cruel opinions made about her by people who’d only just learned she existed. She didn’t deserve that.

“Mother said you wished to speak of my inheritance,” he said to his brother, wanting to move the conversation along so his mind would not seize with panic over Sophie’s well being. He needed a distraction. And fast.  

Anthony nodded, grabbing a stack of papers and handing them over to Benedict. “There are a few final pieces of father’s will, which I know you already are aware of. Some paperwork you’ll have to sign. There are all matters that would be handed to you once you were married, including your inheritance. Along with a few final items father left to you. Are you and Sophie planning to remain in London?”

Benedict shook his head as he scanned the documents. “Sophie prefers the country. And I don’t want her anywhere near the talk I know is about to start come Monday.”

His brother nodded. “The ton will certainly be interested in how a Bridgerton came to have a rushed marriage with a country maid.” 

There was nothing rude or snide in his tone, just a direct truthful remark of their situation, but only reminded Benedict of the precarious situation he was still in with Sophie. His anxiety, still trying to worm its way through his body, continued its slow progression towards his thoughts.

They may have prevented Araminta from informing the entire city the circumstances of Sophie’s birth, but she was still considered of the lower class. And marrying up no less. Everyone and their mother was about to have an opinion on this, regardless of how much social standing his family had. 

But Anthony didn’t seem interested in lingering on that matter either. Besides, he knew their mother, Kate and Daphne were all working on it behind the scenes. Implementing a plan to help manage the rumors and whispers that would no doubt reach a fever pitch once someone discovered the Archbishop acceptance. 

“There are a few estates in Kent if you wish to remain near Aubrey Hall.”

“My Cottage is fine enough for the both of us,” Benedict replied.

Anthony raised a brow in surprise. “She doesn’t find it too small?”

Benedict chuckled. “She thinks it's huge. And it's only a little smaller than this place,” he told him, motioning to their surroundings. 

The Bridgerton House fit his entire family and then some. My Cottage was roughly the same square footage, but with a few less rooms. It was the land that was far more expansive than the home. 

“And you forget. Sophie grew up in a far grander home than we did,” he added. 

“Hence my inquiry. Gunningworth was quite wealthy and the Penwood estate is an incredible sight I’ve been told,” Anthony said with a hum as Benedict took the quill and ink and began signing the documents. “Which reminds me, the new Earl of Penwood has made an appearance in the city.” 

“All of the sudden?” Benedict said with a frown.

The eighth Earl of Penwood, a distant Gunningworth cousin from the north who inherited after Sophie’s father died without a male heir, had followed in his predecessor's footsteps. Remaining as far away from society as he could and as much as possible, even more than the late earl had. He was pretty much an enigma. 

“His most likely here for the vote the House of Lords has coming up, but my concern is that he’ll be at Penwood House with a certain dowager countess during this time,” Anthony informed him. 

“You think Araminta will try to sway him to her side?” Benedict asked, growing concern. 

“If he’s smart he will know that revealing Sophie’s true heritage will cause him more problems than solutions. And if he was aware of what the real will said regarding Sophie’s dowry and that he did nothing to guarantee that she received it, it would make him look as though he cannot control his own house. He’ll look weak in the eyes of other noblemen. And we can also threaten him with financial ruin if it comes to it given the fraud that occurred,” Anthony replied. 

“But that won’t stop him ruining Sophie’s reputation in the process,” he returned.

“I don’t know much about him to gauge what kind of man he is, or what he’ll do,” Anthony told him. “Has Sophie ever mentioned him? His character?”

Benedict thought it over for a moment. “She was quite certain he was a drunkard. Said she realized it later. He spent most of the funeral and the reading of the will, red-faced and drinking from a flask. But other than that, she hardly interacted with him. She’d never met him until the funeral and she never saw him again after Araminta moved to Penwood House.”

“A drunk means a potential issue with impulse while in public,” Anthony commented, making Benedict only tense more. “I’ll keep an eye on it. There is a meeting tomorrow morning at the House of Lords. One he’ll be expected to show his face at. Simon and I will try to seek him out. See if we can get an idea what kind of man he is.”

“Don’t tell Sophie,” Benedict blurted out suddenly. “Sorry, I…I don’t want her worrying. She’s dealt with enough this week already.”

