#the righteous harkonnens

[schaeferlusaque]

The Righteous Harkonnens 1/?

for @keefechambers

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

left behind

Pairing: Gurney Halleck x Reader Rating: T Notes: Still simping for Gurney Halleck. Shocker. Set during Dune Part II.

No physical descriptions, no use of y/n. Not beta-read, so probably riddled with typos that I won’t find until I hit ‘post’.

Warnings: Angst; fluff; yearning; pining; they're in love, they're just idiots.

Summary: You’ve spent months fighting to honor all of your ghosts, but there’s no one whose memory you've tended to more than Gurney’s. On the evenings when your nightmares played keepaway with your peace, you reached for his memories first and held them the tightest. 

He’s a far cry from the man that you once knew. You don’t recognize him for a moment—but as he grows closer, and the flash of his smile becomes apparent, your insides curdle and twist as if you've sipped the Water of Life. 

And when Paul points you out—when his mouth forms your name, his gloved finger jabbed in your direction—you see the man's expression fall and muddle. You’re not sure what with: shock, disgust, confusion? 

But before you can decipher it—before the man can take another step toward you or away from you, Chani is taking hold of your shoulder and guiding you away from the wreckage of the destroyed spice freighter. You don’t fuss or fight, or insist that you have someone to see, something to say. You still hardly believe your eyes. You don’t trust that what you've seen isn’t an effect of the spice, or a hallucination—one of those jinn that Stilgar warns you about when you go for walks alone at night. 

It wouldn’t be the first time that your tired eyes have carved the likeness of the man you once loved out of dust and heat. 

-- 

“If I’d known,” He tries, “I could’ve gotten you off of the planet. I would’ve—”

“I wouldn’t have left.”

“You still can, and should. You’d be safer on Caladan.” 

“My place is with Paul.” 

His grip is a vice as he grabs your wrist and roughly tugs you to face him. Your feet stutter and stall in the sand, annoyance rising in your belly. It’s only stoked by the righteous fury waiting for you in his eyes. He seems unaware or uncaring of the testy audience that his antic draws, the slowed steps of the Fremen around you; their shushes and tuts; their low, murmured chittering warnings in Chakobsa, filling the canyon with whispered threats. 

“And mine is not?” He hisses. You study his face for a few testy, silent moments before you finally wrestle from his grip. 

“I couldn’t say where your place is, Gurney Halleck.” 

-- 

Sleep is uneasy. The stillness and silence of the dessert makes you fidget and squirm in your tent. You can only keep your eyes closed for a moment or two before they open again. You map the ceiling of the tent, mark its occasional fluttering in the odd breeze. You try not to think of the little centipedes, or the trapdoor spiders. 

You fight not to think of the man just feet from you. 

You’ve spent months fighting to honor all of your ghosts, but there��s no one whose memory you've tended to more than Gurney’s. On the evenings when your nightmares played keepaway with your peace, you reached for his memories first and held them the tightest. 

You’ve struggled to keep every little bit etched into your mind: his voice, his smile, his laugh, the murmur of his balliset. You’ve remembered the slip of his hand over your arm, your back, your side as he corrected a movement in training. You've remembered the call of his voice over the battlefield, roaring over your pounding heart as you ran into hell together. You’ve fought to hold the last look of him in Arrakeen—the blend of passion and sorrow in his eyes as he charged the Harkonnens. 

But you’d lost sight of him in the skirmish, and found your way to Paul. You’d been certain that so few of your fellow soldiers had survived, positive that any who had would have fallen into Harkonnen clutches. 

Some nightmares draw up images of Gurney in their chains once more, fighting against his bondage without Leto there to free him again. Others have him limping from the shadows, bleeding, imploring and begging you to tell him where you had gone when he needed you most. 

Is he awake over there? Or has he learned to doze peacefully, to drift off to the shush of spice over the sands of Arrakis? Does he dream of Caladan, of her deep oceans and grey skies? 

Does he think of you? Of your nights together in the barracks? Of sharing a drink? 

You push yourself to sit up now, drawing a deep breath in through your nose as you fight to slow your pounding heart, to unpick the knot forming in your belly. 

-- 

You try to hide from him in the company of others. Your place with the Fremen is far less precarious than it used to be, and they happily draw you into their conversations, keep pace with you as you walk. Whenever Gurney gets too close, they cast him a wary look and bunch in closer to you. It warms you as much as it makes you uneasy.

You’ve no reason to be protected from Gurney. He would never harm you, despite what his grabbing your wrist may have made them think. But you’re not rushing to correct them, either. And when you’re certain that you feel him watching you, you force yourself to refocus on the company of your friends. 

The worn, high walls of Sietch Tabr are an unexpected respite. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’ll be able to slip into the crowd and elude the former Warmaster for just a little while longer. Hands pat you on the shoulder as you pass, murmurs of greeting washing over you as you venture deeper underground. 

