#feyd-rautha x female oc

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART lV

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,020

Warnings: dark and sexual themes, dub/con, non/con, and arranged marriage.

Summary: The ceremony is concluded, and now the inevitable.

You feel it.

The storm of thunder that brews within your body. Its rain trickles down to prickle at the insides of your soft belly; swelling you slowly with a liverish fever. The sickness it stirs makes you feel crippled and vulnerable.

Weak.

The ceremony lasted longer than anticipated, but not long enough. Time moved with unprecedented speed, and with each moment that past, the more you grew cold and bitter with resentment.

A terrible spite.

Standing in the center of the large tub, the servants bathe you with milky water; as if you're a meal in need of preparation. Woefully, it allows your thoughts to explode with dread; much like the black viscous blasts they'd let loose into the sky.

Wiping at your flesh, they remove the black markings that'd adorned your skin. The ink mixes with the creme colored water, swirling like two separate entities. Glancing towards the closed door, you wonder if they're waiting on the other side.

Anticipating.

Despite your ties to two of the most formidable families in the known universe, you're still left powerless. Defeated. There are no words or actions that could stave off the inevitable; not even the powers of the Benne Gesserit.

It's forbidden.

Brought back to reality, the servant waits for you with a cotton gown. You're hesitant to move; more so paralyzed. Stepping from the tub with a watery slosh, you're dried and powdered before being allowed the comfort of the gown.

Knuckles turn white from tightened fists at your sides. All too quickly, the door opens to reveal your awaited room; neat and still lingering with smoke. As you'd suspected, the witnesses have already arrived; a total of five who stand in a line to the side.

You don't know who they are and neither do you wish to discover their identity. The imperial court has deemed them important enough and necessary. Watching them as they stand silent and shrouded, you can only surmise by their bodies alone that its a mixture of men and women.

The spectators don't speak and neither do the servants, whom hurry from your room; fleeing like creatures from impending danger. Staring at the bed, you can't help but feel a sense of detachment at the site. It's equally as uninviting as when you'd first slept within its covers.

Turning with a slow shuffle of your bare feet, a deathly chill travels up into every limb and nerve of your body; raising the hairs on your skin. Neurotic. The room is dimmer and smaller than you remember, despite it remaining the same.

The world is closing in on you.

Gripping your gown, you suddenly wince with a grit of your jaw. The soft soak of the bath and pressure had been enough to split the fresh wound. But just as your palm began to weep with fresh blood, the door to your room opens.

Feyd-Rautha.

He enters with slow yet deliberate steps, like a predator entering its den. Haphazardly he eyes the witnesses before turning his attention to you. Taking a slight step back, you're smart to keep quiet and remain at a distance.

It's been some time since you parted ways in preparation, but still he wears the same clothing; black leather and an embossed jacket. Feyd draws nearer, darkened eyes flickering up and down. You've nothing to say and neither does he.

Static.

He reaches up, flicking a piece of your hair from your shoulder. The Harkonnen seems less than impressed, rather unenthused of his need to be here. Foolishly, you wonder if you truly are unconventional enough to repulse the man.

"Look at you," he grumbles beneath his breath.

The feral look he's giving you could kill; cold and merciless. His hand moves upward, and you have to refrain your urge to move away. Rough fingertips graze lightly at the cotton fabric at your collar; slowly wandering onto your soft skin.

You smack his hand away, "Enough."

The syllable is low but defiant. A last stand to protect yourself from his torment and cruelty. An act of instinct. Feyd doesn't retaliate as he simply lowers his hand. The calm before the storm.

In an instant, his hands are on you; calloused fingers wrapping around your delicate throat with constriction. He has your body pulled flush against his, whilst your faces remain mere inches from one another. His breath fans across your cheek.

"Do you feel that?" he questions, as you struggle to swallow. Your hands clasp around his own, desperately trying to relieve the pressure. "That's your life, in my hands."

"Stop," you wince; eyes flickering to the witnesses.

"Don't bother," he utters at your train of site. "They're here for one thing."

Reaching down to his side, Feyd retrieves a small dagger. The tip of the blade stills mere inches from your face. Staring at the glistening reflection, you cease all kinds of movement; even your strangled breaths.

Death glints at you.

Keeping the blade just above the surface of your skin, he trails it over your chin and down the nape of your neck. Any wrong move could see your throat slit. Grimly, you even go so far as to envision him plunging it into your belly; spilling your insides to the ground.

He could start a war.

Instead, he hooks the blade into the collar of your cotton gown, cutting it down in one swift tear of fabric. The opposite edge of the dagger runs coolly down your skin, from sternum to naval. Splitting the clothing from your body, he reveals your nakedness.

Supple and pure.

Pushing you with a quick shove to your chest, you fall back onto the bed; whatever breath left in your lungs now gone. Stars glitter in the corner of your eyes; a flash of life, as you're yet to comprehend reality.

"Stay," he orders.

Clutching your chest, the pound of your heart causes you to feel equally disturbed and deficient. The lonely organ skips and hammers and for a second you feel faint. The air slowly seeps back into your lungs, but you're aren't able to take the reprieve.

Inhaling a gasp, you're dragged down by the ankle; sheets burning your skin with its friction. He's formidable. The brute stands at the end of the bed, pale torso now bare; the black lines which mark his chest now in view.

Pulling your ankle from his grip, you can't help but move to protect yourself; shaky legs crossing and hands reaching for the cover of twisted sheets. In the corner of your eye, you take notice of the smudges of blood from you sliced palm; splotching the linen like an arena.

"I've seen lesser than you with better, Atreides."

The added insult sparks a flare of anger. A trap you fall for. Lashing out, you sit up to strike him cross the face; only for the man to grin with a lowly chuckle. The force of your blow had been enough to split his lower lip.

"You're sick," you seethe, whilst he licks the blood with a swipe of his tongue. Feyd's piercing eyes stare without shame. "Psychotic."

He draws closer and your muscles tense at the proximity. Grabbing onto your arms, you struggle and fail as he handles you like a ragdoll. Pinning you down with such ease, he demonstrates your inferiority in bodily power.

"Weak," he states pointedly.

You can barely move beneath his weight; muscled body bearing down on you like an immoveable object. It's force is crushing and humiliating, and again, your heart races beneath your chest. Feyd-Rautha's game of torment and mockery is over.

Forcing his body between your shaky thighs, the rough fabric of his pants chafes against your sensitive skin. You turn away from his gaze, but it does it does nothing when you know how dangerously close he is to you; breathing the same air, feeling each other.

You can smell him.

Lying trapped, you become caught in a moral dilemma to either defend or surrender. You want it to be over and done, but you also want to sleep at night; to be able to tell yourself you fought back. That you tried to stop it.

Clutching onto the sheets, your fingers interlock with the fabric in an attempt to find comfort and stability; a way to release your fear. The distant wall in your line of site is grey and uninviting, but the shelf pressed against it holds an item; one you'd brought from home.

The bull statue.

A representation of your family legacy. The Atreides approach to that of a dangerous circumstance. Your father had given it to you when you were a child, as a means to always remind you of who you really are in this vast world.

"Look at me," he goads while taking hold of your chin. "Look at me."

The longer you try to avert your gaze, the more his bruising grip digs punishingly into your jaw. Eventually, your watery eyes are forced to lock together; like two apposing forces, collapsing in on one another. You didn't know it, but he wanted to see the look in your eye; to see it all.

The pain.

The suffering.

When he takes what last bit of yourself remains untouched. He's already hard and free between yours legs, pushing against your womanhood. Your eyes widen with panic, not having realised until he's already forcing himself inside of you; obliterating your womb.

Straining beneath him, a sharp gasps ruins the air of silence. Abrupt. Relentless. He buries himself within you, over and over again. Stretching and tearing. Filling you in a way you couldn't imagine.

You swallow and moan.

The words you want to scream can hardly form. They're trapped in the back of your swollen throat; buried beneath garbled sounds. You push and hit against his toned chest, but he keeps you down despite your protest.

Uncontrollably, your stomach tightens in reaction to the affliction, as do your legs around his waist; trembling but numb. Every hard thrust impels another sound from your lips, while you're body can't help but jolt at the force.

It's been minutes, hours, eternity in your world. He keeps going with vigor and slowly you begin to break. Frozen beneath him, entangled in sheets and invisible shackles, you grow exhausted. The smell of blood overcomes the chard incense.

It stains the sheets, your skin and his; stuck beneath your fingernails and wet on his lip. It's nauseating. A low growl emits from the depth of his chest as he takes hold of your burning throat again; fingers tightening with purpose.

An inaudible sound strangles from you mouth. You look right up at him, a monster of mayhem. Harkonnen. The last few thrusts are slow, but deep and deliberate as he finishes inside of you. A torture now bitterly seeded and done.

Feyd's eyes flutter every so slightly, and with a light huff he looks you over. Even now, he appears indifferent. Pulling out of you, your quiver at the sting and emptiness, while breaths draw uneasily as he removes himself from the bed.

You're cold and naked. Sore and ruined. Staring up at the ceiling, you're drawn back to the harshness of reality. You remember now, that the witness are still here in the room; still silent as they watched his brutality unfold.

You might've felt something akin to shame, if it weren't for the flare of pain that now consumes your body. It all hurts, no matter where you think. Pulling your legs up, you can't help but ball yourself in the middle of the bed.

Feyd is neither quick nor slow to arrange himself. Shrugging on his leather jacket, he doesn't bother doing it up all the way. His chest remains exposed with the superficial scratches you'd clawed across his flesh.

You see him carelessly eye the witnesses before leaving the room. Not a parting word for either you or them. A blur of tears threaten to spill, but they're quickly absorbed by rage and humiliation. A malicious wall of stone surrounds you.

"Out!" you suddenly scream at the witnesses. "Get out!"

[inkwingsinc]

Chapter 20 live! Join the party here.

It's all masochism and bloodkink. I mean it. Be warned.

So it's kind of funny. There are only two (maybe three) things in the chapter that will be important for the overall plot of the story, but ultimately it's just erotica (poorly written by my measure because hey, I write horror not smut). It's also the only reason BMGWMBGG exists. It was the first chapter I wrote, actually (and I had to edit it heavily to fit it into the story just right).

I can't believe it was supposed to be chapter 6 if I had stuck with my original story outline. I also can't believe I strapped myself in to write 100k words just to get to it - talk about taking the long way home.

[strayrockette]

The Dragon & The Griffon

Where The Path Leads-A Taste

Masterlist Next Chapter

a/n: I didn't think I would be coming back with a story and to be completely honest, I fully believed my creative drive had been zapped. However, @mysticalpandora gave me a challenge and it somehow led me here???? I'm gonna roll with it. My list of unfinished drafts is growing, but I am determined to finish at least 1 WIP.

If anyone is interested in where this ride goes, DM me and ask to be tagged. Like & Reblog if you enjoyed the read! And comment your thoughts if you have any. I enjoy reading them!!

Her purple eyes glitter with quiet contemplation. She is calm, composed, absolutely beautiful, he thinks to himself. His calculative and appraising eyes take stock of this daring girl no woman that stands before him, and deep within him is a hunger for a hunt.

The Na-Baron had yet to come across someone who could stand so still within his presence.

This excites him. This may be a season of true satiation. A thrill of a hunt that lasted far beyond his arena kills. Far beyond the meager missions, his uncle sends him on to create distance from his people’s adoration and praise. A reminder that he is yet to be The Baron.

His uncle was not immune to his potential. He held a guarded edge around him when he was near. If it was true fear, or anticipation for his succession was unclear. One could say both.

“If you should use my gifts to aid in your fight, I will have my answer.” She stares directly into his eyes. Her jaw is relaxed and she pulls her lips into a teasing smile, “Worry not, Na-Baron, I can take no for an answer.”

He bares his black teeth in a mock smile, his answer comes in a raspy deep lull, “The answer has already been decided for us, little dragon”

He looks at the two deep ebony daggers that sit neatly in the box she had placed on the high table in the corner of the room, its sharpened blades glowing in the dim light of his changing rooms near the arena. The excited screams of his people chanting his name break the silence.

The tip of the dagger's, curve near its end. All along the blade is an engraving of silhouettes, tiny dragons flapping their wings. He realizes the engravings are shining silver.

He knows no one in the boxed seatings would be able to tell what the engravings were but he almost purrs outwardly in delight. A silent claim from his little dragon. He wonders if she realizes just what game she’s playing.

“Yes, however..” She pauses, her eyes drop to her clasped hands, her fingertips tapping against each other, a sign of nervousness, he notes. As if hearing his observation she stops and rearranges her hands so they are clasped behind her. “While this arrangement was decided before we were born, I want it to be known that I am not unwilling to be your wife or have you as my husband”

She pauses once more. He can practically hear her thinking with the way her eyes furrow and her lips pursed in consideration of the words she says. Because words have meaning and none of it should be spent on idle chit-chat or false pretenses.

A rare oddity that most others fail to recognize. He wonders if her words are hiding who she is. If beneath her elegant and calm demeanor lies something weaker. Something inside him wants to see her unravel.

“If we are to go into this arrangement, I would like for us to go into it as equal partners. Your fight becomes my fight, and mine becomes yours.” She moves to the side to dip her fingers into the bowl of black oil. The servant who holds it cowers away, as if afraid to be associated with her candor.

She’s gathered too much, it drips onto the floor as she nears him slowly. Her eyes are entranced with his, determination clear within her purple irises. One step. There is no hesitation as she smears her hand over her mouth and down her neck. Two steps. The oil leaves a trace of four fingerprints along the path. Three steps. She reaches out to his chest. Her fingers hovered over his skin. He can feel the heat radiating from a single hand. His blue eyes hunger for more but he remains still. His mocking smile turns into amusement. My little dragon is brave, he thinks with pride.

She pouts as a thought crosses her mind, “No one would see it.” She doesn’t realize she has said this aloud. He watches with rapid anticipation, his body grows taut as he wills himself not to move. He waits and waits and watches as she comes to a decision, her cheeks red and eyes mischievous. She gathers courage and motivation with quick movements, and her hands are suddenly on him. Trailing the top of his chest, then to his neck, finally, they nestle comfortably on either side of his face. She tugs gently, urging him to bend to her level and he allows it, purely for the entertainment.

His face is level with hers, his eyes are on her face, studying the curve of her nose, the red in her cheeks, the plumpness of her lips, and the giddy look in her violet eyes. He wants her to make eye contact. He wants her to see the monster inside him and fear for her life. He wants to see her calm demeanor slip. For her teasing tone to melt into cries of terror. It's all he knows. And he admires hates how she has yet to cower before him. But she is too busy studying the right of his cheek where her lips will claim him for all to see. She leans and presses a kiss to his aching skin.

He tightens his mouth and remains still, it would do no good to ravage her before their nuptials.

She pulls away and continues her statement, “Even if it has been decided, the fact remains that I choose you to be faithful to, to be by my side. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health. In life and in death, my soul will always seek you amongst the billions of stars and galaxies that separate us.”

He wants to snarl and bite. A part of him cannot comprehend what she is saying and he is angry. He glares, his large hands coming up to wrap around her wrists and he pulls them away from him. His skin is left wanting and his heart is enraged. It’s beating so fast and erratically and his thoughts cannot settle between slitting her throat and slamming her into a wall to be consumed by him.