Anthony nodded. “I won’t. But I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Thank you,” Benedict told him, rising from his feet. He now more than ever wanted to get to Number 5. “I’m going to head over and check on her. See how she’s fairing with our dear mother.”

“Kate and I will be over with the boys in an hour for tea,” Anthony replied. “I have some matters to attend to first, but I’ll see you then. And Benedict?”

“Yes?”

“I haven’t been able to say it yet, but congratulations. Sophie’s a welcomed addition to the family. I wish you both nothing but happiness,” Anthony told him sincerely. “You both deserve it.”

“Thank you brother,” Benedict replied with a small smile. 

“You ready?” his brother added.

“Completely,” Benedict answered without hesitating. 

Anthony gave him a small, proud smile as he quietly regarded him, before it vanished and he waved him along, back to business. “Go. I’ll see you later.”

While Sophie had thought the visit with the modiste had left her with her head spinning, the meetings with the florist and the cook had been equally overwhelming. 

And exhausting.

She found herself all but collapsing on the settee. After the florist had left and Violet and Sophie had met with the cook, Francesca had suggested to Posy a trip to the market, so that she and her sisters could get to know her better.

(And also so that Sophie would have a chance to breathe.)

They’d all just departed with a few lady’s maids, leaving Sophie and Violet as the only ones in Number 5. It was the first time Sophie had felt silence descend in the home since she’d arrived that morning. Both her and Violet seemed ready to take a break. Violet had already asked Mrs. Wilson to fetch them some tea so they could take a few moments to relax before Anthony and his family arrived. 

“Mother,” Benedict announced cheerfully as he suddenly entered the room. “Don’t you look radiant as ever.”

Violet, who’d been sitting in the settee across from Sophie and was about to ask her something, stopped, whipping around to look over her shoulder at where her son had suddenly materialized in the doorway behind her. She looked surprised to see him here so early. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the tailor?” she told him, flatly, watching him as he immediately crossed the room to where Sophie was, bypassing her completely. 

“Already finished,” Benedict replied as he took a seat next to his fiancee, pressing a kiss to Sophie’s cheek. “How are you?” he whispered in her ear.

“Good,” Sophie replied. “Tired.”

“Has my mother driven you mad yet?” he asked mischievously, his arm slithered around the back of the sofa, behind Sophie’s head, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. “She certainly had that effect when she’s in planning mode.” 

“I am sitting right here, Benedict,” Violet informed her son curtly. 

“How are you mother? How goes the wedding planning?” Benedict asked, as if he hadn’t said anything to Sophie. 

Violet's first response was to take a deep breath. “Well. Madame Delacroix should have the gown ready by Sunday and Sophie and I picked out some lovely arrangements. The cook also will want your input–”

“I’m fine with whatever Sophie picked. I trust her judgement completely,” Benedict assured her. 

“She wanted pickle herring,” Violet deadpanned.

Sophie gave her a bewildered look. She most certainly had not picked that. 

But, she quickly realized that was the point. That Violet was merely lying in an attempt to fool her son, who was momentarily stunned by her statement. 

“Well…that is…” Benedict stumbled to find the words. It took a few moments of uncomfortable silence before he did. “That’s fine. I love pickle herring.” 

“You hate pickle herring,” his mother informed him.

Benedict bristled. “I do not.”

Violet appeared to be fighting with herself not to roll her eyes at him. “Benedict, you hate pickled anything. Have hated it since you were a child.”

“I do not,” he argued back.

She couldn’t help it. Sophie started chuckling, catching Benedict’s attention and revealing the ruse. 

“I didn’t pick pickle herring,” she whispered, coming to his rescue. “I don’t like pickle herring either.” 

Benedict blinked at her in surprise, before looking over at his mother, mouth open and aghast. Almost wounded like.

“Mother,” he gasped. “How could you?”

But Violet only shrugged.

“You’re allowed to have differences, Benedict. And you should,” she told him. “It’s a good thing. It means you're honest with one another. For years, I told your father I liked the way the cook made lemon tarts when in actuality I thought they were far too sour,” she then let out a sigh, shaking her head as she recalled the matter. “Your father. Good lord. He couldn’t stop asking the cook to make them for me. I thought I was going to be stuck eating those awful tarts forever.” 