You want as much rest and quiet that this brief break will afford you. You’re certain that Gurney will keep close now that he and Paul have been reunited, and you can’t blame him—in his shoes, you would do the same. You have no intention of letting yourself be kept away from Paul, or away from the action, so you’ll have to brace. 

-- 

“Did he hurt you?” 

If the question had come from anyone else, you may deflect—turn away, start toward the next windtrap. But Chani’s question isn’t abrasive, despite its bluntness. You keep your eyes set resolutely on the filter that you’re removing, twisting it from its position and lowering it to your rucksack with the others that you’ve collected.

“A long time ago,” You finally admit.

“Does he know?” 

“No.” 

Chani’s silence is as heavy as her gaze. You just shrug, chasing her quiet curiosity: “It isn’t that easy.” 

“Why not?”

“He wouldn’t understand.” Or care. 

You hold your hand out for a fresh filter, and fit it once she’s passed it over. 

“He’s a good man,” You add. “Smart, and strong.” 

“The others think he’s a spy.” 

“They thought the same of me.” 

“...That’s true.”

“And the same of Paul.” 

Chani falls quiet at the reminder, and the mention of Paul’s name. The two of you collect the remainder of the full filters, each stewing in your thoughts. You finally speak again as you make your way back to the sietch. 

“Will you tell the others to lighten up on Gurney?” You cast her a sidelong glance just in time to see her lips purse contemplatively. 

“They won’t take to him easily,” She argues. 

“They should try.” 

“You should lead by example.”

It’s your turn to purse your lips. You know that she’s right, and it irritates you. But you nod grudgingly. It shouldn’t be too hard to crack your own shell. For all of your pain and heartache, you have missed him. Your mind has been racing with memories since you first saw him again. 

When you return to the sietch, he isn’t hard to find. Stilgar points you in his direction, and warns you not to waste your time or water on such an unclever man. The words, accompanied with a wink and a light pat on the shoulder, offer a much-needed lightness as you wind through the cool, quiet halls. 

You don’t bother to try and sneak up on Gurney—there’s no point. He always was a vigilant tactician, as wise in the ways of his soldiers as of his enemies. His head tips toward you a touch as your footsteps grow nearer, but he doesn’t take his attention away from the mural on the wall. 

“How do they get off?” He asks. The question makes you balk, briefly stalling your brain before you manage—”What?” 

“Of the worm.” He gestures toward the wall, at the illustration of a small figure riding a sandworm. Ah. 

“They slide off,”You tell him, “Or run the worm until it tires and slows.” 

He grunts, nodding slowly. “You’ve learned a lot these last few months.” 

“I’ve had to,” You admit, then amend: “We all have.” 

Gurney nods again. “You seek me out for a reason, or were you just going for a walk?” 

You’re tempted to lie. Gurney is no truthsayer and you were adept at concealing your true feelings from him once. 

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For what.” 

By the way that he says it, you know that he’s leaning digging the knife in, just a little. You can’t blame him; if you were in his place, you’d do the same. You draw in a deep breath, curling your nails into your palms. 

“I…Should not have received you as I did when we found you in the desert.” 

“You didn’t receive me at all.” 

“And that is what I mean.” 

You eye the floor as you feel Gurney turning to look at you, hold carefully still as you feel him approach you, your fingers still curled tightly into fists. 

“If I had been able,” He says softly, “If I had known about you and Lady Jessica and Paul—” 

“I know,” You whisper. 

It’s a moment before he reaches out, taking hold of your hands. You pull in a soft, stunned breath at the touch; his hands are warm, and rougher than you remember. He turns your hands over, thumbs sweeping across the half-moons that your nails have dug in. 

“There’s still time,” He offers, and before you have a chance to misunderstand his meaning, he presses: “To return to Caladan.” 

You try not to let it sting you—the thought that this man has had you back for just a few days and is already chomping at the bit to be rid of you. Your fingers involuntarily flex, brushing against his where he holds you, still. 

“There is,” You agree, “But as I said, my place is here, with Paul. Yours is, too.” 

“Yes.” 

You give one last, small nod before you draw your hands back from his. You take a step back, too, desperate to create space between yourself and Gurney. You clear your throat, tucking your hands into your pockets, out of reasonable reach.

“You should rest,” You offer. “Whenever we—Paul will want to get back out there as quickly as possible.” 

You don’t give him a chance to respond. You turn away and stride back to where you sleep, forcing yourself to be secure in the knowledge that you’ve spoken, reconciled, and will move on.

Gurney is a good fighter, and a smart man. Your countenance has surely bounced off of him like sound from a wall. He’ll conduct himself in an appropriate manner, fight well, make his worth known to the others. You’ll approve of him publicly, encourage his company and conversation where you must, and hide from it where you’re able. You’ll still shield your discomfort, the embers of your misguided love in the sands of Arrakis, and burn your passion out in leveling and destroying Harkonnen soldiers and spice freighters. 