“What silly nonsense you speak, little dragon. Whether I pick up the blades or not and use them in the arena, is no answer. Whether by choice or by force, you have been sold to my family for me to use as I please. You are my pet. My little dragon. Nothing more, nothing less.” As he speaks his voice gravels with rage. He knows nothing else other than the white hot boiling blood beneath his skin. Whether in pleasure or pain, there is no difference. “You are naive”

He finishes his growl with a sneer. She stumbles and her maids rush to catch her from behind. I pushed him too far, she concludes. She holds in a sigh and holds her head higher. Her chin juts out and her eyes gleam. A thought crosses her mind and a fire burns within, “If I’m so naive, then my dearest husband-to-be, it is YOUR duty to protect me.”

She cares not for his comment about being sold to House Harkonnen. In the grand plan of all things, it is the least of her worries.

He’s turned away from her and the servants, who hid quietly in the corner, rush to put his armor on. He merely grunts and clicks his tongue, “Be gone little dragon, before you find a knife in your throat”

She wants to scoff but thinks better of it. She’s gotten away with too much in the short time she burst into his changing room to accost him with her offer. She steels herself and with a quick glance at his muscled back. She wonders if she’d ever be able to get through that thick bald skull of his.

She turns and leaves, and her two maids follow dutifully. Her lips glitter with the black oil. Her four fingerprints running down to her chest is a statement in itself. The matching handprint and kiss on his skin are enough to get her message to all with eyes.

She’s sunk her claws into him and no one would tear her from him. She’s seen too much. Knows too much. Suffered too much to give up now.

No Bene gesserite, no Emperor, no Baron, and no Atreides would rip them apart. She would die faithfully, clinging onto hope, clinging onto a path with the most resistance to prove a point.

A dragon does not kneel…

it conquers.

Edited: 8/18/24

[skulkflower]

Rating: Explicit Ships: Feyd-Rautha x Eurydice Atreides (Original), Jessica x Leto Atreides, Paul Atreides x Chani Keynes Summary:

Eurydice Atreides’ first act of defiance took form as a direct challenge to her own mother. In defying her mother, Eurydice has secured the wills and desires of the Bene Gesserit; to be a key component in the rise of the Kwisatz Haderach. Not everything is as it seems. Eurydice stands at the center of a catastrophe that threatens to bring ruin to the delicate nature of the Imperium. There is her duty to her blood, to her twin brother Paul, and then there is her duty to the Bene Gesserit, and the nephew of a Baron she is sworn to. And all that resides in between, there are plans within plans.

AO3 LINK. updated weekly.

[sansaorgana]

— DAMAGED GOODS

PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader // Rabban/Harkonnen!OC

SUMMARY — The servants have been telling Baron Harkonnen many times before that the relationship between his young heir and his twin sister is close. Very close. Too close. The Baron only chuckles at that. He couldn’t care less, as long as Feyd-Rautha is a warrior he wants him to be and his sister remains out of his sight.

REQUEST — (1)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — The Reader is a Rabban/Harkonnen. I've described some of her looks – her skin is pale but not because she is *white* but because they're all pale (due to the pollution and lack of normal sunlight I guess). She has hair but it's white. I didn't describe the structure of her hair or anything and the colour is caused by the lack of pigment. Her facial features are not described in any way. Oh, and she has black teeth, too... 😁 It will be explained in the fic. I tried to make it an x Reader fic but, yeah, quite a lot about her looks is described. On the other hand, I hope it's understandable since she's Feyd's twin. I am very happy that I received this request because I've been itching to write something like that for a long time. 🤍

WARNINGS — INCEST, SMUT, non/dub-con, breeding

WORD COUNT — 6,610

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

DAMAGED GOODS

Baron Harkonnen was ready to leave Lankiveil with his two nephews – small Feyd-Rautha in one of the female servants’ arms and teenage Glossu on whose shoulder The Baron was keeping his hand on. He didn’t have any heirs of his own so one day he’d name one of the boys his Na-Baron and give them his Harkonnen surname.

They nearly reached the ship when one of the female servants of Lankiveil ran up to them with a small bundle in her arms.

“My Lord,” she called out and The Baron turned around, irritated. The woman was terrified of him but she still had her duties. “What about the girl, my Lord?” She asked.

The Baron squinted his eyes at the child in her arms. Feyd-Rautha’s twin sister (Y/N) Rabban – he had no use for her.

“Give her to the Bene Gesserit or kill her, I do not care,” he commented as Glossu’s muscles stiffened under his uncle’s touch.

“She is my sister,” his eyes widened at those words. “Please, let her come with us.”

“You will soon realise that women on Giedi Prime hold no significance. A girl…” Baron Vladimir winced. “I do not wish to raise her. She will be a burden.”

“Then I will raise her. I will take care of her,” Glossu pleaded. “And one day you will find her a match, someone to marry to create a powerful alliance. She will be useful,” he kept convincing.

The Baron wanted to be feared even amongst his family members. But he didn’t want to be hated by his older nephew from the first day. Irritated, he sighed and waved his hand at the maid.

“Fine, I shall take her,” he sighed.

Hesitantly, the maid handed the child to Glossu Rabban as his uncle gave him a scolding look.

“You’re responsible for her now,” he reminded.

“She is my sister. Her place is with me and Feyd,” Rabban nodded.

About this one thing he was stubborn and about this one thing he would fight even his own uncle. Baron Vladimir decided it would be for the best to let the boy have it his way.

(Y/N) and Feyd were raised differently – he was raised to be a strong warrior and his uncle’s pet. Relentless in combat, obedient to his Master, an enjoyer of pain. Inflicting it on others but also the pain being inflicted upon him. Psychotic and murderous. His twin sister was kept away from such an environment by her older brother. He wanted her to become a grand lady. Of course Glossu Rabban had no idea about women’s education but he made sure that his little sister had dozens of tutors. The smarter and more courteous she was, the easier it would be to sell her in a marriage union one day. It didn’t mean she was easy to manage. Ever since she was a little girl, she would cause trouble by following her twin brother everywhere and wanting to be as mischievous as him. He was given the Harkonnen surname and the title of na-baron. She was just Countess (Y/N) Rabban. Many thought she was actually Glossu Rabban’s daughter. Despite being raised differently, her and Feyd were inseparable.

They were not identical twins – she was a splitting image of her mother while he remained a mix of both parents. He was born bald like most of The Harkonnens, she was lucky to keep her hair even though it lacked pigment and was snowy white. The only thing in common they had was their sickly pale Harkonnen skin… and their blood.

The servants had been telling The Baron many times before that the relationship between his young heir and his sister was close. Very close. Too close. The Baron would only chuckle at that. He couldn’t care less, as long as Feyd-Rautha was a warrior he wanted him to be and his sister remained out of his sight and out of big trouble that would require him to intervene.

(Y/N)’s chambers were connected to Feyd’s with the tall, black doors. In fact, they resided in the chambers of The Baron and The Baroness Harkonnen. These chambers had not been used in many years before Feyd was given them by his uncle in his teenage years. It was only natural that (Y/N) followed to the room attached to his. But most mornings, the servants would not find her in her bed. She was being found in her brother’s embrace, their legs intertwined, her hands wrapped around his muscular chest. As if they were still two embryos in their mother’s womb.

She could swear, she could feel pain when he was experiencing it. And out of them two, only he enjoyed it. It brought her no pleasure to see his scars from their uncle’s punishments. She would kiss them all better, every thin line of scarred flesh upon his back would be soothed with her lips. She loved to watch him train, following him around like a puppy at first but then she grew to be a fine woman herself and she no longer gave such innocent energy. All the years of trying to be invisible for her uncle had taught her how to slither around the fortress like a snake; always observant, always on guard, always quiet and unnoticeable. 

(Y/N) focused so hard on not being a bother for her uncle that she forgot other people might notice her, too.

The Baron was staring at the veiled old woman in front of him with a contemptuous smirk. Of course he would follow the Bene Gesserit's order in the end whether he wanted it or not but he needed her to see that he was not as easy to control as most of the lesser lords.

“What are you asking of me, woman?” He asked as he looked her up and down.

The Bene Gesserit sighed. She knew perfectly well that he had heard her before.

“I want to put Countess Rabban to the test of Gom Jabbar to see if she’s fit for the marriage union that shall be arranged between her and Prince Paul Atreides,” she repeated her words.

“I am not fond of that girl but she is the closest thing to a daughter I have ever had,” The Baron shook his head. “What makes you think I would give her away to an Atreides?”

“Atreides was supposed to have a daughter who would be a match for your nephew Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. His concubine gave him a son instead but it doesn’t have to mean the match cannot be arranged. After all, Feyd-Rautha has a twin sister sharing his genetic material with him.”

“And what do I get of this union?” The Baron snorted.

“Control over your enemy; The Atreides family,” the Bene Gesserit nodded her head.

“Control over them? By sending that girl over there?” The Baron laughed at the idea. “She’s a weak woman. She won’t have control over anything.”

“Paul Atreides is a boy of a gentle nature, I have tested him already. Countess Rabban will easily push him in all the directions you will ask her to,” the woman tried to convince The Baron. He knew that if he’d argue even further she would just use The Voice.

“Alright then,” he shrugged his arms. “Put her to a test. If she dies, you’ll be the one breaking the news to her brothers. I won’t deal with their pathetic tears.”

Feyd didn’t know where his sister was. It was unusual for her not to wait in her chambers in the evening. Either way, he ordered the servants to fill the bathtub with water and then told them to leave as he sank into the warm liquid after a long day filled with combat training.

The doors opened after a while and (Y/N) entered the room. She had an odd expression on her face as if she was bothered with something and he spotted a few beads of sweat upon her forehead.

“Where were you?” Feyd squinted his eyes at her.

“The Bene Gesserit asked me to join her for a while. She did something weird to me,” she answered as she worked on her dress swiftly to take it off as quickly as possible.

“What do you mean weird?” Feyd tilted his head as he watched her undress. The folds of her skirt and bodice fell down to the floor and revealed her smooth skin and all the curves.

He had asked his older brother about their mother only once. His question had been about her looks. “What did she look like?”, young Feyd had asked. And all Glossu had answered was – “Just look at our sister”.

“She put me to a test. You’d like it,” (Y/N) smirked at him as she turned around to face him and join him in the bathtub. “It was painful,” she admitted and leaned her back on the edge, facing him. She let out a relaxed moan at the feeling of the warm water.

“She hurt you,” Feyd’s question was more of a statement as his jaw clenched.

“I’m fine,” (Y/N) let out a laugh at his reaction. “Such a strong warrior you are and look at you, your older sister is your weakness,” she teased.

“Twenty minutes older,” Feyd scoffed as she chuckled at his annoyance. “Age does not matter, I could snap your neck in a second, dear sister. You have no idea how to defend yourself,” he pointed out angrily.

“Grumpy, grumpy, Feyd,” she giggled as she moved closer to him and sat astride him. Her hands caressed his muscular chest. “Don’t be so sure I’m that helpless… I’ve been watching you train my whole life. I’ve learnt a thing or two,” she lowered her face to whisper into his ear.

He felt his cock twitching at the feeling of her body on his; her sweet breath on his ear, her whisper sending shivers down his spine. He knew she didn’t mind. In fact, she was feeding off of his desire; teasing him mercilessly over and over. One thing Rabban had made very clear was that she could not be touched by any man before her wedding. But it did not mean that Feyd hadn’t been fantasising about it many times before.

She was an absolute perfection. She was like a reflection in the mirror. And who could be more beautiful and breathtaking than Feyd-Rautha himself? She was his missing part like he was hers. They completed each other in many ways but in other ways they were exactly the same. Their heartbeats and breaths were in sync, their desires were the same and he could not tell anymore whether he craved her because of the strong resemblance or had he been the one to spoil her. His childhood experience full of violence and cruelty turned him into a hypersexual predator who would fuck anything and anyone. He had been the first one to put the sexual context into their innocent touches and kisses. On the other hand, she had played along very quickly.

In the whole wide world, his twin sister was the only person who knew and understood him. They had no secrets with each other.

“You’re getting too excited, brother,” she pointed out with a smirk as she threw her arms around his neck. He looked up at her face looming over his. She was even more beautiful like that – on top of him, in control.

“You’re mine,” he let out a raspy whisper as she raised one of her white eyebrows at him. “You’re mine and only mine. Forever,” he breathed out.

“That’s an interesting concept, Feyd-Rautha,” she smiled, “but you do know that our brother is raising me to be another man’s lady.”

“You will be my Baroness and if our brother stands in the way of that happening, I will slay him,” Feyd threatened and his sister moved uncomfortably at his words.

“Stop talking nonsense,” she rose up to leave the bathtub already but Feyd grabbed her by her hair and pulled her down again as she hissed out of discomfort. He hated to inflict pain on her out of all the people but sometimes he just… had to.

“I do mean that,” he drawled as her eyes widened at him.

“I know,” she only said and he licked his lips at the sight of her chest rising up and down as she breathed heavily. He let go of her and watched her leave the bathtub and the bathroom without a word.

Feyd left the bathtub, too. He put on a simple black robe and went back to his room. His sister was laying on his bed, completely naked and playing with one of his short knives in her hands. He sighed with relief at the sight. He expected her to be offended and go to her room before locking the doors for the night.

“I’ll be back in a while,” he told her and approached the doors leading to the corridor. She snorted and he froze.

“You’re like a dog, dear brother. You men are so easy to control with your sexual urges and desires,” she commented and Feyd clenched his jaw as he turned his head around to look at her.

“I’m trying very hard not to violate you. Don’t tease,” he warned.

“Your own sister?” She grinned, showing off her black teeth.

As a child, she had insisted on dyeing them just like her twin brother. Glossu had refused – it would make her look less appealing for the future suitors. Even The Baron had told her it had not been the best idea. (Y/N) had not listened. She had sneaked into the medical wing and had done it herself. At twelve years old she had ruined herself for the first time for Feyd-Rautha.

That had been the only time when Glossu had actually punished her physically. Feyd still remembered because he had been waiting for her by the doors leading to his brother’s chambers. She had been screaming and kicking her feet while getting her arse spanked. After leaving the room, she had sniffled all the tears back and grinned at Feyd with her new black smile. “I’ve gotten my arse whooped,” she had told him proudly as if it was an achievement.

Some time later she had been caught wanting to shave her head off but it was Feyd this time who had stopped her – telling her how much he loved it, how it was making her look different than all the other women around. How much power that hair was giving her. It had made her hesitantly put the scissors down.

And now, Feyd did not answer her teasing accusation as he left the bedroom to go to his concubines, leaving his sister alone. He would join her later, when she would already be asleep. He’d pull her closer and she’d open her arms to welcome him. He’d fall asleep caressing the soft curves of her body and feeling her heartbeat pressed to his.

Two weeks later he trained as usual while (Y/N) sat nearby and watched. She would clap her hands excitedly each time he’d succeed and make a boo sound each time he’d lose. There was lots of mockery in her exaggerated reactions but he couldn’t imagine training without her around anymore.

At the sight of his brother entering the courtyard, Feyd lowered his blade and gave him an unpleasant look.

“What do you want? Why are you interrupting me?” He asked Glossu.

“I am not here for you,” his brother extended his hand towards their sister. “(Y/N), come with me. It is important,” he insisted and she whined. “Our uncle requires your presence.”