“And yet father kept tight-lipped for most of his life about how awful you were at the pianoforte,” Benedict said with a sly smile. 

Violet gave him a small glower for that remark. “Well, that’s different,” she told them. 

“She’s truly dreadful,” Benedict told Sophie. “That’s why Daphne was made to learn at such a young age. My father was trying to make sure my mother could no longer play because Daphne was using it to practice.” 

“Because that was any better,” Violet said with a scoff. 

“And none of us could tell her,” he continued. “I asked my father once why we couldn’t and he said,” Benedict then cleared his throat, before deepening his voice into an utterly inaccurate imitation of his late father as he spoke. “Son, when a woman asks you for your opinion on her talents, and if you love her very dearly, your safest bet is to always tell her she’s an expert at it.”

“Your father did not say that,” Violet chided with a gasp. 

“My father was a smart man who loved you and knew how to keep you happy,” Benedict returned.

Violet gave him a look that said she still disagreed, but said nothing against it. Behind her, Mrs. Wilson entered carrying a tray, which she brought over towards the table nearby. Seeing the housekeeper, Violet rose to assist her, taking over the pouring and preparing of the cups. 

While she may no longer have been a maid, Sophie, instinctually, got up to go and help her future mother-in-law. But she was prevented from assisting her the moment she moved past Benedict. 

Because she felt a hand come to rest on her behind, which caused her to momentarily tense up, before the hand gathered up a handful of her skirt and tugged sharply back, pulling her backwards and making her lose her footing.

And causing her to land directly on Benedict’s waiting lap. 

It was almost instantaneous. As if she’d been burned, Sophie was immediately pushing herself back up to stand. The thought of being caught being improper, in front of Benedict’s family – his mother (again!) – had her adamant to escape from him as fast as possible. Only Benedict’s arm had already snaked around her waist, pulling her back and keeping her pinned against him as she heard him chuckle in her ear. All while Violet had her back still turned to them as she continued to pour her cup, unaware of what was transpiring behind her.

“Let go,” Sophie hissed quietly as she wiggled. 

“No,” Benedict whispered into her, she could hear the smile on his face as he spoke. Then she felt his lips gently press a kiss on the back of her neck, making her tense up. 

“Stop it,” she ordered quietly. 

Benedict hummed as he thought it over. Then she felt another soft kiss. “No.”

“Benedict–” she started quietly, but he only chuckled lightly, his breaths tickling her neck and making her shiver. 

His hands roaming over her sides and towards her inner thighs. Even with the fabric covering her, Sophie felt exposed, as if his fingers were touching skin. Warmth began pooling below her stomach. A familiar tight feeling following, one which she couldn’t tell was desire or anxiety.

“Might you both please save it for the honeymoon?” Anthony’s voice suddenly interrupted them with a sigh. 

They both glanced over and found him, with Miles held comfortably in his arms, standing in the doorway. Behind him was Kate and little Edmund, who had rushed ahead of his parents after Newton and into the room to greet his grandmother, yelling his greeting loudly as he rushed to her side. 

Violet turned, right as her grandson impacted with her to give her a big hug, and spotted the pair immediately. Her light blue eyes widening in shock before she shot Benedict a harsh look. Sophie’s cheeks burned as she shifted her hips and rolled off his lap and onto the settee next to him, but Benedict still kept one arm protectively around her, his hand resting on her thigh. And unlike her, he was not at all embarrassed by being caught by his family. He only smiled sharply at his brother, a mischievous glint still lingering in his eyes.

“As if you and Kate were any better. If the desk in your office had any semblance of sentience it would be traumatized by what it's seen you two do on it,” he shot back, which made Kate let out a loud laugh as she entered the room. Anthony only shook his head at him in disgust as he followed his wife. 

“Benedict. Behave,” Violet admonished. Sophie was beginning to wonder if it was possible for someone to just melt into a puddle due to sheer embarrassment. 

“You’re disgusting,” Anthony remarked. “And for that, you can take your nephew.” 

Antony then handed over his youngest. The little baby happily squealed as he was taken into his uncle’s arms, reaching out to grab Benedict’s face. Benedict returned the squeal by blowing a big raspberry at his nephew, poking his tongue out at him, which only made Mile’s descend into a greater fit of laughter. 