Gurney always taught you to turn your feelings, your passion—any strong emotion—to guiding your fight, regardless of whether or not you felt in the mood for it when the need arose. You can do so now. You’ve always been a good soldier—and for him and his sake, you know that you will be the best. 

-- 

Acceptance is slow. Gurney and Stilgar do not mesh quickly, but their shared belief and care for Paul keeps them on as even a footing as they can be. They still butt heads, still insist that they know better, but concede that Paul knows best. It makes for amusing conversation, watching the two bat their causes back and forth before ultimately yielding to your former trainee, Maud’dib, the Lisan Al-Ghaib. You try not to love it as you watch your wise Warmaster bite his tongue for Paul’s sake. You know that Paul appreciates his guidance, and, where it’s necessary, his compliance. 

But when Gurney turns to meet your eye—to level an all-knowing look of ‘Can you believe this?’ or his imploration for back-up—you force your expression to a neutral set, merely arching a brow, as if to ask what he’ll do next. 

You can see his frustration grow as you remain neutral, but you can’t bring yourself to side against the people that have accepted you and given you shelter for months. You’re certain that as much as it frustrates him, he understands, even if he doesn’t agree with you. 

It doesn’t stop him from sitting beside you during meals. It doesn’t stop him from covering your back when you work with the others to take down Harkonnens, to level a freighter. It doesn’t stop the two of you from being near one another during briefings, or sharing knowing looks when you watch Paul and Stilgar disagree. Paul always was an ornery child, and it’s neither a surprise, nor an affront when he argues with authority. Hell—you wear it as a badge of honor, and you’re certain Stilgar does, too. 

-- 

When you lose your pack in the midst of battle and your tent is destroyed, you know that you have other options. At worst, you could take an early watch, use the tent of someone that takes it on later. But Gurney’s hand pats against your lower back as he passes you, the words, “Come on,” Push out of his gruff mouth before you can even think to ask or argue.

You watch him go for a moment before you force yourself to follow. It’s been a long day of fighting, and you’re not willing to make it longer by nit-picking with him. You just follow him to his tent and duck inside. The two of you undo the clasps and fastenings on your stillsuits in silence. You take a little longer, hesitating and glancing back every few moments as you undo the suit. It’s been long since you’ve undressed near him, and even then you’re certain that he didn’t take notice. Now, the space is nearly cramped with the two of you, filled with the sounds of zips and pops. Once you’ve disrobed, you hurriedly change into your nightclothes—a flimsy, thin top and a pair of loose fitting pants. 

By the time you turn to face him, Gurney has laid out the pad that you’ll both sleep on, cushioning you from the sand as you rest. He hasn’t taken up his place yet, and while you’d like to linger until he’s made himself comfortable, you force yourself to lie down and curl up on your side. You feel more than hear him settle beside you, the pad shifting slightly as he sinks down onto it. The two of you lay in the dark, still silence for a little while. 

“...What happened to your balliset?” You can’t stand the quiet, and can’t bring yourself to ask about anything else. 

“...It blew up.” 

“Paul?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Damn.” 

He huffs a soft laugh that warms you, and you smile. 

“We’ll get you new one,” You promise before you can stop yourself. 

“The Fremen don’t have one?” 

“They have something like it. I’m sure you could learn.” 

You hear him shift beside you, and squeeze your eyes shut as his warm breath brushes against your neck. 

“Would you want me to?” 

“...I want you to do anything that you like, Gurney Halleck.” 

“Anything?” 

“Mhm.” 

You think that he’ll let it end there, and that he’ll let you both drift off into a peaceful sleep. Bu when his arm curls around your waist, you know that you won’t be able to sustain as you like. 

You try to fight it. You want to be a rock in his arms, cold and unmovable—but when his arm winds around you, you melt into him like butter on warm bread. 

--  

Waking is slow. It’s accompanied by murmurs of Chakobsa around your tent, and the shushing of sand and spice around the tent. You sigh softly, shifting between the softness of the mat, and the hard body against yours. 

You don’t dare open your eyes. 

You can feel his lips and beard brushing tenderly against the curve of your jaw, his fingers flexing against your skin and curling in the hiked-up fabric of your top. You hum softly, tipping your head to the side and letting your forehead knock gently against his. You don’t know if he’s awake, but you’re not willing to open your eyes and find out. You expect him to draw back, to extricate his body from yours. And you wait to pull yourself fully from sleep, to draw your stillsuit back on and push away the sensation of being wrapped in his arms. 

Neither of you make any such move. 

His lips drift up a touch, pressing tenderly against the crest of your cheekbone. Your hand lifts as if on its own, smoothing against his rough cheek as a heady hum leaves your lips. Gurney’s grip tightens on your hip, pulling your body flush against his as his kiss brushes down to the upturned corner of your mouth. Your breath catches in your throat, fingers smoothing higher to curl in his hair as his hips roll gently against your side. 