“Why?” Feyd barked. He did not like the idea of his uncle wanting something from his sister.

“It is none of your business, Feyd,” Glossu snapped at him and a second later he already had his brother’s knife pressed to his neck.

“Everything regarding (Y/N) is a business of mine,” Feyd hissed.

“Leave him alone,” she approached them as she ordered her twin brother. He took a step back and lowered the blade but only because it was her ordering him. She would always defend Glossu in all the arguments between the brothers. Feyd knew why – their older brother had been the closest thing to a father she had. He protected her, too. And that was the only thing Glossu and Feyd had in common. The love for their sister.

But only one of them loved her… so much.

She put her hands around Glossu’s arm and allowed him to lead her out of the courtyard. Feyd waved his hand dismissively at the servant he had been fighting with as he decided to follow them.

“Your presence was not requested,” his brother remarked.

“Don’t tease him so,” (Y/N) scolded him and he shut his mouth.

Glossu led them to the throne room where their uncle was sitting. But he was not alone. He had guests. Feyd and (Y/N) recognised them immediately from the pictures. The Atreides family – dignified and regally looking Duke Leto Atreides with his beautiful concubine Lady Jessica of The Bene Gesserit. Between them there was a young man standing – their son, Prince Paul Atreides. He was visibly trying to put on a brave face but he was scared and his eyes avoided the siblings who had just entered the room.

“Ah, here they are,” The Baron beckoned them over with his hand as he announced them. “My eldest nephew Count Glossu Rabban and his beloved younger sister, my niece, Countess (Y/N) Rabban.”

She let go of her older brother’s hand and stepped out to bow down slightly. Feyd sneered at that. He always would whenever she’d act like a lady – like their brother and uncle wanted her to. Like she had been taught to ever since she was a little girl.

“That insolent young man standing behind her is my heir and (Y/N)’s twin brother, Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” The Baron gave Feyd a scolding look.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lords, my Lady,” Duke Leto nodded his head at all of the siblings.

“(Y/N), child, come closer,” The Baron cooed to her unusually. He would often put on such a show in front of important guests as if he wasn’t treating her like air most of the time. But Feyd was glad that his uncle actually ignored his sister. Otherwise it would be more difficult to protect her.

She approached the guests with furrowed brows, visibly confused by this situation. Feyd’s heart already squeezed inside of his chest as he had a feeling what that was about.

“You will be married to Prince Paul Atreides,” The Baron informed her as if it was nothing.

Feyd looked at Glossu first but his brother did not look surprised at all. He had to know already and it made Feyd feel even angrier as he treated it as betrayal. He shot his uncle a furious glance and then he laid his eyes on his twin sister. To his surprise, she was smiling softly at the shy and gently looking young man.

“It is a great honour,” she bowed her head and Paul Atreides flinched a little. She noticed it. “Do not be scared of me, my Lord,” she chuckled delicately. “I am nothing like my brothers.”

Feyd gritted his teeth. Without a word – rudely and risking his uncle’s punishment – he turned around and left the room.

He saw her again in the evening. He had been training intensely for the past few hours, trying to let the frustration go. The doors leading to her bedroom were ajar and he peeked inside. (Y/N) was packing her things into black wooden chests.

“What are you doing?” Feyd asked her as his blood ran cold.

“I shall take a different room from now on. It is inappropriate for us to share one,” she muttered without even looking up at him.

“Since when do you care?” Feyd leaned on the wall and watched her carefully, trying not to show how much he was panicking on the inside.

“Since I am getting married soon,” she shrugged her arms and he snorted at her.

“You really think I’m going to allow this union, dear sister?” He asked and she turned her face around with her brows furrowed.

“You have nothing to say in that matter, brother,” she reminded him. “You are nothing but our uncle’s pet. The psychotic and fearsome Feyd-Rautha… If only they knew that you’re not scary at all,” she remarked as his jaw clenched.

“I will kill him if I must. That boy, Paul Atreides,” Feyd threatened.

“We both know you will not. It would have consequences greater than you and I can even imagine,” she smiled but he noticed the curls of her lips twitching. She was nervous.

“How can you not oppose this marriage?” Feyd let his guard down as he asked genuinely, expecting an answer just as honest.

His sister’s facial expression changed as well. She approached him and cupped his face in her delicate, soft hands.

“I’ve always known I would leave Giedi Prime eventually. I could only hope for a good husband and Paul Atreides is good. He is young and pretty and naive. My life as his Duchess will be easy and pleasant,” she explained softly. “I’ve always known I would leave Giedi Prime and I couldn’t wait for that day. I want to… No, I need to get away from here… from you,” she whispered as his eyes widened at her revelation. “You’re poisonous, Feyd-Rautha. You have spoiled me already, ruined me, stained me. And everywhere I go, our uncle’s sticky spiderweb surrounds me, suffocates me,” she finished before leaning in to place a gentle goodbye kiss upon his lips.

She wanted to move away but he grabbed her cheeks and aggressively pulled her closer once again, kissing her yet again but possessively and hungrily. She didn’t kiss him back this time.

When he finally let go of her, they were both breathing heavily but there was nothing but anger in their eyes.

“Stay away from me and stay away from Paul Atreides,” she warned her brother and he walked out of her room before slamming the doors behind him, furiously.

But Feyd did not stay away. Whenever he was not in the courtyard, training vigorously and slaying his opponents one after another with the ferocity he had not displayed before, he would follow (Y/N) and her husband-to-be around the fortress. He didn’t trust any servant to spy on them for him, no, he had to do it himself.

Paul Atreides was left alone for two weeks on Giedi Prime and after that time he would take the Countess with him to Caladan. He was scared of his betrothed’s planet as he was widening his eyes at everything as she explained to him gently. Usually Feyd was catching them in the maze of countlessly corridors as they walked together. Soft laughter of his sister occasionally filled the cold marble walls. 

He was nearly always there; creeping in the shadows, watching, observing, gritting his teeth at her every smile or blush. Paul Atreides, visibly scared of her at first, was slowly starting to get used to her presence. And one day he dared to lean in and steal a delicate kiss from her lips.

Feyd clenched his fists at the sight as he was hiding behind the pillar. His sister’s lips had never been kissed before by any man other than him. His blood boiled when he realised that not only Paul Atreides would kiss her but also claim her as his own and put his weak and pathetic heirs inside her womb.

No, that could not happen. She was made for him, she was his other half. Feyd-Rautha would not let any other man take her away from him.

He turned around and quietly went to the living quarters where he found the room that now belonged to his sister. He barked at the servant girls to leave him and they ran away, startled by his anger. Once he was alone in (Y/N)’s bedroom, he patiently waited.

After a while, he heard her footsteps down the corridor. He would recognise them everywhere. He stood behind the doors as his heart pounded in his chest from the anticipation.

She pushed the doors open and walked inside, looking around for her servant girls. Feyd was standing behind her and observing her carefully, wondering when she’d notice him.

“I know you’re here,” she sighed without looking back. “I can recognise your stench,” she drawled.

He growled at her insolent words as he swiftly moved forward and grabbed her by her hair, pulling it by the roots and making her hiss out of pain. He pulled her closer to him, rested her body on his and smirked while pressing his cheek to hers.

“You’ve never seemed to complain about my scent before, dear sister,” he pointed out.

“I meant that you stink of sweat and blood at this very moment,” she fixed herself, still wincing out of pain he was inflicting upon her. “What do you want from me?”

“I saw you with him,” he breathed out.

“I know. I see you in the shadows every time,” she sneered. “I recommend finding a different hobby.”

“You’re mine. If you think I’m going to let you leave Giedi Prime, carry his surname and bear his filthy Atreides children in your womb, then you are mistaken, sister,” Feyd whispered angrily into her ear before biting on her earlobe.

She did not answer but in her eyes he spotted fear. Real fear, not her usual playful demeanour. For the first time in her life she was truly scared of her twin brother. Perhaps for the first time she understood why others feared him.

Still holding her by her white hair, he walked her to the bed and threw her on it. She immediately tried to crawl away and run away from him but he grabbed her ankle and watched her struggle with a smirk.

“Leave me alone,” she tried to command him. And usually he would listen to her orders but not now, too blinded by jealousy.

In one swift movement he brought her closer by her ankle and tore her dress and underwear open with his small knife. She looked up at him with anger, fear and a dose of excitement that made him smirk. Her body betrayed her – she wanted it, too. 

He was rock hard already at the sight of her like that for him. She was like a prey on display for him to feast upon. Feyd licked his lips and turned her around. He took his cock out of his leather pants as she tried to stand up on her shaky hands and legs to get away. Before she’d move too far, he pulled her close once again with a laugh.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he threatened and pressed his blade under her chin.

On her hands and knees with her beautiful white hair resting on her back – he had been dreaming of claiming her from behind this way for years now. She was trembling out of fear and anger but she couldn’t scream for help when his blade was so close to her larynx.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered as he leaned in closer to her ear. “You’re my other half.”

He felt her swallowing thickly under his blade as he smirked to himself and moved the knife away. Before she could scream, he pushed her head down into her pillow, muffling any sound that would leave her mouth.

“No Atreides will fuck you. No other man will at all, for that matter,” he barked at her, his cock twitching already at the sight of her exposed womanhood. “You’re mine,” he reminded her.

She tried to protest but he couldn’t understand the words she was saying. He pressed her head even deeper into the pillow and with his free hand he ran across her folds, finding her clit and pinching it as she squealed and kicked her feet.

She was so delicate and sensitive, his dear sister. He took a deep breath in as he was starting to get dizzy from the sight and smell alone. He worked his fingertips around her sweet spot and noticed her muscles relaxing as her will to fight him off started to subdue gradually. At the first feeling of her warm wetness, he gathered it and brought his fingers to his mouth. Feyd hummed at the taste.

“Do you know what you taste like?” He asked her angrily and pulled her hair again. She shook her head. “Like me,” he pointed out. “Because we belong together,” he reminded her and she whined.

He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed her now. He pumped his hard cock a few times before lining it up with her tight hole. Feyd nearly felt bad for his sweet sister, for the pain she would experience now. But no feeling was stronger than his lust.

He entered her in one deep thrust while she yelped and writhed; even the pillow was not able to muffle the pathetic sound leaving her mouth. He closed his eyes at the feeling of her warm and tight walls spasming around his length. She was perfect, she was made for him and him only. They were finally complete again; one body, one soul.

“You will rule with me as my Baroness,” he hissed as his hips began to thrust into her. “We will bring back the old traditions, keep our bloodline pure. And you will give me heirs,” he crooned to her maliciously. “You were made to do that, sweet sister. Made for me. Me,” he kept repeating.

She drooled and sobbed into the soft silky pillow as her hands were clutching on the sheets. She was helpless under him but what she hated the most was that part of her that did not want him to stop. That part of her that felt the same way as her brother – complete at the feeling of him fucking her. Like she was finally connected to the long lost part of her body.

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head with each of his thrust, filling her so thoroughly, making her feel full and overwhelmed as he was hitting all the right spots inside of her. She knew that sweet and gentle Paul Atreides would never claim her this way. No one would. Only her twin brother knew how to please her. He understood her more than anybody else.

He spoiled her, he ruined her, he was poisonous. But who said she didn’t want it? Her body betrayed her as it admitted that she craved it.

What she feared were the consequences of this act. The consequences of breaking the fragile truce with The Atreides, the consequences of breaking up the engagement that had been not only prepared by The Baron himself but also plotted by the dangerous Bene Gesserit.

None of it mattered, though. None of it was important with Feyd's cock buried so deep inside of her, his hand pushing her face into the pillow and making her suffocate slightly, which only enhanced the pleasure. His free hand was squeezing her hip and marking it as he grunted and cooed to her all those blasphemous promises about their shared life together, their compatibility, their bodies being made for one another.

She came first; suddenly and without a warning. Her body spasmed and trembled as her limbs went numb. At the feeling of her tight walls fluttering around his cock, Feyd reached his peak right after but he did not pull out for a long time, emptying himself as deep inside of her as he could; straight into her womb.

His sister whined at the feeling of his thick, black cum coating her walls but now, after his release, most of his anger was gone as well, so he just caressed her head and shushed her.

“Shh, dear sister, just take it like you were made to,” he cooed and she didn’t have any strength in her body to fight it anymore.

When he eventually pulled out, he watched her pussy twitching deliciously as a small streamlet of his black cum leaked out of it and stained her grey sheets, mixing with a few droplets of blood.

“Now, when you’ve been claimed by me,” Feyd smirked to himself proudly as he hid his cock back into his pants, “no other man will want you. Not when you’re surely carrying my spawn in your womb,” he added and left the room without a word.

He refused to watch her laying there and sobbing silently, trying to collect her breath and clumsily stand up to go to the bathroom. Some part of him regretted his act and seeing his beloved sister in such a state was bringing him no pleasure. He couldn’t take this back now, though, and he didn’t want to. It just had to be done.

The room was dead silent. Old Bene Gesserit woman was staring at Countess Rabban in disbelief and the young woman held her head down with her hands clasped around her abdomen as if she was protecting her spawn from The Reverend Mother’s gaze.

Both Baron Harkonnen and Duke Atreides looked displeased but only the second one was also visibly disgusted. His son was standing by his side; shocked and scared. Saddened. Disappointed.

Glossu Rabban’s face showed nothing but disappointment and disgust as well. His anger was aimed mostly at his younger brother. He refused to believe his sister could be as rotten as Feyd-Rautha – the only person in the room who actually looked proud as he straightened himself and smirked at everyone gathered inside.

“What are you smiling about, boy?” The Reverend Mother scolded him. “Have you got any idea what you have done?”

“I’ve claimed my sister as my own. It is an old tradition of the Great Houses to practise,” he reminded her.

“Which was abandoned a long time ago for a reason!” The Bene Gesserit snapped at him. “Your sister was supposed to give birth to Paul Atreides’ son and bring Kwisatz Haderach to life!”

“I do not care about your schemes,” Feyd rolled his eyes as he moved closer to his sister.

“Stay away from her,” Glossu barked.

“Or what? She’s already carrying my child inside of her, is she not?” Feyd asked, proudly as most of the room flinched with disgust.

“She can still bear Kwisatz Haderach,” The Baron tried to desperately save the situation. “We can get rid of that spawn inside of her and still give her to Paul Atreides. Obviously, not as a wife anymore,” he assured Duke Leto. “As a whore that she apparently is.”

Feyd clenched his jaw at his words as he took a step ahead of (Y/N) and covered her body with his from the sight.

“Over my dead body any of you will touch my sister or my child,” he drawled through gritted teeth.

“Inbreeding your bloodline might have morbid consequences,” The Reverend Mother informed him. “She’s carrying a demon.”

Feyd snorted at her. Was he supposed to be scared of her words? They only made him even more proud.

At those words, Baron Harkonnen squinted his eyes at the Bene Gesserit woman. He visibly liked the idea of having demonic heirs as well.

“I've changed my mind. We will not get rid of the child,” he decided. “Feyd-Rautha is my na-baron. If he chooses to marry his twin sister, then that is his right,” he said.

“That is plain disrespect!” Duke Leto raised his voice. “We have agreed to this union despite the bride being… not of the best quality. We have brought our son here, to this poisoned planet and nothing but humiliation awaited him here.”