“Hello Miss Sophie,” Edmund greeted her suddenly by wrapping his arms around her legs.

“Hello Edmund. How are you?” Sophie asked. 

The young boy looked up and gave her a bright smile, his round cheeks going pink. In the very brief time Edmund had known his aunts’ new lady’s maid it had become quite apparent that he liked her. As if she’d become a new toy, Edmund had spent most of his visits to Number 5 chatting happily with her and telling her just how much he liked her. 

“How have you been, Sophie?” Kate asked as she came to sit next to her.

“I’m doing well,” Sophie replied.

Kate gave her a smile. “Well, congratulations. We’re all incredibly happy for both of you.”

“Why congratulations?” Edmund asked his mother curiously.

“Oh, that’s right. Remember how I told you on the way here that you’re uncle had some big news,” Kate told her son sweetly, as her husband took a seat on the settee across from them and Violet came over and took Miles from Benedict. 

Edmund nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, your uncle is getting married. To Miss Sophie,” Kate cheerfully told him. 

Edmund blinked up at her. “What?” he asked.

“Didn’t you hear that, Edmund?” Violet said happily. “Miss Sophie is going to be your aunt.”

The little boy’s head whipped towards her at the news. Dark eyes wide with surprise. 

Edmund blinked slowly at them, glancing between his uncle and future aunt, then to his grandmother, and then back to Sophie with an increasing alarm and distressed look as he took in the news. His eyes went bigger and rounder as they suddenly started to fill with watery tears and he began to sniffle. Something had apparently upset him greatly. 

“Edmund, sweetheart. Whatever is the matter?” Kate asked, growing concerned.

The little boy took a deep, shaking breath. Then another. And then another. All while his relatives carefully watched him with mixed expressions of worry and concern, waiting for him to explain himself. But he just kept taking deep breath after deep breath, before letting his head fall back, his mouth opening wide, as he began to wail. Startling Newton, who trotted over quickly to check on him, and also little Miles, who began to get fussy in Violet’s arms from the loud noise. 

“I want to marry Sophie!” Edmund cried out loudly. 

His parents and relatives all immediately sagged with relief as they realized it was not something truly horrible that had pushed the young boy to tears. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Kate leaned forward to grab him. She had a look of sympathy as she reached out to comfort her son, but there was still a small smile on her face she’d been unable to hold back, finding the reason for her son’s tears utterly adorable.

“Edmund, you cannot marry Sophie,” Violet gently told him with a soft chuckle.

“Why?” Edmund cried back, turning towards his grandmother.

“Because you're too little to be getting married,” Anthony told him, but it only made the boy cry harder. It was as if Edmund had just received the worst news imaginable. 

Benedict had a fist pressed against his mouth as he looked away, focusing on the window behind him, his body shaking as he tried to hold back his laughter. He did not want his poor nephew to see him. 

But Edmund could have cared less about him right now, turning towards Sophie, who seemed to be the only one still concerned about his crying. Mossy eyes wide with surprise and concern as she watched him.

“You can’t marry uncle Ben,” he told her stubbornly, sniffling. 

“Miss Sophie has already said yes to marrying your uncle,” Anthony informed his son, before Sophie had a chance to say anything. 

“But she can’t!” he shouted back dramatically, rubbing his palms over his eyes as he tried to wipe away the tears. A rather sweet and sad sight as the boy practically was smacking his eyes in his attempts. 

“There, there,” Kate cooed as she chuckled, gently laughing as she rubbed her son’s back.

“I was going to marry Miss Sophie,” Edmund repeated as he cried.

While the rest of his family seemed to find his reaction sweet, Sophie was feeling rather guilty over causing the young boy’s tears. Even though Kate was already rubbing his back, gently shushing him and telling him he was alright.

“Would you like a hug, Edmund?” she inquired gently.

Edmund obliged instantly, nodding his head furiously as he rushed over and started climbing up the settee as if he was scaling the Alps. Sophie got her hands under his armpits, helping to pull him up so he sat between her and Kate, after which Edmund threw his arms around her, pressing his face into her side. No doubt leaving a few wet marks on her gown. Sophie gave him a quick, comforting squeeze before letting his sag down into the settee and relax next to her.