“Gurney.”

His name leaves you wrapped in a breath, wary that anything louder will wake him, truly wake him before you’ve had a chance to savor his touch. But he just groans, his nose brushing nuzzling as his lips sleepily find yours. You part your lips unthinkingly, tongues tangling as you trade syrupy-slow kisses. 

It must be a dream—you've gone sleeping walking and been taken by a jinn. This has to be a trick or a trap—but as Gurney presses cloesr, covering his body with yours and spreading your legs wide to make room for him, you can't bring yourself to care, even if it is. You blink sleepily up at him as he draws away, holding your gaze as you gently comb your nails over his scalp. Your focus is only broken when someone taps on the top on the top of the tent, and Chani's warning of, "Breakfast," Breaks through.

Gurney glances up before his gaze flits to yours, awaiting your approval. You smile, giving a small shake of your head.

"I'm not very hungry."

Gurney's smile widens, eyes brightening with mischief as he lowers himself closer.

"Neither am I."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @amneris21

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity

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[moonbeammist]

I'm here, Atreides

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dune characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Also big shoutout to @psycheetamore and @houserautha for their initiative on keeping the feyd writing community alive here on tumblr, this is a bit different then the usual reader/oc stories seen but hope this also encourages some other writers!

I don't give permission for any of my fanfiction to be posted, this is also cross posted on my account w/ Archive of our own :)

PAIRINGS: Feyd Rautha x Fem!Paul Atreides, (mild Chani Kynes x Fem!Paul Atreides)

AUTHORS NOTE: This would be an alternate universe. I did my best to rationalize a female Kwisatz Haderach to give the story more base, but don’t delve too far into the reasoning, considering the gender flip. I’ve watched both films from Denis Villeneuve + heavy lore research + created a little spin on prophetic visions. Paul is Purity here, don't ask why I didn't go for Paula or Pauline, it just jumped out at me haha. The female paul atreides section is awesome on ao3, even the female feyd rautha harkonnen section, very talented writers. Point me to any on tumblr 👀 Thanks, I really hope you enjoy; I appreciate any feedback or comments 💚

WARNINGS: Female Paul Atreides , Alternate Universe - Gender changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, dark themes, psychological horror, violence, blood, injury, erotic undertones, sexual tension, kissing, licking, touching, intimacy, praise, feyd rautha harkonnen is his own warning, prophetic dreams, prophetic visions

SUMMARY: Instead of Paul falling into a near-death coma after taking the water of life;

An alternate universe has Fem!Paul taking the water of life, finding herself wallowing in a paranoid fever dream, where prophetic visions blur the lines of reality and her own desires.

WORD COUNT: 3.2k words

Purity Maud’Dib Atreides. A prestigious name to live up to, cloaked with the depths of her truth.

The first woman to have access to both male and female ancestral memories. A role that had originally been prophesied as only being male for eons. The Kwisatz Haderach.

Purity. Purified like the sacred holy waters of the Sietch? Purifying the planets, their horrors, and their history, stepping in as The Messiah. Seeing into humanity's connection and impact on the past, present, and future. Are actions taken or not taken?

But fully purifying anything was not realistic. It is more about lessening the damage. Tonight, she was due to swallow the essence, the bile of the young sandworm, the water of life. There was not even a way to prepare herself for this, for the implications and responsibility of this righteous path. A careful tiptoe between parasite and saviour.

She wanted to earn her place among the galaxy. Even just in Arrakis.

There was still work to be done to fully encompass the title of The Messiah. To be deserving of the unwavering support of her Sietch and the Fremen Naib, Stilgar. The undying devotion of Gurney Halleck, who served her father. The love and allegiance of her mother, Lady Jessica. The loyalty of Chani, who has been by her side since she was accepted by the Sietch.

Chani had recently been giving her hints of a different persuasion than their extremely close friendship, Purity believes. Holding the small of her back to guide her, gripping her hand a little too forcefully when they disagreed, letting her headstrong stare linger just a little too long. And Purity had allowed it, because it made her insides flutter, and Chani was dear to her heart. And she was... quite pretty. Quite alluring in her attitude, her honesty.

Something that was needed amidst the planetary conflict, the inner turmoil of her role, and the worth of her message as the Lisan al Gaib.

Chani had always been able to give her a different perspective when she had confided in her about the things that weighed heavily on her conscience daily. Chani had told Purity that her speeches had the power to influence. She told her that the quality of her voice is firm in its unapologetic tone. Enchanting in its projection.

“The strength that your voice carries is beautiful, Usul. Use it.”

But Chani had also tried to dissuade her from sipping the water of life. Telling her it was poisonous to her psyche, that it had the ability to corrupt.

But she had to take that risk; it was needed if she had any hope to lead. Lead with purpose. Have answers to the blaring questions of the people. Answers that could spiral out the path forward in a clear way. 