Duke Leto pushed his son lightly in the direction of the doors as they walked out, offended. The guards looked at The Baron Harkonnen questioningly.

“Let them go,” he chuckled. “Soon, their time will come anyway.”

“Not before we secure young Paul Atreides’ bloodline!” The Reverend Mother widened her eyes at him as she ran after Duke Leto. “My Lord, please wait, I have another brides to offer that will suit your son just right…!” Her voice disappeared when the heavy doors closed behind them all.

“So, it’s settled,” Baron Harkonnen took a look at his nephews and niece as he puffed on his pipe and sighed. “You owe me for that, Feyd,” he pointed out and his young nephew bowed down. “I knew that you children would bring me nothing but trouble.”

“I am sorry!” Glossu exclaimed all of sudden as everyone looked at him, surprised. “I am sorry for failing, uncle! I was supposed to look after her, to protect her, to make sure everything goes right…”

“But everything did go right,” Baron Harkonnen laughed contemptuously. “(Y/N), darling, come here…” He reached his hand out and the young woman nodded her head before approaching her uncle, obediently. “When you were a little baby, I wanted to get rid of you,” he admitted as he held her hand. “Your brother Glossu was the one to convince me you would be useful one day. He swore to raise you.”

(Y/N) didn’t react to those words. She only stood there and looked deep into her uncle’s eyes.

“Turns out he was right,” The Baron continued, “you are very useful for The House Harkonnen. You will bear us strong heirs that shall take over the whole Empire…” He hummed and she nodded. “From now on, even before your wedding to your brother, you will be known as Countess (Y/N) Harkonnen. I adopt you,” he announced as her eyes sparkled.

“Thank you, uncle,” she let go of his hand to take a step back and bow her head down.

Feyd stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Glossu was staring at them as if he wanted to kill them both at that moment. Even his baby sister whom he had raised was suddenly more important in the family hierarchy than him.

“You have my blessing,” The Baron told them and dismissed them all with a wave of his hand.

Feyd walked his sister out of the throne room with his hands still on her shoulders. He was as protective as ever with her now when she was in her delicate state.

He took her back to their shared chambers to which she had returned recently. He sat her down on the edge of his bed and approached the vanity table to get a brush before sitting behind her and taking care of her long, white hair. Delicately working on every small tangle, sniffing the scent of her favourite hair oils, smiling to himself at the thought he would have her for himself forever from now on.

“Are you happy, dear sister?” He asked as he gathered her hair to throw it out of her left shoulder and place a kiss on the exposed skin of her neck.

“We belong together,” she answered, her hands still clasped on her abdomen protectively as if that demonic spawn inside of her needed protection. “I was made for you,” she added.

She would not get away from Giedi Prime. She would not be given to any lord and run away from The Harkonnens. In fact, now she was a Harkonnen, too. Her fate was to rule alongside Feyd-Rautha as his sister-wife.

“I asked, are you happy, dear sister?” He repeated the question, squinting his eyes at her.

She took a deep breath in. She knew that he would know if she lied to him but she didn’t feel the need to hide anything from him. Therefore, she spoke the truth:

“I am.”

MASTERLIST

[peggyao3]

Relic - Masterlist

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

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

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced (child) abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: Estimated to end up ~70k

A/N: The protagonist of this fic is on the edge between reader insert and OC. Her back story and skillset are defined, but her appearance for the most part isn't, though I can't help myself with the occasional mention of physical softness because it contrasts so nicely with all of Feyd's hard edges 🫶

Reposted from my Ao3 💕

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Chapter 1 - "Oh, Lady Dear" Chapter 2 - "Eidolon" Chapter 3 - "Dying of the Light" Chapter 4 - "O God!" Chapter 5 - "Prometheus" Chapter 6 - "Hungry, all the Years" Chapter 7 - "The Iceberg" Chapter 8 - "Rowing in Eden" Chapter 9 - "Bethlehem" Chapter 10 - "Fettered Flesh" Chapter 11 - "Palms of my Hands" Chapter 12 - "Ouroboros" Chapter 13 - "Come not with a Sword" Chapter 14 - "A World in a Grain of Sand" Chapter 15 - "Herr God, Beware" Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18

[vivalarevolution]

𝐈 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬.

𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬:

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠?

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐈 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 / 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭/𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠?

One-shots

Headcanons

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫?

Avatar:

Jake Sully

Neytiri

Tsu'tey

Lo'ak 

Neteyam

So'lek

House of the Dragon:

Daemon Targaryen

Aegon Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

Jacaerys Velaryon

Cregan Stark

Gwayne Hightower

Game of Thrones:

Oberyn Martell

Robb Stark

Jon Snow

Rhaegar Targaryen

Daenerys Targaryen

Viserys III Targaryen

The Witcher

Geralt of Rivia

Eskel

The Vampire Diaries:

Klaus Mikaelson

Elijah Mikaelson

Stefan Salvatore

Damon Salvatore

Twilight:

Paul Lahote

Jasper Hale

Edward Cullen

Dune:

Feyd Rautha

Paul Atreides

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐈 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 / 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞?

When it comes to this question, I can't answer it with 100% certainty because I hasn't written everything yet.

However, from my experience, there are things that I do not write, for example:

non-consensual

heavy angst

character x character

character x oc (I prefer to have the last word in creating oc's in my works)

humiliating situations

Maybe the list will be longer in the future, but for now, that's all. I am an open and tolerant person by nature, so I approach most things with curiosity rather than with immediate disgust.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫?

I hope you understood this point and that I formulated it well. But all I mean is that I won't be writing for any perspective other than a female one. I'm a woman myself, so I write best from this perspective , I feel most comfortable in it when it comes to writing.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭/𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞?

As always, feel free to contact me and send me your requests. However, please don't send me a message with just a character (e.g. Daemon Targaryen x reader) because it's hard to work with. I may have a sudden burst of inspiration but I can't do a lot with it because I don't know what the sender wants, I don't know if they will like it. Thats why pointing to the right plot/storyline is greatly appreciated.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐀 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

[vulpine-spectacle]

Doing a Feyd-Rautha x Male Atreides OC fic. Which name works better? Chryses (illegitimate son of Agamemnon) or Kean (Atreides ancestor)?

Or would it be better to do a Feyd x Female OC fic? I'm so torn 😭

I think you should write what you feel most compelled to write. :) I am just a lowly peasant who exists in the void of writer's block 70% of the time and the other 30% a caffeine fueled fiend at 2am writing down nonsense.

It seems like you have a story to tell. I think either name would work, but I think you should think about which name suits the character. As far as gender goes, my go-to is to flip a coin. Because once you flip it, you usually decide as it's flipping if you want heads or tails. The answer may not matter, because you've already made your decision mid-air.

As a writer myself, I don't want to sway your story either way. I believe your story is your baby. My personal opinion is to weigh and consider your decisions, and choose what you feel most comfortable / excited to work with. It's your baby!

[prpfz]

hello! 🐍🐍🐍 i'm 21+ they/them looking for 21+ writing partners for Dune roleplay! forewarning: i'm kind of a slow writer.

I'm looking for two scenarios:

feyd-rautha x my female oc (I am also willing to write him against your oc in return!) an arranged marriage sort of thing, but filled with all sorts of dead dove/dark plot aspects.

the other is another definite dead dove: feyd-rautha x feyd's daughter oc, incest and/or codependent relationship orientated.

if interested, please like the post and i'll reach out! if we vibe, we can move things to discord.

Leave a like, and anon will get back to you!

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART VI

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 3,692

Warnings: dark and sexual themes, dub/con, non/con, and arranged marriage.

Summary: You've been summoned to spectate. Adrenaline turns carnal.

A game.

The kind your mother and father would play; silently challenging one another across the table. You remember the intensity in their eyes, although not the sort that would infer violence. These kinds of games were only ones of friendly competition.

The round piece between your fingers hovers above the board. From the moment you began, you've been plotting move by move. Now you're almost there, at the precipice of your own hard work and sacrifice.

You're set to win.

Setting the piece down on the board, you leant back to allow your opponent their own turn. So far, your servant has been forthcoming; an unexpected challenge. It might've been presumptuous, but you didn't think Harkonnen's would have the patients to play something as trivial as a board game.

It's too peaceful.

Observing the servants stagnant position, you watch her eyes flicker and mind reel as she thinks of a possible path. One wrong move and the game could end prematurely, or possibly, she may even be able to prolong the challenge.

The possibilities are endless, but you can only predict and plan so many steps ahead. There's always a chance great beginnings may not lead to great victories. And just as she went to seize her turn, the woman was deprived by an uninvited guest.

Piter.

The mentat enters the expansive yet minimalistic room; a quiet lounging area. It's one of the few places you feel comfortable enough to spend your days, apart from your chambers. This place at least offers large window panes, allowing you a glimpse to the outside world.

On his approach, your servant quickly stands to resume her dutiful spot; upright with hands clasped and head bowed. You don't have to look up to see the displeased look on the mentat's face.

"It's unbecoming to play with the help."

"You didn't come all this way to lecture me," you retort while still eyeing the awaiting pieces on the board. "What is it you want?"

"You're expected to attend tonight's festivities."

"I've already refused."

Getting up from your seat, you go to pour yourself a cup of wine. The liquid is almost black, a rare of kind of vintage. A type of wine only produced on Salusa. The enriched aroma of spice fills your lungs, making your mouth water before you even take a sip.

The invitation was given awhile ago, but the moment you'd been informed of the true nature of the spectacle, you'd felt utterly disgusted with the notion of attending. The arena is archaic. A hellish pit made from cracked bones and blood.

"It needn't be to your liking, and no doubt, you'll take no joy from what you see," replied Piter. "But your absence will be noted."

"Then let them notice." Taking a mouthful of your wine, you stew on the thought that crosses your mind. It's rather bold - if not treasonous - but even so, you find yourself speaking anyway. "Feyd-Rautha is to fight?"

Piter paused, "Yes."

"And what happens - if he's killed?"

Turning around, you stare at the pale man in all seriousness. It'd been mentioned that your husband much prefers to participate in the arena, rather than to spectate. Feyd-Rautha wouldn't miss the glory of killing.

Piter warned between drawn lips, "Careful."

Walking towards the glass paneled window, you sigh as you look out over the palace and city. In the distance you can see the arena; a triangular mega structure, capable of holding tens of thousands. It's daunting.

As fortunate as you find the possibility of Feyd's death, you doubt the Harkonnen heir would allow himself to be slain in a simple match; and certainly not in front of his own people. Had the chore been so easy, the man would've perished long before you ever knew he existed.

"Perhaps you can assist me in another matter," you said in diversion of the topic. The remainder of your wine is swallowed. "Those things he keeps with him - those women - I'd rather they be removed. Immediately."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible. The Harpies aren't yours to discard," he replied before somehow trying to make light of his answer and the situation. "Besides, they serve their purpose."

"To devour the dead?"

"To distract. To keep away from - you."

His answer can't help but make you scoff in disbelief. At every turn he manipulates, like a seasoned puppeteer. You aren't quite sure why he's taken to governing you, but in times likes these, you see him to be against you; in typical favor of his own master.

You utter, "Is that so?"

As grotesque as you may find the women that keep company with your husband, it isn't their vile nature that has you most resenting their existence. Your distaste runs deeper. In truth, it's the blatant realisation that you see yourself closer to them than you care to admit.

Parallels.

Beneath titles, your nothing but a glorified slave. It isn't the metal chains of a shackle or the bars of a cell that keep you prisoner, but the superiority of one man. The same invisible restrains that bind those women are the same you bear now.

Piter calmly commands, "Ensure the lady is ready and waiting."

The room settled in silence as soon as he left, to which you're now able to let out the breath you've been holding. It isn't one of relief. It's uneasiness. The kind that makes your knees weak and stomach twist.

The spiced wine has gone straight to your head, but despite the fact, you continue to sip throughout the evening. It drowns your mind, enough to allow you a sense of calm as your prepare, and eventually approach the outer rim of the arena.

The journey to the place itself was over all to soon, as you now sat within the capsule carriage. The vessel hovers in waiting, and already you can hear through its walls; a bombardment of cheer that fills the monotone sky.

"We're here," utters your servant.

After the capsule opens, she's the first to exit the vessel, before providing you with support as you follow out. As you first laid eyes on the arena up close, the structure immediately takes your breath away. It's a marvel of smooth black metal, towering higher than you first perceived.

"This way."

Soldiers steer you from the front, while two linger at the rear. Their protection guides you inside and upward, ascending until you reach the pinnacle. A private balcony. It's open and grand, with many servants and adversaries awaiting nearby.

"Under our glorious black sun," began the deep voice of the announcer. "We welcome to these very special festivities, our beloved leader - Baron Vladimir Harkonnen."

At the forefront of all the rest, you see the grossly substantial man, as he sits perched upon his levitating chair. The crowd cheers at the announcers introduction. The view is pristine and you can't help but be in awe of it, as well as the thousands of people who've gathered in witness.

"Come," orders the Baron. "Sit beside me."

Taking a seat at his side, you would have rather preferred to hide in the shadows. But as you peer over the edge, scanning the horizon of faces, to then take in the sands of the arena, you realise you've never seen anything like this; terrible yet unique.

"I've been advised that you aren't fond of our traditions," spoke the Baron, to which you discreetly eye the mentat. "Why is that exactly?"

"I don't condone the killing of others for sport."

"What you see here is more than just sport," he replies with a gravely tone. "This is politics."

Another wave of uproar drew your attention. The surrounding sea of black and white all stood in a wave of craze and excitement, before chanting the devilish name of your nightmares. The Ne-Baron. Feyd-Rautha.

"Tell me," utters the Baron. "What do you see?"

Feyd enters the arena, striding through the sands with predatory intent. Meanwhile, his opponents stubble from their confines; half-naked yet armed with swords. It all began so quickly, that soon thereafter you watched as the burley man staggers forward; the first to strike an attack.

You peer through your viewing lens. "Are they sick?"

"Drugged," confirms the Baron.

You lower the lens in time. You don't have to watch to know the burley man has been slaughtered. The uproar of the spectators in enough. They display their pleasure and glory of the moment without remorse; as if what they've witnessed is marvelous.

"You call this politics?"

"Of course!" agreed the Baron. Reaching up, he takes a drag from the black pipe he often smokes. The cloud of vapor disperses between thin lips. "What better way to earn the love of the people, then by slaying the enemy."

It's an honest confession. Although, the brutal display of violence is far removed from any politics you've ever seen on Caladan. Under no circumstance would your father ever permit a massacre such as this, let alone grant it in full view of the public.

"It's barbaric," he admits as if reading your mind. "Merciless. Cruel. It's all those words you're no doubt thinking. But, our people feed on strength. There's no room for weak men. He's a perfect example! Feyd-Rautha - my nephew - a true Harkonnen."

Looking over at the stout man, you can't help but see a mix of pride and envy glint within his piercing gaze. It's confronting. A look you hadn't imagined could ever be present on such a mans face, yet there it is.

Lust.

Following along his line of sight, you continue to watch from afar as the match goes on, soon to be followed by the next. Although you can't see it all transpire, you aren't immune to your other senses. The smell of blood and sweat. You can taste it in your mouth. Iron and salt.