“Edmund, I’m very sorry I upset you,” Sophie gently told him, rubbing her hand up and down his back as she comforted him, while Edmund's cries slowly subsided. 

The small boy took a few big gulps of air as he tried to calm himself. Sniffling, he moved his head to keep it rested against her side, his ear pressed right against her lower ribs. 

“It’s alright. I don’t blame you Miss Sophie,” he told her.

But he was looking right at Benedict as he spoke, with a little frown on his typically sweet face. His brows pinched together and his lips pursed into a tight pout as he glared at his uncle. He was the picture of his father suddenly, with the very same expression Benedict recalled Anthony having when they were little and arguing over their toys. Like he expected to be told that Sophie was no longer his and that he’d have to share. 

But Benedict could only chuckled back at his nephew fondly, knowing he was already victorious. 

Finding himself unable to intimidate his uncle, Edmund turned his attention back to Sophie. 

“You’ll live here, right? I’ll still be able to see you?” he quietly inquired, voice tired from all the dramatics but filled with gentle hope that Sophie marrying his uncle meant he would still see her. And more regularly. 

But the answer to that question did not please the young boy at all. 

[beneroadtrip]

October 9, 2024

Bene was delivered to Geoff’s in West Sussex today.

Looks nice and cozy in the transport!

[mariacallous]

There is no substitute for eating a dish in its place of origin, preferably made in a home kitchen by hands that hold the muscle memory of thousands of meals. For me, a close second is stumbling across a recipe, trying it out, and feeling transported to a new place by its flavors. The vastness of the Jewish diaspora has gifted us with a wealth of interesting types of culinary mergers, and I particularly love exploring the Jewish food of India, where Jewish communities date back thousands of years.

There are three distinctive Jewish Indian groups that happened to be largely isolated from each other: the Cochin Jews of Kerala in South India, the Bene Israel Jews of India’s West Coast and Mumbai, and the Jews of Kolkata in East India (formerly known as Calcutta). In “The Book of Jewish Food,” Claudia Roden recounts how Shalom Cohen from Aleppo was the first known Jew to settle in Kolkata in 1798. Soon after, Syrian and Iraqi Jews followed and developed a strong community there, where they worked as merchants and traders and lived in harmony with their neighbors. Things changed in 1947 when India gained independence, and again in 1948 with the creation of the State of Israel; anti-Semitism grew as the Jews became associated with the colonial British power. During that time, most of the Jews from Kolkata immigrated to Israel, the U.S., U.K. and Australia. This once vibrant Jewish Indian community is now all but gone from Kolkata.

While only a handful of Jews still live in Kolkata, the food from this community has traveled with its people. Their style of cooking involves a combination of ingredients and preparations from the Middle East, with the spices and techniques of Indian cuisine. There are several cookbooks and articles devoted to Sephardic foods and Indian Jewish cookery that have documented some of the dishes of the Jews from Kolkata. I was first struck by a recipe I found in both Copeland Marks’ book “Sephardic Cooking,” as well as in “Indian Jewish Cooking” by Mavis Hyman. Mukmura (or mahmoora) is a dish of chicken and almonds in a slightly sweetened tangy lemon sauce. I like any recipe that looks like it is simple to prepare but still offers big flavors, and this was clearly that. This chicken dish calls for easy to find bold ingredients like ginger, garlic, ground turmeric, lemon juice and fresh mint. The chicken is braised, which means the meat won’t get dry, and it can easily be made in advance for entertaining, Shabbat and holidays. By slowly simmering all of the ingredients together you develop a slightly sweet and sour sauce with all those warm spices and aromatics.  This dish is simultaneously comforting and exciting.

Note: This can be made a day in advance and reheats well.

[impercre]

A Brief History of Arrakis and the Fremen

Though the history of Arrakis spans eons, it is easy to reduce that complex history to a series of short paragraphs before the advent of House Atreides. Before human arrival the inhospitiable planet still provided one off the most unique native species in the known universe- the Sandworms. These majestic creatures and how they survived such an inhospitable environment was what first brought researchers and planetologists to the planet. Like ancient Terran alchemists their pursuit revealed an elixir of life in the Spice.