They told her before she was given the water of life, she would have the ability to see into potential outcomes… in the form of dreams and visions. They would be more vivid, feeling real. She may even feel short waves of lucid imagery, a Sayyadina had informed her.

But it was night terrors, rather, that came to her. The lucid night terrors that would seemingly only last a few minutes. Or hours. But she refused to accept that… that is what actually transpired. It seemed more than just mere visions. There was a blurred line after the days she had taken it. What had been reality. 

There was a peeking into the inner spaces of her mind; she never, ever had the inkling to pry open again. Mysterious, treacherous spaces. Rotted wastelands.

The electric blue liquid in the crystalline dropper dribbled into her waiting mouth, over the bow of her lips.

Walking is possible when dreaming, but it shouldn’t connect to things that haven't happened yet. That had the chance of happening. Prophetic visions are just that. Visions. A multitude of pathways. Possibilities if certain actions are taken. If certain things are said, even.

They didn’t say mystical hallucinations would be a side effect. They never told her that. But she had asked about sleepwalking beforehand.

“Sleepwalking is not the norm after drinking.” Stilgar had reassured her.

“If it is, let it be with your feet dancing slow and precise against the sands, Maud’Dib.” Stilgar had joked, quirking up in a smile while they sat along a golden-brown sand dune along the deserts of Arrakis. He clapped her on the back of her stillsuit, and her face was flat and searching as she took his words in, quickly grinning back at him haphazardly.

It was foreboding. Right after her eyes had closed and the world had gone black, the water of life had spiked through her system, zipping and swerving.

She had woken in a grand hall. Orangey hues all around. Exposed to the elements. To Arrakis. But it was disguised as an encampment. A hut within the deserts?

It was sudden. The gleam of a Crysknife dazzled, plunging into her gut, the pain excruciating, white-hot.

She heard her own ragged, heavy breathing loud in her ears as she was pushed back, stumbling over her feet. The blare of her breaths was echoing and reverberating all around her. A figure with smooth skin that was devoid of any hair walked up closer to her as she tried to regain her bearings. 

A ghostly pale man gripped her by the scruff of her neck, directing her head towards him, low, gristly, grunting, fanning over her face, breathing her in.

His mouth was a void of death. Charcoal seemed to be painted over his teeth. Choked, heaving breaths flowed out of her beaten-down lungs, passionate in their effort to bring oxygen. Darkness settled over his determined, enraptured eyes that bore into her.

He pointed yet another Crysknife, the glistening tip ready to stick into the space between her eyes. Her gloved hand flew out as she struggled to keep it away, the knife's sharp edges piercing through her glove. Searing pain settles in as she grabs her stomach, croaking gasps huffing over the blood that splatters the firm line of his lips. His dark blue eyes stoked embers as they flickered over her.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

The raspy tone of his voice cut through the crowds in the same hall that the man had fought her. It was before.

His words were said with conviction. She whipped around at his statement, locking eyes with him. She didn’t like what festered there.

“I need a blade.” He said stoically. 

A noise, outside of her tent.

They were travelling; the guerilla war had started, the battle of Arrakeen. Fremen travel encampments and tents were currently swarming the area that surrounded her, obeying her order to rest for the night.

It was a sweltering night, and the ripple of a whispery, pained grunt was heard. Directly behind her tent.

She had shot up out of her rolled sleeping bag, the noise making her heart thunder against her rib cage. Her arm jutted out to grab the handle of her Crysknife that lay under clothing.

“Gurney, someone encroaches on our encampment!” She belts out, bolting through the flaps of her tent, her voice cracking through the moonlit skies. “Take my back!”

Gurney had been standing by on watch duty outside of her tent, and he had taken her warning in spades, even though he had not heard the noise she had shouted of.

He trekked with alarm, searching for hours that night, waking some of the Fedaykin who had also scoured the area. Searching for what The Messiah had heard.

There was nothing. Nothing but a fading self-assurance in the glow of the night.

...

That couldn't have been real.

“Who slipped in my tent last night? My blades, my father’s ring is gone?” Purity’s shoulders jittered with frustration as she was seen stomping through the flaps of her tent, her commanding tone making conversations instantly quell down to a whisper. 

The shock-filled stares that met her when she burst through her tent did not lessen her anxiety. Someone had taken her treasured belongings. The knowledge that the Fedaykin would betray her trust made her lose all faith in the prophesied path to paradise.

“Who?” She bellows out louder, balling her fists at her sides as she speedily darts around the puzzled group, circling around them in her head wrap and stillsuit, chest heaving.

“Do I not lead you well, Fedaykin? Does your Lisan al Gaib not protect you? Do I not listen to your concerns?” 

“Lisan al Gaib—” “Please, Maud’Dib—” “No, honourable Usul, we would never—”

A mix of defending pleas and declarations erupted into the air. Chani was seen in the back of the encampments, her eyes brimming with calculation at the state of Purity.