War

Gripping the edge of your seat, you can't allow any of this to matter. The happenings of this planet can't affect you. There's nothing that can be done to stop it. On Geidi Prime you're powerless.

A wine glass appears in your peripheral, held out in offering by the pale hand of your servant. A silent understanding transpires between the two of you, before you take it. The inebriant will make this whole ordeal go much faster.

Taking a long sip, you devour the wine until the burn numbs your throat and dulls your senses. The matches began to blur one after the other, but they seemed to go on forever; as if time itself worked against you.

Palpitations beat beneath your chest, while your mind begins to stray. You're curious to know where exactly where they'd found and kept all these so-call opponents. It had to of been somewhere awful by the state of them.

The men are covered in filth and tattered clothing, but they can't have been prisoner for long. They aren't wasted away. They're still lean and strong. You take another sip in debate. It wouldn't be a good show otherwise.

"He's ruthless!" chuckles the Baron. "A warrior."

Yet again, his nephew wins the favor of his people; earnt by a gruesome decapitation of the enemy. Holding up your lens, you take in his unabashed show of glory; black teeth bared as he thrusts his weapon into the air. Undefeated.

"There's nothing to fear," spoke the Barron. "When fear itself is on your side."

A short and cryptic speech, aimed more to himself than anyone else. You don't allow yourself to ponder on what it could possibly mean. You're far too intoxicated to desire delving into the mind of a mad man.

Instead, you bided your time until the evening came to an end; an eternity later. It might have been the end of the fighting, but you're sure the raw energy it's ignited would no doubt continue elsewhere in the city; a reveling amongst people.

It became evident you were right as you travelled back to the palace; your vessel travelling past all kinds of celebrants. You don't take to much notice as you all want is the silent sanctuary of your chambers. This pollution of noise around you is so tumultuous it's become nauseating.

It's a chaotic atmosphere you're forced to navigate, but eventually you arrive back to the palace and into your private abode. A moment of relief is the first bring you back down. You can no longer smell the ick of blood, or feel the heavy thrum in the air.

"A bath, my lady?"

"Yes," you managed to reply.

Removing the pins from your hair, the pleasant aroma of flora soon drifts in from the bathroom. As soon as you're free of the confines of your dress, you take no time at all to sink within the water. It's sobering. Liberating. You feel somehow cleansed.

Relaxing as your skin is gently washed, your eyes flutter in a bout of fatigue; the affect of wine and sleepless nights. It takes a toll, both mentally and physically. Wading your fingers along the water, you watch as steam rises from the milky surface; adorned with dried leaves and flowers.

"Where did they come from?" you ask, as the thought can't help but linger in the back of your brain. Perhaps you thought knowing might give you closure. "The men who died tonight."

"They're opposers," she answers. "Deserters, captives, even slaves."

"Are any of them my own?". The question caused her to pause mid-stroke with the lathered sponge. You turn to look at her, only for the woman to blink and still herself, as if she were somehow struggling. "Well?"

"I-I can't tell you," she stutters. "I'm n-."

A raspy voice intervened, "What are you talking about?"

The two of you gasped, as both your eyes turn to the trespasser. Feyd stands at the entrance of the bathroom; like a demon from the shadows. His lips part subtly, face entirely unbothered, and yet his stare is narrowed. Suspicious.

"Go on," he challenges with a step forward. "Speak."

You demand, "Get. Out."

The initial shock is swift to disappear, and now you're livid. The last face you wanted to see this night is his own. Only moments ago he was killing; butchering men in an arena for entertainment. He's still in the same attire. Unclean.

"I said leave," you hissed.

"Don't you hear her girl?" he questioned, glaring eyes turning to your stunned servant. "You've been told to leave."

The twisted torment is obvious and all three of you are aware. As untrue as he spoke, you can't blame your servant from fleeing at his underlying threat. Her encompassing fear left along with her from the room. You're alone.

Defenseless.

Sitting naked and petrified within the tub, your heart skips in awareness of your own vulnerability. The safety you once felt upon entering your quarters, can't help but now scorn you in a macabre twist of humor. You're too foolish.

You asked, "What are you doing?"

"What I like," he says while eyeing you in the tub. Feyd isn't able to see your sunken form below the milky water, but it's all too easy for his sickly gaze to convince you otherwise. "Women like you are so precious."

He looks down at the floating flower petals, before plucking one from the surface. It's strange to see him hold such a pretty and delicate thing. The flower rests innocently upon his pale palm, before being crushed within his fist.

"So unlike our own," he continues as the crushed flower falls from his palm. "You're soft. Weak."

"Then you don't know women like me."

Feyd chuckles in amusement, "Is that so?"

It didn't go unnoticed how terribly close he's becoming. You have the urge to distance yourself and move to the other side of the tub - or better yet - to get out and run, but you find yourself frozen. Even as he comes to stand behind you, you're still trapped in the deadly lock of terror and pride.

"Enlighten me then," he encourages while taking a knee beside the tub. "Show me who you are."

"I'm not playing this game."

In an instant, he has you in a hold. Fingers thread tightly within your wet hair, while his other hand squeezes at your throat. If his fingers dig any further, you feel he might rip out your throat. Spluttering within his grasp, the water sloshes against your struggling body.

"Game?," he growls in you ear. "That would imply you have a chance."

Feyd pulls you from the water, as if you're as meagre as the flower he'd just crushed. What little air in your lungs is forced out, leaving you a gasping, wet mess as he drags you from the bathroom into the bedroom.

Discarding you with a throw to the floor, you wasted no time in backing away from him; squirming like a worm in the dirt. Feyd's muscles tense within his body. The way he's looking at you now, is the same way he looked at those men in the arena.

"You have fire in you," he admits while removing his outer jacket. "But even still, you're just more of the same."

As soon as he stepped in your direction, you scrambled to get to your feet; a frivolous attempt to flee. A failure. It didn't matter how hard or loud you screamed, no one out there would come to your rescue, so you didn't bother.

"There's nowhere to run," he said before catching you within his arms. "Nowhere I can't find you."

Whipping you around, he went to grab your face when you bit him; teeth sinking deep within his flesh like a wild animal. The spiced wine hadn't left you entirely. Between the fermented brew and adrenaline, you aren't thinking with a rational mind.

You just want to survive.

Pulling away from his attack, he managed to backhand you across the face; sending you hurling back down to the floor. A puddle of flesh at his feet. You can taste the remnants his thick blood in your mouth; smeared along your lips and chin.

Feral.

Feyd plucked you from the floor to push you up against the nearing wall. The metals cold surface instantly chills your flesh; a quick and painful reminder of how naked and unprotective you are in this moment.

Pinning you with the weight of his body, you're unable to fend him off, other than to kick and hit at will. It proved utterly useless. A waste of energy. The force of your weak knees and hands are nothing against his solid form.

"Don't you know - pet - not to bite the hand that feeds you."

Grabbing your jaw, his lips meet yours; tongue delving into your mouth. It makes you squeal in protest. You can feel him kissing you. You know he can taste your blood and his, and when he leans back, you see him grinning with a sinister chuckle. Enjoyment.

"Where's your fight?" he goads. "Where's that fire?"

Turning your head to the side, you feel his warmth breath fan against the length of your neck. Bait. He's trying to tempt you, to get a rise of anger. He's still high on his own rush of pleasure; an addiction to death.

"Don't act so restrained," he pesters while a calloused hand presses against your side; running the length of your body, until it reaches the top of your soft naval. "I know you want to hurt me."

"I want you to suffer," you confess while thrusting your knee into his stomach. The impact would have been enough to hurt him, but only took satisfaction in your assault. "I want you to die."

"And die I will," he said before suddenly punching you in the stomach; hard enough to leave you hunched in a coughing fit. It shocked you. The rupture of pain that struck within your belly is overwhelming. "But not today."

Forcing you over in a stumbling mess, he bends you over the nearby table; breasts and stomach pressed flat against the surface. Your hips dig into the edge of metal. Unable to think or move, he holds you down with ease; hands pinned behind your lower back.

"There's pleasure in many things," he says with a booted kick at your ankles. "Fighting and killing," he clarifies upon forcing your legs to spread wide. "And now I have just one more - now, I have you."

Rough. Forceful. He takes you like a servant. A whore. The length of his hardened member plunges deep inside of you; stretching your walls, threatening to rupture your womb. There's no mercy or reprieve. It only continues.

Again.

And again.

It's punishment. Degradation. Feyd grunts beneath his breath, while you can't help but express sharp moans. It's discomfort. The tips of your toes flare with pain as you try to ease the his forceful jabs, but he only pulls you back; rutter harder.

Fucking you.

The moment he released your hold, you felt betrayal more than relief. That was the moment you were supposed to flee; to fight back. Instead, you held on and stayed; fingernails clawing at the table for some kind of anchorage.

He's almost done. You can hear it. Feyd breathed shallower, more labored. That icky sticky trail is already creeping its way down between your thighs, and soon there'll be more, but he's not quite there.

You only found a sort of relief from the guilt when his fingers threaded within your damp hair; twisting so hard your scalp screamed. The pain is enough to overwhelm the fact he'd just emptied himself inside of you.

Warm.

Thick.

The weight of his body bears heavily atop your back, but he doesn't linger. Pulling himself free of you, trails of cum drip like blood from a wound. You wished all of it would empty itself; to be sterile.

The thought of being round and well bred terrifies you more than any nightmare. You couldn't bring yourself to imagine what kind of thing could come tearing it's way from your body; beauty or beast.

A Mosiah.

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART V

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,238

Warnings: dark themes, violence, death and mention of cannibalism

Summary: Your pride and loneliness gets the better, as you choose to pry in what you should avoid.

Desecrated.

It's tender to the touch. Bruised. The simple trace of your finger is enough to draw a frown. The mottled skin of your throat is obvious. A terrible site to bare witness, but there's more; a scattered mess mares your body.

The powders have no affect in hiding their existence, and so you resorted to covering them with fabric. It's better the people don't see. It's better your father and kin don't realise the damage of only one night. If they did, they might not leave you here, and the point of all this would be for nothing.

A waste.

You've come this far and you've survived. It's not for anyone else but for you to decide when it ends. It could be weeks, years or even decades, but you know this marriage is worth more than your life. It means a future for thousands of others, if not millions.

Turning from the mirror, you nod for the servants to continue dressing you. The early morning marks the hour of your fathers return to Caladan. He and the others are set to leave this planet, and you want them to leave with hope and pride.

Honour.

You aren't going to dress like your new people, nor will you ever behave like them. The void of their culture won't ever touch your soul. Instead, the servants prepare you in one of the gowns bought from home. A statement both daring and bold.

"Is it time?" you question, to which the servant nods. She's the very same to whom had once adorned the bruises you do now. For reasons unknown, you had taken a liking to the woman. "Good."

Taking a deep breath as you left your chamber, you couldn't help but yearn for what freedom you might find outside these walls; if for only a short time. If only to see your father depart this abysmal world. Gathering yourself, it was only your lone servant who guided you through the palace and up to the hithe.

The dark star that cloaks this planet bore light, and you wince as it floods your gentle eyes; having been weeks since you'd taken in anything other than the artificial. Even the air is harder to breath despite being outside; far too poisoned with fumes.

In the distance you see the great ship to which you'd arrived in, still gleaming unlike anything you'd ever seen. A beacon. There's very few in the galaxy who have or ever will travel the vastness of space. In fact, the first time you'd ever done so was to bring yourself here.

"I didn't think you would come," spoke your father. Standing in uniform, he greets you well kept but with a face of despair. The loom that surrounds him is heartbreaking. "I didn't think you would want to see me."

"Then you think too much," you replied with a faint smile. "You're my father - my duke. You're an honorable man who deserves to be farewelled."

"An honorable man wouldn't trade his daughter to the enemy."

His words hit you like a bullet. Painful. The surrounding noise grows overwhelming to the senses. Hypersensitive. You can hear the ships, the soldiers and even the planet itself resonating from all-round. Even the wind across your face feels strange.

But as you look at your fathers rugged face, see his familiar eyes and features, you feel the noise fade away. You can see the burden he's carrying. You know this was as difficult for him as it is for you. It isn't fair or right for him to keep carrying it.

"There is no call we do not answer," you repeat in mantra. "We do what we must for the good of the people." Resting a hand on his shoulder, you give a light squeeze. "We do what we must to survive."

"You're strong, just like your mother," he nods with a chuff. "You always have been."

Stepping forward, he places a soft kiss on your forehead and your eyes close amidst the threat of tears. You want to remember him as he is and as the kind-heartedness that he represents. Steadily breathing, you absorb his gentle touch and scent; to which you won't soon forget.

"We'll see each other again," he promises with a touch of your cheek. "I'll make sure of it."

Nodding your head with a mustered smile, the duke straightens himself before taking a step back. There are no other exchanges as he moves to make way for the ship. It's a quick farewell, anything more would be too difficult; too emotional.

"My lady," utters Gurney. Stepping forward, he takes your hand to lay a quick peck. "As a man of your fathers council, loyal friend and protector, it pains me that my only power now is to wish you well."

"Fate is a complexity, is it not?" you jest upon looking at your retreating fathers form. In all seriousness you added, "You'll protect him, won't you - and Paul?"

He pauses, "With my life."

"Then there's nothing to fear," you mutter beneath your breath. A rush of relief washes your bones, perhaps a premonition. "Thank you, Gurney."

Giving a curt nod, he bid himself goodbye before following suit to board the ship; along with the rest. Watching alongside what few soldiers and groundmen there are, you waited by until the doors ceiled. The tender strings in your heart tug at the site.

Loneliness is cruel.

Yet, a shadow looms on the metal floor of the platform. Piter. The mentat appeared from seemingly nowhere, and to your irritably, is the only one of any importance to see your father and people off on their long voyage.

"Where are they?" you question bluntly, not bothering so much as to look at him. Your eyes are still sharply focused on the starship. "Why didn't they come?"

In truth, it doesn't matter that your new family by law had not shown for the occasion. They hadn't done you the courtesy of it upon arrival, and so what little there is to have changed in their humiliation. You only ask in leu of the open wound it now salts.

"Pressing matters," spoke Piter. "The Baron's time is precious. It's best not to waste what isn't so clearly desired."

"And what of Feyd-Rautha?" you queried whilst turning to face the mentat; heated eyes meeting cold ones. "Is his time as coveted?"

"The answer isn't pleasant."

"I didn't ask if it were pleasant."

"Take the day," retorts Piter as he looks out towards the horizon. "This is your home now - you should see it."

The anger within your veins begins to boil. It vexes you that this twisted man won't simply answer what should be the simplest question. It causes your mind to tick, wondering what it could possibly be to make him so reluctant; secretive.

"Do I have to pry it out of you?"

The threat did nothing to change his monotone demeanor, but you can tell he'd heard you well and clear. A break of silence fills the void between you, until finally there is no more effort for him to conceal the truth. He confesses with a neutral tone.

"Prying only leads you to places you shouldn't be," he states before glancing at your servant. "But this one can show you the way."

Glancing over your shoulder, you eye the woman; head bowed low. Piter stays while you take your leave of the hithe. You'd expected him to be stronger, but his words of warning begin ring. Perhaps he's right to stave you from the trail you now follow.

"This way," utters your servant.