A psychoactive novelty at first, it became highly sought after by the then fledgling Spacing Guild and Bene Gesserit for it's mind-altering effects including seeming ability to allow for and enhance prescient abilities. This coupled with it's health benefits and highly addictive quality made it increasingly sought after especially after Guild Navigators began to rely on it extensively to help them complete the complex mathematical formulae needed to 'jump' through space. In their desire to harvest and meet the growing demand for the Spice, Zensunni wanderers were imported en masse to the planet.

Long serving as a kind of slave race in the Imperium they found on Arrakis a home. Fleeing into the seemingly inhospitiable desert these escaped slaves called themselves 'Free Men' which later became 'Fremen'.

By learning the ways of the deep deserts and having learned to survive there they were able to trade spice gathered deep in the desert first with the Guild and then the Arrakis' other, Imperial, occupiers. Then when Pardot Kynes brought his visions of transforming Arrakis into a water rich paradise the Fremen used the spice for something else- a means to bribe the Spacing Guild to turn a blind eye to their attempts to change the face of Arrakis itself.

In terms of canon divergence I feel I adhere fairly close to what's presented in the original series only diverging when it comes to their origins in an attempt to steamline it.

The Fremen also have mild cases of hive mind and some prescient abilities given their long term exposure to the Spice. Both aspects are experienced largely subconsciously by the Fremen beyond very strong intuitions.

Given their origins and experiences they're extremely wary of off-worlders or 'out freyn' as they call them.

While they can be divided by tribe they're fairly cohesive culturally though as I develop the different tribes I will list them in the Fremen history tag.

For those more casually familiar or not familiar with Dune, the Fremen largely keep to the desert and are seen as the bottom of the social order with the Harkonnens even hunting them for sport when they take control of the planet. And while there is some intermarriage between them and those who live in the cities (Arrakeen and Carthag being the most prominent) there is a mutual wariness and distrust between the two as well.

While officially called Arrakis, the locals just call the planet 'Dune'.

That the Fremen can and do ride the Sandworms and use them for transport is a closely guarded secret never shown or spoken of to outsiders until the Atreides join them in exile.

Fremen History Tag X

[briarrosedahl]

𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 guiding her biggest feline, the Lynx whose named Figaro. He had already fed, and she made sure everything was okay to her dearest animal, as she looked at it, and one of her guards went on top of the carriage to where they would transport her pet. Figaro was guarding its owner, roaring as his fangs, before sitting nearly on her feet, and she stretched its head.  ❛ Tutto andrà bene! ❜ And he began to close its eyes, rubbing his head on her hands and ripping giggles from her, suddenly she felt an eye on her. Adi... Narisa's brother.   ❛ Hi. ❜ She said politely, unsure on what else to say...

@engvvll​   💙 adi 

[msfbgraves]

can you link the scene where Terry apologizes to Daniel in front of their pups but Daniel leaves anyway?!

Can't link it, I'm having a bit of trouble with my dashboard today, but here it is:

This was Terry, angry at his brother Michael, apparently, taking it out on him and maybe the sex act wasn't even any different than anything they'd done dozens of times by now. It was the intent. And when Terry pulled him close this time it wasn't to hold him, but to trap him. But it does calm him, and Daniel by this point is not thinking of himself but of his puppies.

He cannot have this energy around his puppies.

So he nestles in close, whispers nonsense Terry may want to hear, because he needs to get back to them.

He needs to get back to them.

So he gets up, showers, lies down next to his babies and goes to sleep. Robby in his arms, Sammy, Eli and Yasmin draped bodily over him, like little human shields. Baby Gianni in a cot right next to Mama's head.

Terry knows what that means. He's done the same for his Mammy. After Katie, after Daddy's death.

He's crushed. The puppies may not understand what's going on, they can intuit it all too well. So he needs to show he's not a threat. Right here, in their sphere, he needs to get to his knees (that is huge for an Alpha, he can barely get himself to do it in church or even in private), needs to humble himself before their very eyes. He can barely sleep at the thought.

But he does it, and the pups are happy to see him, they love their Daddy, they need things to be well -

But Daniel is distant. He turns away, gets up, hugs his puppies good morning, shushes Sammy, goes for Gianni's baby things. His travel cot.