Her advisor and right-hand man, Gurney, stood with crossed arms and a hard stare. His distant gaze darted to the side at the mention of her late father. “My lady, are you certain you have checked everywhere? We have been travelling.” He was observing her with confusion but had kept a tight lip on any other inquiries.

Lady Jessica, regal and witchlike in her robes, had sat cross-legged like an oracle, a look of knowing on her tattooed face. 

There was a timid voice out of the corner of her eye. Stilgar, his frown etched deep into his tan face, the iciness in his eyes full of concern.

“Usul, your accusation dishonours us.”

Her face was emotionless as he tried to grasp her hands in his, save for her eyes that boiled.

Her black curls fell just above her shoulders. It was tightly wrapped up along with her alabaster, freckled complexion. Wrapped with the fabric of a Fedaykin headscarf, covering completely over the skin of her face, so only the slit of her spice-spiked cerulean irises shone through as she glided quietly, sandwalking through the dunes.

However archaic the chime of her presence. However the contradiction in her lithe physique and booming voice. She was camouflaging against the grains with the rest of the Sietch.

Purity's eyes nearly bulge out of her head at the image of a pale, bald man standing there in the rumbling dunes, like a halo of light orbited around him. He was out of place, looking like he controlled the very rumbles of the incoming sandworm.

Behind a Shai-Hulud? Behind the worm's body… like some ghoul in the sands.

It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream.

But he called out to her from afar, plain as day, beckoning her. No others had been alerted to him, only focused on the approach of the sandworm.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

Her face paled as she faced his distant form, a white speck in the golden dunes.

The desert shook; the sky broke. Casting a sheen of ruby red over the horizon.

They say she is like a mirror of him. 

Her cousin.

He is nothing. She is the prophet. She is the holder of the prophecy. She is the saviour.

Do you not see this, Chani? Do you not know the sacrifices I have already made?

She had sacrificed her mental state to be the Lisan al Gaib. To lead them to paradise. To day-walk paranoid. 

He is nothing like her. He is evil incarnate. He is all that she fights against. All that is soiled and rotted. He is the impending doom of humanity. 

He waved to her, pitch-black mouth open and turned up.

Purity wanted to make the trek herself this time. Across the desert. Just a circular round trip to challenge herself before she faces the Emperor with her armies. She knew how to stay hidden, and she’s been perfecting her sandwalk, honing it.

She knew how to ride on the back of a Shai-Hulud. She would have to ride more to ever hope to be true power.

And there was another reason. She wanted to find her father’s ring, which she had cherished with everything she knew. A Fremen had found both of her blades, however, about ten feet away from her tent with no explanation. It had boggled her mind for the last few days.

“I walk the path in front of me, as provided by the water of life. I trust you will know I do not do this for leisure. Everything has a purpose. Tell the Sietch to not wait up for me.”

Gurney had looked at her with a grim, desperate expression. “This is dangerous. You mustn't be too rash in the days that come, my lady… please.”

But Stilgar had bowed his head. “Mahdi, I will not question your motives.”

Chani had not even bothered to see her off, and her heart sank with volition.

Her body was flung back and forth.

The roar of a sandstorm.

The ground quaked with force.

Sand grains blasted through the air as she ran.

An all-encompassing, metaphysical voice entered her mind’s eye.

You will not find the ring here, Maud’Dib. You must go back to the Sietch. Sleep again. 

"But I do not wish—” her voice wavered. “I need to find it—”

You will find the ring again. As written. 

The voice reached the universe.

Purity squinted; a Shai-Hulud was perched high in the sky in the raging blur of the sandstorm. Its feral teeth glinted at her.

She believes that might have been the source of the voice.

Purity wakes again, and she’s back at the Sietch, but she doesn’t remember returning.

She rubs her eyes as they flutter open, blinking as her fuzzy eyesight readjusts until it’s crisp.

The ceiling of the tent is sand-coloured, well-blended with the outskirts of the dunes. Looking down, she seemed to have fallen asleep in her stillsuit. It was caked in dust from sand.

“Maud’Dib… She's been hiding.” A demented voice taunted somewhere from outside of the tent.

Her instincts flooded her, a head rush.

“Gurney—!”

It was like déjà vu the way she had clamoured for her Crysknife again, barging through the exit of her tent.

“Prepare the Fedaykin—"

Her warning had died in her throat, left without much reason to hold her will.

The Sietch was bleak. Stark and empty. A dismal sight in the desert wastes.

So quiet you could hear a pin drop. The sun was a blatant yellow stain in the sky.

Why had Gurney let her sleep in broad daylight?

She descended forward, brandishing her blade, crouching with caution, scanning.

With no sign of a step behind her, she had felt the trace of the knife at her back, the point of it not entering very far, pricking her. It stung.