Following her lead, she moves at a slow pace; an evident lack of urgency. The reason is an evident one. Venturing into the palace walls and traversing the halls, the farther you travel, the more you studied the lithe and pale woman.

The muscles in her neck twitch and strain ever so subtly. A sign of distress. The way she grips her hands together, so tightly, as if she were trying to cling on, only makes you all the more intrigued yet disturbed.

"Where are we going?"

Keeping her head bowed she responds, "We're almost there."

The answer is hardly clear enough to process. Empty. The abundance of riddling and vague responses you've received only adds to your tart aggravation. It's baneful, with how the Harkonnen's have polluted this place with such fear and secrets.

A terrible infestation.

Eventually, the servant stops outside that of a chamber door; similar to your own but far removed. This place is located deeper within the palace, if at all possible. You can see her milky skin prickle and shiver beneath her thin dress.

You order, "Stay close."

Swiping a hand over the console, the door opens wide; revealing a bright illumination as it beams down from the ceiling. As you step forward, your shoes click against the glossy ground whilst the door close from behind; entrapping the two of you.

The channel of light strikes down upon the epicenter of the room, clearly irradiating the psychotic man you'd been seeking; although he's far from alone. As criminal and dangerous as he may be, his blood still belongs to great wealth.

Feyd stands within the down cast of light, muscular arms outreached while servants attend to his requisite. In a warped sense, his marbled pose and aura makes you think of an something akin to ancient; like a god from the old world.

A god of death.

The other servants are quick to stop and turn heads at your unexpected arrival, but Feyd remains unbothered. Evidently, there's not a soul on this planet for him to fear. However, his attendants have paused far too long for his liking.

Feyd turns slowly, clearly agitated at whomever had decided to enter his domain. His sharpened features don't soften upon realising your presence. Instead, he looks you up and down rather analytically.

He rumbles, "What do you want?"

"Respect," you answer simple and low. "Honour."

Feyd's lip twitches in a slight grimace and snarl. It's enough to show blackened teeth, to which you still find utterly unsettling. Feyd waves off a servant, before turning his undivided attention towards you; malicious.

"Honour," he repeats as he stalks towards you; one step at a time. "For who? For you?"

"For us both," you respond as he circles behind you. "The empire watches - waiting to see what will happen next. Now all they see is you - absent from the honour my house was due this morning."

"You Atreides," he drawls with a grumble. A flutter of feminine giggles echo from the far corner of the room. "You're all the same."

Feyd moves from behind you, instead leading himself to a table. It gave you a chance to take in the room. The servants stand predictably petrified, while three others sat lounged on a booth; the strange women are intermingled with one another.

"Would you like some fresh meat my darlings?" he boasted, whilst lifting a knife from the counter. It took you all of a moment to realise he's no longer speaking to you, but to the women on the lounge. "What would you like? A lung? A liver?"

Their own blackened mouths show in a mixture of smiles and grins. Deranged. Their giggles and moans visibly shift the tension. The other servants seem to faulter on the spot; their heads tucking lower and bodies tremoring.

"You," he leers at your own servant. "Come."

"No," you quip without hesitation. The last thing that'll happen in this room will be his hands touching the woman who stands so vulnerably behind your body of protection. "She isn't yours to torment."

"Everything's mine," he replies while approaching his nearest attendant.

You watch the girls lips quiver and eyes widen as his blade thrusts into her abdomen; once, then twice and again. She groans and splutters whilst falling to the ground in a matter of seconds. Butcher.

A pool of blood seeps as he turns to add, "Even you, Atreides."

The violent execution shocks you deep within, and control is hard to fight for as your emotions take hold like a vice. You're trying not to scream. You're trying not to react as to give him satisfaction. Instead, you watch as the girl continues to die, his victim twitching and suffering on the floor; dying then dead.

"There," he gestures matter-of-factly. "My honour."

His reasoning makes no sense. It's all madness to you. Murder. Lifting the dagger, he observes the blood which coats the blade. Transfixed. The gleam in his wicked eyes is unmistakable, but the gravity of it even more so, when his tongue licks a line of blood.

"Because of me," he elaborates. "My darlings are satisfied. Because of me, they're to live another day. There is honour in being master."

Your gaze flickers from him to the three women who sit intertwined on the lounge. It sounds as exactly as he'd announced, but you simply don't want to fathom the truth. These are fowl notions, even for the likes of his kind.

It sickens you more than the memory of his touch.

Listening to the women revel amongst themselves, they seem clearly pleased with their masters slaughter and offering. Feyd gestures and the others are swift to drag the fresh corpse from site; leaving a trail of smeared blood.

Concubines and cannibals.

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART I

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 2,176

Warnings: dark themes and arranged marriage

Summary: An arrangement is forged between two apposing houses to save your world the cost of war.

Fear is the mind killer.

It snakes inside of you, twisting and strangling until bitter death. It’s an escapable pit of darkness. A place where light fears to tread and all life suffers. You feel it now, the deep ripple of dread as it slows your precious breath.

The laces of your corset are drawn tight, narrowing your passages even further. Your humble servants dress you in silence; their faces veiled in sheer fabric. They don’t dare speak on this occasion. It's ritualistic. The way they prepare you in lavish fabric and accessories the color of gold and deep crimson.

It marks your arrival.

A fiery sun, rising upon a dark and desolate planet; far from the one to which you were born. There is no green on Giedi Prime. There are no vast oceans or scraping mountains. Their world is shrouded in black and white, a monochromatic wasteland.

Metallic toxins ruin this world, while great machines plow the surface; devouring its resources like a hungry beast. You’ve not stepped foot on this sphere, and already you can feel the shift. It's quick to form a haze over your mind.

This is no place for you.

This isn’t the future you envisioned, but rather the one to which has been so cruelly dictated. It’s a strategic alignment that only the Bene Gesserit would dare to conjure. The task has been assigned, and now you must survive. Failure is unthinkable - unacceptable.

There is only the union.

A pact to save your world the cost of war.

Walking the grand gangway of the starship, your father lead at the head of the envoy; a steady hand rested on his sword. Gurney stood guard on your fathers’ side, whilst your servants trailed at yours. The rest of your family – your lady mother and older brother – had remained on Caladan.

It isn’t custom to have them in your company. It’s the father’s duty to relinquish the daughter, as an act of traditional and good faith; but this is merely a transaction. This is a trade of life for peace, and as much as you despise the fact, your opinion has no meaning in the era of entitled men.

Maintaining your line of vision, you try not to allow your gaze to wander too far from the site of your own kin. This place is foreign and cold, and it wreaks of violence. The instant you detected the small huddled committee of Harkonnen officials, all waiting for your arrival, you shivered in realization of your pitiful reality.

“We welcome you to Geidi Prime, Duke Leto.”

A particularly lanky man stood eerily emotionless as he received your house; dressed head to toe in black layers. It’s a stark contrast to his otherwise hairless and pale skin. It didn’t take long at all for you ascertain the being’s true nature. You could sense it. A twisted mentat who serves logic to his master.

“Where is he?” questioned your father, voice absent all formality and kindness. “Why is the Barron not here to greet us?”

“He awaits your arrival in the hall,” gestured the mentat. The way ahead is lined with armored Harkonnen soldiers; far from a warming embrace. “This way, if you will.”

The skeptical glance Gurney gave your father only serves to unease you more than you’d prefer. You know that look. You know the two men hold little to no trust for these people. They’re all savages. A race of violent individuals who’ve somehow thrived in their own wickedness.  

Several lifetimes ago, the two of your bloodlines crossed, but it’s hard to image their sinister race could ever be related to the likes of your own. In truth, the Harkonnen’s are the most alien of all the great houses; with their balding heads and pale flesh.

The archives can only tell you their past, but what you see all around is the present. It’s terrifying and with each step you take, you wonder how someone like you could possibly exist in their world. The back of your throat tightens, yet you shift to stand taller as you proceed to walk the grand hallway.

Pride keeps your strong, for now.

Despite the palace’s mega structure, you feel imprisoned within its steel walls; soon to be shackled by a vow. The mentat before you signaled two of the soldiers, bidding them to open the large doors of the hall. The smell of iron and soot wafted into your lungs; tainting them with every breath.

The room itself is expansive and minimalistic; eerily empty despite those occupying its space. The thick stream of light illuminated the foreboding figure which sat on the heightened, cushioned throne. You can hardly believe the sheer mass of the Barron, and yet it’s no kept secret.

“Duke,” spoke the deep voice of the Barron. The hulking man gestured outwardly with his hand, in what one could only presume to be a greeting of sorts. “Here you are – at last."

“We expected to be greeted on arrival,” replied father; clearly unimpressed with our reception to the planet. “We’ve travelled light years – and yet here you sit.”

“And there you stand, Cousin. Do we not greet each other now?”

The tension is palpable, and the seconds of silence feel more so like eternity. The duke’s bitterness hardly went unnoticed, and whilst others would try to correct themselves in fear of their lives, your father remains headstrong. The man's a pure representative of your family’s values, but he forgets.

This is their planet.

These are their rules.

It’s best you learn fast now, lest you shatter. If your family could offer no comfort here within your new life, then that leaves only yourself left to care. As the daughter of a duke and offspring to the sisterhood, your mind and body is its own protection.

The Bene Gesserit have governed you since you were a babe. They’ve showed you things few ever witness. They’ve taught you their ways, and now they’re to be the pillars of both the survival and success of this alliance. You are your only strength and weakness.

Observing the room, there’s only those of your own envoy and the close confidants of the Barron. Particularly, it’s hard to mistake the broad and brooding man standing to the left of his glutenous uncle. Rabban appears stiff, if not livid as he glares distantly at your father.  

Wide fists clench noticeably at his sides, displaying his obvious displeasure of the situation. Rabban can be described as simple minded, but a brute. He uses sheer force to conquer, and for that reason, he’ll gain nothing of any real value. Power is more than strength.

“Come,” spoke the Barron. “I want to see her.”

“Where is he?”

It drew you to realize your father’s pointed absence of the man in question. You’ve only ever known your suiter by name and reputation. Feyd-Rautha. Ambitious and psychotic. You wouldn’t know his face to pick it from the rest.

“Is it your nephew’s intention to insult my daughter, or was he simply not made aware of our arrival?”

The Barron gave a low groan, his tongue tisking against his grey teeth whilst he leant into his throne. A clear sign of impatience. This is the Barron's most inner dominion and so far, your father has only defied his every will and word without hesitation.

Stepping forward, you moved with steady purpose upon your intention to diffuse the rising hostility. Gurney is the first to stop you with an outstretched hand, only for your father to intervene. Despite his reluctance, the duke knows this is an alliance even he can’t afford to break.

Amusement shone in the Barron's eyes upon your willing approach. Ascending the slabbed staircase, you watch as the silk donned man rose eerily from his seat. The mechanical and unnatural elevation of his large body caused you to stop.

“There you are,” he grinned as he hovered closer. “Bold, just like your father.”

The Barron's thick limbs reached out, slowly lifting the veil that sheltered your face. In all these years of residing within each other’s existence, the two of you had never met until now. Gazing up at him, you saw his pale and wrinkled face morph from intrigue to impassive.

He gave a low hum, “And so we meet.”

The way his eyes roam over your face and body feels more analytical, rather than that of a perverse nature. You aren’t entirely sure if he’s disappointed or curious. The room turns silent, and everyone waits with bated breath for what the Barron will do next.

“You’re prettier than I imagined,” he announced. Hovering away from you, he slowly sat himself back onto the cushioned seat of his throne. “No matter the sort, beauty is a rare site to be had on Geidi Prime. It certainly doesn’t last for long.”

“She's to be unharmed,” interjected your father. The protectiveness in his voice is further stated with the underlying hiss of a threat. “As soon as she’s with child, she’s to be escorted back to Caladan.”

“Nonsense!” boomed the Barron. “If your daughter is to marry my nephew, then she’s to remain on Geidi Prime.”

“If?”

Turning, you faced your father to see his angered expression. Despite the intimidating and strange aura of this planet, the site of your father is still apposing. Standing in full uniform, you know with time and familiarity that the duke won’t accept or backdown.

“My nephew can be stubborn. Youth is so often irrational.” Shifting in his seat, the Barron sighed whilst narrowing his gaze. “As suited as she may be, your daughter isn’t the only hand of worth within House Major.”

“I see,” scoffed your father. “Then you’d willingly allow yourself to break law and dishonor the name Harkonnen? The Benne Gess –.”

“Witches and spies!” cursed the Barron. “I’ll not have them dictate the future of my house!”

“And I’ll not have you shame mine! Feyd-Rautha will take my daughters hand in marriage, as agreed. House Atreides holds not only political power, but the largest arsenal in the whole of the empire,” he boasted with intent. “There is no other of worth.”

Immediately, your gaze lowered with his proclamation. It's difficult to hear your father defend your house, whilst also acting to secure a marriage neither of you desire; but he does it for the people. It's his responsibility and your duty, but even still, you can't help but feel betrayed.

“Then you have my word. Let our houses be united once more," smirked the Barron. The mentat was summoned forward, “Piter will escort your daughter to her chambers. I won’t bore her with the concerns of politics."

As quickly as you arrived within the Barron's presence, you were now dismissed from the huge hall. Daughters aren’t privy to such discussions, but you know to what it will most likely pertain. You know there’s terms and conditions to matches as important as this one.

Lowering your veil once again, you headed down the steps to the awaiting mentat; who’s now no longer nameless. Piter walked steadily in lead, and whilst you couldn’t interact with your father in this moment, the two of you locked eyes in passing.

Despite the tragedy of your new circumstance, he'll always have your best interest at heart. At the very least, he’ll fight for your comfort and safety within the confines of your new home. He’d never travel the galaxy, let alone leave you behind if he didn’t think you would be safe.

“This way.”

Piter turned the corner, and soon you felt as if you were being burrowing into the bowls of the abyss. There's no windows this far into the heart of the palace. You’re cut off from all aspects of nature, and all that’s left is a labyrinth of metal and synthetic light; producing a warm yet sterile glow.

“This one’s for you,” he spoke monotonously as we stopped outside of a doorway. “You’ll be called upon later in the evening.”

Piter went to leave before you decided to speak, “Where is he?”

The man showed reluctance before turning to face you. Clasping his hands, those dull eyes stared into you as he asked, “Whom do you refer?”

“What are you, if not calculative?”

The mentat's face shifted at your taunt. Stepping forward, he appeared serious. “The two of you have yet to meet, but certainly enough you will.” Piter waved a hand over the doorway consol. “Embrace what peaceful moments remain.”

A quick turn, and you stood watching as the mentat traversed back down the lengthy corridor. Piter’s words leave a bitter taste in your mouth. It's a warning. Perhaps even a threat. You've heard too much to think it's not.

Despite the sheer vastness of space, it’s whispers which travel the fastest. Feyd-Rautha is a name that’s passed by your ears on more than one occasion. Stories or truth. You’ve heard the court recount his cunningness and brutality.

You've heard him in your dreams.

It bleeds you with fear, and fear is the mind killer.

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART llI

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 1,602

Warnings: dark themes and arranged marriage

Summary: The endless wait is over and your ceremony continues, alongside ill awareness of your future.

A direful verdict.

There is no other way to see the path that lay afoot. In the recesses of your mind, you see a refraction of yourself suffering; buried beneath the earth and screaming. The sound saddens you, as your pleas fall on deaf ears.