"Danny, no."

"I need to see my brother."

"Danny please."

'I'll ask Ma to come help you. Sammy, show Daddy where the sandwiches are? And you can heat up the extra pancakes. Fruit's in the fridge."

"Daniel."

"There's juice and milk, Yasmin likes her bubble water. Ragazzi, kitchen, now."

Terry grabs him. "Danny boy..."

Daniel's eyes are stone cold.

"My name is Daniele."

Terry never really finds out what exactly happened while Daniel was at the LaRussos. Lucille arrived by cab and let it take Daniel back to his father's. She pointedly informed Terry that they could take the pups anytime, for as long as necessary, 'just in case.' Louie blabbed years later that apparently, the Don had given Michael the dressing down of a lifetime. Don LaRusso pointedly informed Terry that night that Daniele had a slight fever and didn't want to risk infecting the puppies, he would understand. Any new business he and Michael were at odds about was off, period. You can't expand on shaky ground. On that note. He had booked passage to Sicily. Yes, near Corleone, where they'd had their honeymoon. It was unclear whether Daniele would be up for it, they'd have to see in a few days, but he'd expect a cheque regardless. Be ready to leave. Yes, it has to be this ship. Why, the captain of this ship was a family friend. Ah, yes. And Daniele needs his own car. Yes, in New York too. He likes Ferraris. And the Don will keep an extra set of keys in his house, just in case. And an extra set of keys to his own car, should something happen to this one. His son needs his own transportation. And he has access to his dowry money, of course. Of course, good man. They'll take the puppies while you two are away. No it's no trouble. Why don't you come to lunch in three days to iron out the details. Louie will pick you up. No, it's no trouble, Terry, you heard me the first time. Bene. He doesn't know if his son will be there. Let's wait and see. Buona serata to you.

They end up having a great trip, actually, if Daniel misses his puppies. Terry takes him to Ireland next. They visit Amanda, and spend the last three days in Syracuse, from where they sail. The guest house has a great view, which is good, because they barely set a foot outside of it during Daniel's heat.

He returns home pregnant with Anthony.

The Don nods to himself at the news, then kisses his wife.

[thornychairman]

When Lusamine Delacroix arrives in Wyndon, she is escorted by five Aether associates off of her helicopter, and into a private vehicle.

Public appearances from the President of the Aether Foundation are extraordinarily rare, and so it is no surprise that she garners quite a bit of attention as she exits her transportation in front of the tower that Macro Cosmos was incorporated in.

One thing is for certain, people are usually taken off guard by how tall she is in person, much to her subtle amusement. And there she waits to be greeted by either one Oleana, or the Macro Cosmos president himself. She glances around the lobby, staring rather plainly, occasionally nodding and offering brief smiles, but she does not engage with anybody directly.

After such a generous gift had been given to her, Lusamine found it suitable to deliver her own in person.

One does not keep a lady waiting, Rose thought to himself as he made his way to the special office at the top of the tower, where Madame Delacroix would be waiting to meet him. The president of Macro Cosmos was a rather pragmatic man and having a luxurious office wasn't in the best interest of doing work -- a desk, clean surroundings and all the needed comforts one needed to get a job done was suffice.

However, Spencer O. Rose did not get to where he was being a Plain Joe when addressing the populace at large. Special occasions meant one should create equally special circumstances.

The Other Office, as Rose liked to call it, was more like one would expect out of an observatory or a planetarium. The glass was made of special fiber optics, which could turn into a magnificent display as well as allow for a great view of the sky. Since it was business hours, a clear blue Wyndon sky was a little boring, so he'd asked Oleana to prepare the office to give it a night sky aesthetic, the glass tinting itself and creating artificial stars that twinkled.

Lusamine had gone through the trouble to come visit in person, so he would go through the proper song and dance to welcome her.

He stood in front of his desk, watching the holo-projected spinning of the universe around them, their little Milly Way just swirling around enticingly.

Rose sketched her a little bow, the greeting respectful, yet distant. They were not friends, but he would properly acknowledge her. His smile reached his eyes for once, as he made the inquiry surely everyone had bene thinking since the moment she first took step onto Galarian soil,

"To what do I owe this rare visit, Madame President?"