Completely aghast, she spun around with a raised Crysknife, seething.

But nothing was there to greet her.

Her voice boomed. “You will show yourself, cousin.”

She knew it was him. He had entered through the parallels of so many doors, so many dreams and visions. He had even broken through the dimensions of what she thought physically possible.

Those were just hallucinations. The result of taking this damned poison. 

Hands caught her hips from behind, spinning her around in their grip. Fingers thrummed over her stillsuit, and she jumped from her skin.

Blazing eyes.

Face-to-face with the phantom assaulting her every waking thought. Yet again, he is here. Feyd-Rautha. 

The Harkonnen, her duelling opponent. The one that threatens her claim to Arrakis. Her claim on the Golden Lion Throne. To inherit what she is destined for. Her cousin. Her enemy.

Her mirror.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

A typhoon of unwanted butterflies flaps inside her stomach.

Her mind shook.

And if I had not broken the Bene Gesserit's plans…

If I did not have access to the bridge of time and space, both male and female ancestral memories…

I would have been forced to share a son with him.

Purity’s arm flashed out, burying her Crysknife to the hilt of his shoulder.

He groaned. He clenched her hips painfully, making her sharply inhale. Something on his finger stuck out, bruising.

She dared to look down.

Her father’s ring.

How?

Her voice thundered out again. “How did you take this from me?”

She pushed the handle into his shoulder, grounding it around and around. 

His animalistic grunt was lecherous. It shattered the skies.

“The Maud’Dib cannot hide from me.” He rasped heavily. “You cannot be kept from me.”

Her gut swirls in horror.

That doesn’t answer my question.

Her voice broke. “You haunt me. Tell me how you navigate through the prophetic visions. Why are you shown to me—”

Pert lips spread out to bare his black teeth. His hands are on her face. Cradling it, caressing it with his thumbs.

He cups her cheek, and she latches onto the handle dug into his shoulder harder. Her skin is tingling, prickling with zaps of electricity.

She soon feels she is shocked by lightning when his forehead connects with hers, pressing into it. 

She winces, feeling herself tremble when their eyes connect, feeling that he was sucking the life out of her soul.

A blush runs from her chest up to her neck. 

The energy was eerie, but the tension between them was palpable.

“Atreides.” He huskily whispers. “You haunt me too.”

Her eyes flash with wonder. With gut-wrenching sickness.

She saw the sky blanket out into a crimson colour behind the edges of his translucent face.

He began peppering kisses over her cheek, chin, nose, and forehead.

“Atreides...” he gloated, capturing and nipping her earlobe. His gums open to reveal his shadowy mouth, thumbing her jaw up to the deep red skies, darting his tongue out to lick a hot trail of saliva from the bottom of her throat all the way up to her chin, finishing with a chaste kiss on her lips.

Something inside of her breaks. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, deeply glazed.

Her mouth filled with blood, and a blade was wedged in her stomach. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. A burning pain. A rupture in her gut.

She stares down.

There wasn’t anything there. There was no blade. 

She raises her eyes, and the Crysknife she had sheathed in his shoulder had vanished from sight.

And he’s on her again. Primal. Digging his forehead to hers as he drank her in tenderly, hands aggressively squeezing her hips. It seared her atoms. Her neurons.

This encounter is reminiscent of the prophesied vision of their bloody duel… because quite similarly, she finds her breath shallow and her voice strangled. All she had to do was breathe into him like this to feel his love, to hear her lineage uttered so adoringly from his lips—

But the stabbing is fake. Phantom.

“You will return my ring.” She booms out, despite her overwhelmed disposition.

Her mouth is sopping, dribbling blood, trickling, and staining. She can taste the metallic bitterness.

Your divination of me is endearing, Atreides. How romantic. Is this how you wish us to be?

Purity’s eyelids snap wider in awareness. The voice is cruel, mocking.

Somehow a version of Feyd-Rautha is echoing telepathically in her mind.

Her palms fly out to press against the plates of his armoured chest. He’s leaning in, staring into her spirit, burrowing into it, as if she were as pure as her name.

Something glimmers on her index finger that presses into his chest. The bulky signet ring, inherited from her late father, Leto. Her brain almost ceases to function when she wonders… Has it always been there?

His hands snake up her sides, dipping her backwards mid-air, like a seesaw. Everything buzzes around her.

“Muad'Dib looks best in blood.” His words were brushed against her sticky, iron-splattered lips in a hoarse whisper.

[lowtaperfeyd]

Scintilla (Prologue)

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Mentat!reader

author's note: This is the first official posting of the series. I do plan on making chapters than what I am posting now.

warnings: house harkonnen, mentions of death and blood

wc: 528

“Are you sure I’m getting what I want?”

You say to the guard blocking the closed door. You’re saying not for him but mainly for yourself. How easy his life must be. He just stands there, quietly. You think. 

“Are they going to write me off and not listen?”