The beldams burn their concoction of herbs. Smothering every inch of the room, it offers as a cleansing ritual. The smell is of sage and wood, perhaps even spice. The smoke consumes your lungs, making it harder to breath in your corset.

There's too many faces around you, all catering to the necessities that require you to be ready for the ceremony. It's been several days since your arrival, and more passed until the appropriate arrangements were deemed satisfactory.

This is to be a spectacle for the masses.

Standing on the pedestal, the servants dress you in a gown made of black cloth. It's simple with its layers, and hardly what you'd expected given the occasion. None of this feels as special as your younger self had once imagined. It truth, it feels more sacrificial; all too dark and grim for your taste.

The beldams mutter wickedness beneath their breath, "иблфщё."

A servants pale hand reaches steadily towards you; fingertips coated from a pot of black ink. Marking a line down your lower lip and chin, she continues to block in the simplistic design. The meaning of it is lost to you - this isn't your way.

It's their tradition.

The few unions you've witnessed on Caladan are far removed from your own tragedy. On your planet, they most often choose the harvest season. A time where all of nature is at its most beautiful. The peak of creation.

The orchards are in bloom and the ocean is at its bluest. Even now, you can taste the salty air on your tongue and breath the fresh scent of flora. The memory depresses you, in the likes you most probably will never take part in it again.

If so, it'll be decades.

The guttural echo of a horn brings you from your senses. The vibration is enough to churn the pit of your stomach. It blasts deeply, not once but three times; signaling the beginning of your end.

It's time.

The servant holds an an oval mirror, allowing you to peer briefly at the stranger in its reflection. A woman you barely recognize. The knock to follow is brash as it sounds from the guards on the other side of your chamber. They're waiting to escort you and your entourage to great hall.

The walk is long and tedious, but the others pay no mind along the journey. Despite the swarm of company, you feel dreadfully alone. The beldams continue to chant beneath their breath, whilst swaying their thuribles with wafts of smoking incense.

A lamb to slaughter.

It isn't until you arrive at the closed metal door to the great hall that you finally see your family and kin. Your father stands with Gurney, along with a handful of others from your planet. They're all here to bare witness.

Your entourage of women rearrange themselves in an orderly fashion, allowing you to finally be at the forefront and by your fathers side. His presence sooths you from the nerves shuttering down your spine. A stroke of fear.

"When those doors open, when they say the words - it doesn't matter," utters your father as interlocks your arms. "You're still an Atreides. You're still my blood."

Your lips quiver, "I'm afraid."

As strong you are and as you've tried to remain all this time, your hardened self can't help but crack in realisation. The man on the other side of that door is to be your life forever. There is no revoking him. Even in death, you'll be his widow.

"Keep your eyes forward and mind sharp."

The guards opened the heavy doors, slower than you last recounted. As if this terrible charade isn't enough, the universe must make you suffer within the warped hands of time. If only you could blink, and it all be over.

On the other side, you see the Barron sitting upon his elevated throne. The rest of the room is crowded with the bodies of unspecified Harkonnen's; most of which you will never have to associate. It's all purely for formality.

Walking down the clear aisle, you don't pay any mind to the sea of a thousand eyes; all hollow and black. They all watch in uniform as you draw closer to the epicenter. It lasts for a short while, and soon you're forced to look up.

A sinister noise plays faintly in the background, like the turning gears of one of their vile metal machines. It disturbs you, like cracked nails along a sheet of steel. It has to be their own eerie way of attempting to fill the void of silence.

Nearing the end of the aisle, you catch a glimpse of a familiar silhouette. They too are shrouded beneath shaded robe and veil. Silently, you acknowledge the older woman's presence. The formal representative of the Benne Gesserit.

Reverend Mother Mohiam.

Halting at the end of the aisle, you breathe shakily as you're forced to confront the inevitable. A priest awaits mid-way on the slabbed staircase, and next to him - the man you're to amalgamate.

Feyd-Rautha.

A gentle squeeze of your hand brings to the present. Your father is to join the others, leaving you alone. The duke gives you a subtle nod. It's enough to encourage you to ascend the steps, until your level with priest and the man.

Feyd-Rautha stands tall and intimidating, and although he isn't as broad in size as his older brother, you can tell he's still strong. He could kill you just as easily as Rabban. Mercifully, he isn't able to lay eyes on you through you veil; your one last barrier of protection.

"Atreides," he rumbles through blackened teeth.

The guttural voice forces your heart to pound. He sounds as savage as those piercing black eyes portray. The priest begins his prayer. A foreign chant envelopes the audience, giving you a moment to observe your counterpart.

Sinister thoughts creep into your mind, and like the slow cold hands of the devil; they wrap their fingers around your throat. He's a man dripping with poison. A creature that'll constrict and corrupt if given a moment of weakness.

"...may thy houses unite."

A servant steps forth, offering the priest a silver platter; holding the intricate blade of a dagger. The site of it unease's your nerves, and even more so when you see Feyd's eyes flicker slyly to the weapon.

"One oath," he vowed whilst looking back at you . The priest pressed the edge of the blade to his pale palm. Feyd didn't flinch as it sliced across his flesh. "One blood."

All eyes turn to you, silently goading for you to allow the same mutilation. There's little choice other than to obey. Holding out your arm, you swallow a wince as the tip of the blade drew a line of blood.

"One oath," you repeated. "One blood."

The Harkonnen extends his bleeding palm, and the two of you join hands; thick blood intertwining with a sting. The touch of his rough flesh against yours is enough to disgust you, knowing those hands have been covered in more blood than his own.

Murderer.

The priest chants as your blood melds. Oozing between your palms, it drips to spot the marbled floor. There's enough of it for you to smell and taste. The tang of iron stains the air like an open arena.

Ghostly.

A subtle force compels you to gaze over at the crowd. Swiftly you lock eyes with your father. The man stands brave in your moment of grief. Despite his words, you can't help but feel yourself being erased; like a fading memory.

The Barron levitates from his throne, "History will remember this day."

The room of men gave a saluted cheer to the Barron's declaration. At long last, after traversing distant stars and waiting with baited breath, the decree of your match is now complete and your people safe.

As safe as you could offer.

Releasing your hand, the fresh air stings the open wound. In the eyes of the known universe to which your Emperor governs, you are now a Harkonnen. Another pawn to join their ranks and their property by law.

There isn't anything to stop the hands that reach the edges of your veil. Feyd-Rautha has earnt his right to see your face. And a part of you wonders what he's to think of you. His hooded eyes remain emotionless and critical as they roam your features.

Your appearance is unconventional by their standards. Although pale, your skin is still warmer compared to theirs, and hair is certainly not a trait to be found in any corner of the planet. Silently, you hope he finds the variation to be distasteful.

Repulsive.

It might stave off his unwanted attention. It might save you from the consummation. No doubt, the thought has crossed upon every one of their minds; including his. You know it takes more than vows and blood to consecrate a political match.

It's sickens you to the core.

It twists at your insides, knowing that the duties of a noble woman aren't in the least bit dignifying. After the celebration of your marriage, you know what is to follow. The part where he'll take you, in front of watchful eyes; some more eager to see your pain than others.

It's the fuel that ignites your nightmares.

[strayrockette]

The Dragon & The Griffin

The Beginning of the Path Masterlist

A/N: The first chapter I put out was a feeler for the story. Since I had a good reception for the previous chapter(Link below), I am exploring the beginning of it all. This was revised on 9/7/24

If you want to be tagged leave a comment, DM, or reblog with an ask to be tagged.

Warnings: Mentions of death

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Irene Atreides was not born a Bene Gesserit; she had been Irene, the beloved daughter of House Atreides before she was ever bound to sisterhood—a twist of fate that even the Reverend Mother had perhaps misjudged. The Atreides were a formidable house, their power rooted in loyalty and strength, and no decision made against them was ever made lightly. Alliances were forged and broken, destinies twisted by compromise, even when the path led only to destruction.

Now, Irene stood before a tall mirror in her dimly lit chamber, her swollen belly pressing against the soft fabric of her gown. Her hands ran over the curve, feeling the life that grew within her, a life she had never planned for but could no longer imagine living without. Dark clouds loomed beyond the window, the sky thick and brooding, promising a storm that would ravage everything in its path. The air was dense, laden with the electric charge of impending thunder, and Irene’s breath hitched as a familiar ache rippled through her. She clutched the windowsill, her reflection staring back at her—tired eyes, lined with the weight of secrets and regrets.

Plans within plans within plans. That’s what she had been taught. Irene had not expected her mission to unravel like this, to find herself on the brink of something she could neither control nor fully comprehend. She was sent to destroy the Targaryens, to finish the last of a line that had long been deemed too dangerous to endure. But here she was, far from her purpose, burdened by a love she never should have allowed.

She closed her eyes, memories flooding her—a violet-eyed lover who had captured her heart with a single glance, whose gentle hands had traced the paths of her scars, whose laugh had filled her nights with warmth. She could still feel his touch, his breath hot against her ear as they whispered in the darkness. “We mustn’t,” she’d murmured, but her resolve had been as fragile as glass. His scent—wild rain and mint—enveloped her, soothing her fears. “And deny ourselves?” he’d teased, his smile a promise of a fleeting peace she could never sustain.

A sharp pang shot through her abdomen, dragging her back to the present. She gritted her teeth, fighting against the pain that was both physical and deeply emotional. Irene wanted her daughter to be stronger, to have a heart fortified against the world’s cruelty—a heart that wouldn’t bleed as hers had. Another kick jolted her, and she managed a strained smile. “You fight me at every turn, little one,” Irene murmured, her voice a mix of pain and reluctant admiration. “Just like your father.”

Irene’s body felt heavy, every step dragging as she moved across the room. She gripped the rough bedpost, her knuckles white, her back arched with the strain of impending birth. “I NEED A MIDWIFE!” she screamed, her voice echoing against the stone walls. Footsteps and hurried voices filled the chamber as three women rushed in, their expressions tight with urgency.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a brief, blinding light. Irene’s cries mingled with the storm outside, each bolt of thunder rattling the iron bars of the window. The midwife took charge, barking orders as Irene’s vision blurred with tears, her mind slipping between the searing agony and fleeting glimpses of the life she was about to bring forth. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t find the words, only the raw, primal instinct to push.

Irene’s vision blurred as the storm outside raged on, lightning splitting the sky in violent bursts of light, each crack of thunder reverberating through the stone walls of the castle. She clung to the bedpost, her body trembling with the strain of labor, every muscle taut and burning as she fought to bring her daughter into the world. The wind howled, its fierce cry finding its way through the cracks in the window, sending chills through the air and rattling the iron bars like a desperate prisoner seeking escape.

The room was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood, and the faint, acrid smoke of burning candles. Irene’s breath hitched, each inhale a struggle against the weight pressing down on her chest. She could barely focus on the hurried voices of the midwife and nurses around her, their commands lost in the fog of her exhaustion. Everything felt distant and distorted, as if she were slipping between the seams of reality. And then, in the chaos, there was a sudden, eerie stillness. The storm quieted for the briefest moment, the thunder pausing as if the universe itself had drawn in a breath. Irene’s senses sharpened, the pain momentarily dulled as a presence filled the room—something ancient and unfamiliar, yet impossibly close.

A whisper cut through the silence, soft and resonant, like the low murmur of a long-forgotten voice. It wasn’t the midwife or the nurses. It wasn’t her own fractured thoughts. It was something else entirely, something that bypassed her mind and struck at the core of her soul.

"Nykeā zaldrīzes hen vestras." A lone dragon enters the world. The words, spoken in High Valyrian, flowed like a river of molten gold, carrying the weight of an ancient promise. It was the language of her husband’s ancestors, the tongue of the dragonlords whose blood now mixed with her daughter’s. Irene’s breath caught in her throat, the whisper reverberating inside her like the distant echo of a dragon’s roar.

The voice carried a certainty that transcended time, a declaration that pierced through the storm’s fury with the quiet force of fate. It was neither comforting nor condemning, but a statement of undeniable truth, laced with the power of a legacy that could not be denied. The words rippled through Irene’s body, wrapping around her heart like a protective shield, vibrating deep within her bones.

Irene’s eyes widened, tears welling as the full meaning sank in. This was no ordinary birth; this was the arrival of something rare and destined. Her daughter was not just an heir, not just a child, but a lone dragon—a force entering the world that would challenge and defy it at every turn.

Irene’s heart ached with both fear and pride, knowing that her daughter would be alone in ways she could never fully shield her from, but also knowing that Amina would carry the strength of her father’s bloodline, the fire of the Targaryens. “A lone dragon,” Irene whispered faintly, her voice barely audible above the faint rumble of the storm. She looked down at her swollen belly, feeling the tremors of life within, and she knew that her daughter was something far more dangerous and extraordinary than any simple heir. Amina would stand defiant in a world that sought to shape or destroy her, bound to a destiny Irene could only glimpse in her darkest dreams.

The whisper lingered, echoing softly in the charged air, even as the midwife’s voice broke through, urgent and commanding. “Push, my Lady!” The command jolted Irene back to the present, the pain crashing over her once more, but the whisper stayed with her, a haunting presence that refused to be silenced. Irene’s mind swam with images—dragons soaring through storm-ravaged skies, a lone figure standing unbroken amidst the chaos, violet eyes blazing with unspoken resolve. With one final, desperate push, Irene brought her daughter into the world. Amina’s wail pierced the air, sharp and unyielding, echoing against the storm like a defiant cry of existence. The midwife lifted the newborn, her tiny body slick with the blood of birth, her eyes wide and impossibly alive, reflecting the storm’s fury and the promise of the whisper.

“Please,” Irene gasped, reaching out with trembling hands. “Let me… let me see her.” The midwife hesitated but finally placed the baby in Irene’s arms. Irene’s breath hitched as she looked down at her daughter—those vivid, fierce violet eyes meeting hers. Amina’s eyes were a vibrant burst of color, a beacon of hope and fire against the bleakness of Irene’s final moments. Irene touched her daughter’s cheek, feeling the warmth and life beneath her fingers, and for that fleeting moment, the pain receded, replaced by a fierce, unbreakable love. “Amina Targaryen,” Irene whispered, her voice barely holding against the storm’s roar.

“A lone dragon, my sweet. You are born of fire, and you will not be consumed.” Irene’s vision blurred, her strength ebbing as she held her daughter close. The whisper echoed one last time, faint and distant, fading into the ether but lingering in Irene’s heart. She knew that Amina would not be her mother’s daughter; she would be something far more. And as Irene’s final breath left her, the storm outside began to wane, the winds dying down as if in acknowledgment of the new life that had just entered the fold—a dragon, alone but unyielding, ready to carve her path in a world that would never fully understand her.

Translations:

Nykeā lone zaldrīzes enters se lurugon.= A lone dragon enters the fold

____

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen

[wixxid]

IVORY  · PART ll

Fandom: Dune

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC

Words: 1,658

Warnings: dark themes, abuse, and arranged marriage

Summary: Deceit leaves you waiting in doubt, while also allowing you a glimpse into the violence that is house Harkonnen.

"It's been days."

Sitting at the metal dining table, you stare down at the meal sitting on your plate; a platter of strange meat and fruit. It's late evening and yet you've still to see the sky. The duke sits the table opposite of you, troubled with a face equally as displeased as you sound.

Three day's have passed since your arrival to Giedi Prime.

That's how long you've been waiting to hear from the Barron. That's how long he's been making the envoy wait, with little to no news other than the fact his nephew is nearing to the planets orbit.

Feyd-Rautha was never here.

We've travelled time and space only to be left in disillusion. Stranded and seething in what is only another insult. The Barron had denied all your fathers requests to speak. We're to simply wait the coming time for the ceremony to take place.

"Is he dead?"

The question slips from between your lips, more as a suggestion than a question. In these last few days you've been contemplating the delay in your marriage to the Harkonnen. Your mind couldn't help but wander to the faint possibility.

You're father glanced you and then to the female servants. He utters, "Don't say that?"

Turning your eyes to the women, you observe how still the three of them stand. Their bald heads are bowed lowly, their eyes everted as if it were forbidden to look upon us. Neither of them spoke, a noticeable trait amongst these walls. It's terribly quiet.

"Do you think they listen?"

The duke sighed with a gesture, "All of you, leave us."

Immediately, the three women scurried from your site and out of the dining room. It leaves only the two of you now. Taking your glass of drink, filled with a substance you could only describe as strong - alcoholic - you take a sip.

"Don't get comfortable," he counselled. "They all listen. The servants. The guards. The walls. There's nowhere here you can ever believe is secure."

"Then why do we stay?"

He paused, "You know why."

Getting up from your seat, you headed towards a decorative wall ornament. A silver plate, rippled and bent into an unusual disk. The shiny chrome reflects the jarred image of your pale face.

"I'd accepted my fate from the beginning," you started whilst refusing to look at him. You can feel the emotions bubbling within your chest. "I'd made peace and readied myself for our arrival - and for nothing - to be made a fool."

"If he didn't need our alliance, then we wouldn't be here."

"You think he'd kill us?"

"Yes, and yet we still breathe," replied your father. "Whatever it is that's happening, it's not without reason. I don't believe this is the Barron's doing."

"Then it's true."

"What is?"

Your turned around, "Feyd-Rautha."

The duke tensed at the mention, before looking away with a sigh of defeat. It haunts him. Your father never wanted to speak of the marriage. It was your mother who came to you after the fact, confessing the identity of your match.

Your father is too shamed. Surrendering to the enemy and going so far as to parlay with his only daughter. It had hurt the mans pride, not only as a duke but as a father. He wanted better for you, better than a monster.

"He can't hurt -."

"Don't lie to me," you interjected. "As soon as it's done and I'm alone, there's nothing he can't do to hurt me."

"He won’t kill you."

"No," you mutter bitterly. Pausing, you emptied your cup with a last mouthful. "That would mean mercy."

Pursing your lips, you flare at his poor attempt to reassure your welfare. There's paths worse than death, and murder is too clean. Striding across the dining hall, you exited hastily without properly bidding him goodnight.

It angers you.

This waiting game has brought you to the edge of sanity. As you said before, you'd made peace with the situation, but now you're unsure. You're stuck in a twisted purgatory; neither free from this place nor bound to it.

Navigating the abandoned hallways, the click of your heels echoes amongst the wide tunnel like space. The palace is endless and vast, and sometimes you wonder what you might discover if you were to steer from the trail.

There's much the other houses don't know about the Harkonnen's. They're a secretive and sly race, who don't take kindly to sharing their technology and resources; other than the exorbitant production of Spice.

"Why are you following me?"

Pausing in the middle of the hall, you waited for the hidden figure to emerge from the shadows. You had herd them trailing you from the moment you left the dining room. Their mind is far too active for you to ignore amidst the emptiness.

"It's only polite to mind one's guests. The palace walls can easily deceive the unfamiliar."

Piter appears the dank recesses of the hallway, still clothed in traditional black. The two of you have barely associated after your initial contact upon arrival, but you aren't at all surprised to find him lurking.

"And what might I find, if I were to stray?" you asked daringly. "Perhaps the truth?"

"The truth isn't always worth it's labour."

You're gaze narrows, "Tell me what you want."

"Answers," he simply responded. "It's my function to seek answers - even to questions still yet to come."

"Isn't it only inevitable."

"In a manner, but why not reach for the power of foresight?"

Stepping towards him, you inch closer to the mentat; until you're merely inches from one another. Although he doesn’t move, you can see the uncertainty in his face. He expects you be otherwise, but you react differently; a miscalculation.

“Tell me my future.”

He looks at you with hesitation, before answering. “Your future is your own creation. But,” he adds whilst looking you up and down. “I do expect it be bleak.”

You scoff beneath your breath. He’s blunt, but at the very least he shows honesty. It may not be on the most respectful of terms, but it's better than you expect. Eyeing him once more, you leave Piter alone in the darkened hallway.

Walking back to your room, you're quick to take notice of the servant standing idly outside of your doorway. This one’s different. You’ve not see her face before. There seems to be quite a few, following you like shadows.

“A bath,” you instruct, to which she obeys.

Opening the door to your room, you enter first while she trails afterwards. Swiftly she maneuvers herself to prepare the bath in the adjoining room. It’s gives you time to breath, and you do so deeply.

The weight on your shoulders is overbearing. A force to be reckoned. You’ve been on constant guard the moment you step foot on this rock, and although you know you shouldn’t allow yourself to slip, you bring yourself at ease.

If only for a moment.

The servant returns, helping you undress from the layers of clothing that've been shielding you from the many faces. They’re not to see you before the ceremony, but you’d rather they don’t see you at all.

It’s easier to hide.

Slipping into the hot bath, you submerge down into the milky white water. It smells subtle but flowery, not a smell you first expected to breath in a place like this. You'd expected something unpleasant and sterile.

They say the Barron himself bathes in vats of black oil. They dredge it from this very terrain. It's supposedly a mineral enriched concoction. A way to heal the mans fowl wounds and morbidly ill health.

Improbable.

Rotating your neck, you ease the taut ache within your muscles. The ceremony will be soon, if not tomorrow then surely the next. You’ve not seen their ways of marriage, but you imagine it to be cold and emotionless; savage.

It’ll more akin to a fete, than a true celebration.

Sponging along the length of your arms and shoulders, the servant carefully washes you as if you're made of precious material. Leaning over, you cant help but catch site of the bruised flesh at her collar.

“Stop.”

Immediately, the woman stills like a statue. Your damp fingertips running across her soft but marred skin; the color of deep purple. She flinches when you press the tender wound. It's recent enough.

“Who did this to you?”

Remaining quiet, her unmoving eyes stare into the distance. Fear or loyalty. Either way she refuses to reveal the abuser. The artery at her neck throbs with the increase of her heartrate.

“Speak.”

She stumbles at the sound of The Voice. It brings her to her knees, hand splashing against the waters surface as she tries to steady herself. The answer you compel comes unwillingly and to a surprise.

“Ne-Barron."

Frightful eyes gape up at you, body shaking as she tries to come to terms with the power that'd overcome her freewill. Disorientation. As much as her instincts beg for her to flee, she makes no move to runaway; to scream in horror and obscenity.

Instead, she collects herself as much as she can, before retrieving the sponge to continue bathing your flesh. There's no need to force for further elaboration. Her words came accompanied with a testament of emotions.

Torture.

Torment.

A common endurance on this planet. Resting in the bath, you only need to imagine as to why the brute would decide to leave the servant so obviously bruised and battered; only the reason hardly matters. Logic is for the sane.

Feyd-Rautha is psychotic.

Your only real concern is, if he's so willing to inflict pain and suffering to that of his own people, then what might he do to you; an outsider. An Atreides. Those bruises hold no shame or remorse. They stand as his representation.

Would he make you walk among them as another?

A symbol of his dominion.

[strayrockette]

The Dragon & The Griffon: The Ripple in the Path

The Dragon & The Griffon: Where the Path Leads- A Taste, The Beginning of the Path

Summary: Takes place a week and 1 month after Irene Atreides gives birth to Amina Targaryen.

Warnings: Bene Gesserit schemes, mentions of death, foreboding feelings, unease, tense environments, and a simple planet named Draconis (hehe my brain hurt too much to come up with a more complex name for the Targaryen planet, so do not come for me please ❤️😂)

A/N: This took a while to write. There were a lot of ideas and so much to filter through. Not to mention getting the details right or making it feel seamless. Hope you enjoy! ❤️ Revised 9/7/2024, 9/9/2024

The Reverend Mother's Unease - A Week After Irene’s Passing - Reverend Mother’s Chambers

The dimly lit chamber of the Reverend Mother was thick with the heavy scent of incense, its smoky tendrils curling around the ancient stone walls and faded tapestries. Each breath pulled the weight of the room deeper into her lungs, mingling the aromas of burning resins, candle wax, and a hint of spice. Seated in her high-backed chair, the Reverend Mother’s eyes were half-closed, her face calm and inscrutable as if carved from the very stone surrounding her. But beneath her composed exterior, a flicker of unease simmered, hidden yet unmistakable.

The silence of the room was broken by the creak of the chamber door. An emissary entered, his steps careful and his face drawn, shadows stretching behind him in the flickering light. He bowed deeply, his voice strained as he delivered his news. “Reverend Mother, urgent word from Draconis. Lady Irene has given birth to a child—a daughter of House Targaryen. And… all the sisters sent with her have been killed.”

The Reverend Mother’s expression did not waver, but the atmosphere in the room thickened, charged with tension. She remained silent, letting the words sink in. Irene’s mission had been unequivocal: infiltrate House Targaryen and eradicate its last remnants. Instead, Irene had not only failed but had birthed a child of Targaryen blood, and the sisters sent to ensure the mission’s success were all dead. A chilling ripple of unease coursed through the Reverend Mother. The implications were vast and dangerous.

She drew a slow, measured breath, her senses reaching out into the vast, unseen currents of the universe. A faint shiver ran through her, a sensation that was neither fear nor surprise but a deeper, more unsettling awareness—an understanding that something fundamental had shifted, altering the fabric of fate itself. There was a disturbance, an ancient power stirring that she could not yet fully grasp, and it was tied to the birth of this unexpected child.

Her gaze turned to the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls, each thread a silent testament to the Bene Gesserit’s long, calculated rise to power. But now, the once-familiar patterns seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light, vibrating with a dissonance that mirrored her inner turmoil. House Targaryen, nearly extinguished, had defied them. This was not just a failure; it was a harbinger of a larger, more perilous struggle.

“How did the sisters die?” she asked, her voice sharp and controlled, though a shadow of anger tinged her words.

The emissary hesitated, his eyes darting nervously. “It was swift and precise. The reports are conflicting, but it seems as though the planet itself rose against them. A force beyond what we anticipated… something ancient.”

The Reverend Mother’s eyes narrowed. The sisters sent to Draconis were among the best, their loyalty and skills beyond question. Their deaths were not just a setback but a sign that House Targaryen had defenses they could not have foreseen. Worse, the birth of this child—whose name was still unknown—was an ominous twist, a new variable in a game the Bene Gesserit had thought they controlled.

She summoned her closest advisors, who entered the chamber with urgency, their faces etched with concern. They bowed before her, sensing the gravity of the situation. “We cannot allow this to derail our plans,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the tension. “Increase surveillance. Strengthen our networks. This child must be watched at all costs. We are dealing with a resurgence that is more than a mere complication—it is a threat to everything we have built.”

The advisors nodded, retreating swiftly to carry out her orders. Left alone, the Reverend Mother stared at the dying embers in the braziers, her mind racing with calculations. The unknown daughter of Irene Atreides and Daeylor Targaryen posed a threat unlike any they had faced before—a convergence of power and bloodlines that could tip the balance of the universe itself.

She could feel the tremors of change deep in her bones. This child’s birth was not a mere defiance of their plans but a declaration of something far more profound. The Bene Gesserit would need to act with swift and unyielding force to contain this threat before it consumed them all. For now, the Reverend Mother did not know the child's name, but she knew that whatever it was, it carried with it a legacy that could not be ignored.

The Message Arrives - Caladan, Duke Leto’s Study - A Month After Irene’s Passing

Duke Leto Atreides sat in his study, surrounded by dark wood and the quiet dignity of a room steeped in tradition. Maps and books lined the walls, their edges flickering in the muted glow of candlelight. The restless sea beyond the stained glass windows mirrored his turbulent thoughts. The heavy oak door creaked open, and a messenger entered, his expression grim. He approached with a deep bow, the gravity of his message evident in every line of his posture.

“Duke Leto,” the messenger began, voice tight. “I bring word from Draconis. Your sister, Lady Irene, has passed… but not before giving birth to a daughter of House Targaryen.”

Leto’s fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair, the wood creaking under the sudden pressure. Rising slowly, he moved as if bracing against a heavy weight. The usual quiet hum of the study felt stifling, each breath dense with the unspoken loss. Irene’s absence hit like a cold wind, stripping the room of its familiar warmth.

He stared into the crackling fire, flames dancing with a restless energy that mirrored the storm brewing within him. Irene’s death was a wound he had not anticipated—more than just a loss, it was a fracture in the foundation of House Atreides. Yet amid the grief, a spark remained: Irene had left behind a daughter, a merging of Atreides and Targaryen blood.

Leto moved to the map of the universe, his gaze tracing the lines that connected Caladan to distant, hostile worlds. The implications of his sister’s child swirled in his mind. This was no ordinary birth; it was a bridge between two powerful but isolated houses. Where others might see danger, Leto saw potential—an uncharted path that could redefine alliances and power.

The Targaryens, formidable and fiercely independent, had long been a looming presence. But now, with the birth of Irene’s daughter, they were no longer untouchable. Leto knew this was a chance to shift the balance, to turn an unpredictable situation into an advantage for House Atreides. He crossed to his desk, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment, the quill scratching across the surface as he penned his thoughts with urgency.

He crafted his words carefully, expressing grief for his sister’s loss while hinting at the possibility of a future bound by shared blood. This was not just an offer of condolence—it was a proposal for dialogue, a subtle yet unmistakable gesture toward a potential alliance. Leto’s mind worked like a seasoned strategist, weighing every phrase, every implication, setting the stage for a new chapter.

Sealing the letter with the Atreides sigil, Leto summoned the messenger, watching as the wax cooled, solidifying his intentions. As the letter was whisked away, he returned to his chair, eyes fixed on the fire. The flames seemed to flicker with renewed purpose, reflecting his resolve.

Leto’s thoughts turned inward, assessing the risks. The Targaryens were known for their pride and suspicion, and any overture could be met with defiance. But Leto was no stranger to navigating perilous waters. This was more than just a personal loss; it was an opportunity to turn the tides in favor of his house. Irene’s daughter, a living symbol of both families, could be the key to a future where House Atreides thrived, not just through power but through unexpected unity.

As the fire crackled softly, Leto made a silent vow: to honor his sister by forging ahead, transforming potential threat into opportunity. House Atreides had always been adaptable, and resilient in the face of shifting sands. Now, with this new connection to House Targaryen, Leto saw the future clearly—a path lit by the unyielding flame of his family’s will and the promise that Irene’s legacy would not fade into darkness.

A/N: if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! If you’d like to be tagged just shoot a comment and ask! Please comment your thoughts, like and reblog ❤️❤️

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @mysticalpandora, @storiesfromafan