FACT: OPEN POSITIONS ARE ON KAITAIN.                                                              INFERENCE: 70/30 CHANCE I GET KAITAIN.                                                          HYPOTHESIS: WILL GIVE ME KAITAIN OR A TEACHING JOB IF WORSE COMES TO WORSE

The great door opened with a bird-like screech, 

“(Y/N) (L/N) come in.” 

The door slammed, punctuating your entrance. You take rushed steps and a nervous inhale. In front you is a monstrous pedestal that holds the council of three professors who told you everything you know, who made you self righteous and sufficient. The people who gave you everything; the people who would give something great back in return.

“(Y/N) (L/N), the orphan, the child of a planet destroyed by interplanetary wars,” says Vere Engle, the one standing in the middle, the old man with a shocking white beard and circle glasses. 

Gosh he’s ancient.

“My peers and I have decided to give you a prominent assignment.” He says with a slight chuckle.

“You’re giving me Kaitain, aren’t you?” You coldly state while cutting off Professor Engles giggles, “To work for the Emperor and become his mentat? He always needs more of us.”

“Well there’s been a change of plans…” Professor Glacian utters out, the lady who made your life a living hell. Drilling you over and over again when you got complex material wrong. Punishing you and saying that it was because, ‘you need to learn how to take this information or else you’ll face more extreme consequences’ 

“You’re not going to Kaitain anymore…” She says.

FACT: THE COUNCIL IS KNOWN FOR NOT DECLARING OTHER OPENINGS FACT: THE BENE TLEILAX NEEDS MORE PROFESSORS HYPOTHESIS: YOU COULD BE STAYING HERE (EXTREMELY UNLIKELY)

You weigh your options, staying here to teach isn’t a bad thing, you think 

“Okay,” you muttered out, trying to hide your disappointment, “if not Kaitain then it must be that you want me to stay here.” 

“No (L/N), you’re leaving this planet.” Professor Engles says. 

“You’ve been given the honor of working for house Harkonnen on Geidi Prime” The third professor beams out, “isn’t that just splendid?”

You feel the anger well up into your body. I have trained harder and better than every single one of my classmates and this is how they repay me. 

“Why am I going there?” Your voice almost breaks as you reply. 

“The Harkonnens mentat, Piter De Vries, has gone off the wrong path if you know what we mean. Since we cannot trust that the Baron has the best interests in mind, we are sending another mentat, you.” Engles says trying to calm the situation down. 

“No one survives Geidi Prime. You’re sending me to an early grave.” You say jokingly, even though the people in the room knew the gravity of the assignment. 

"So, learn to hold your tongue" declared Glacian.

If I die at least no one will see the blood stains on my clothes

[canisvesperus]

It’s quite strange when people try to extrapolate some kind of ulterior motive behind my blorbo preferences. Simply put, I typically gravitated towards the ones that everyone hates in-universe, or that the fandom hates, or both.

Eridan is more special to me now due to Events I won’t explain, but damn right next to him back then was Princess Luna, Shadow the Hedgehog, Nergal Jr., Scourge, Wheatley, Thomas Barrow, Ben Solo, countless others. I dug into books and become obsessed with the black sheep and tragic figures in House Harkonnen and House Targaryen. Wuthering Heights and The Phantom of the Opera made me eat drywall and roll in the mud. Oh Solas, oh David 8, Dolores Abernathy, and the whole cast of oldfandom creepypasta characters. I was transfixed.

When I was a kid I would spend HOURS out of the week defending black widow spiders in the YouTube comments section, posting my own videos of myself holding them in my hands. Something something righteous autism empathy, who knows. My parents used to say I should be a criminal defense lawyer. That’s probably the most important thing you should know about me going into all this. I’m the biggest black widow white knight the world has ever seen ever since I was 11 years old. I would put them on my face and smile for gods sake. Don’t talk to me about fandom.

Eridan is spiders. Or something. My gweegy my smeepus. ❤️

[tokoyamisstuff]

Breaking Bonds Ch. 4

Glossu Rabban "The Beast" Harkonnen x F! Reader

Chapter Summary: While Rabban is in denial, even dangerous foes grow impatient. Warnings: Angst, slight manhandling A/N: I hate this chapter with a passion idk why it was so hard to write for me. I just gave up, here ya go. 😩

"No one is born evil. People must learn to hate. And if they can do that, then they can also be taught love - for love comes more naturally to the human heart than the opposite."

[Previous Chapter]

Every day is the same here on Giedi Prime - for you at last.

Today would be an exception however, since you had been summoned to an audience with the Baron himself. Suddenly the absence of your husband felt more like a disadvantage than a break...

Rabban was currently far away on Lankiveil, your beloved homeworld. He would never take you with him on these long travels, claiming you'd only be dead weight and an easy target for assassinations.

You presumed it was another form of abuse to keep you separated from what was left of your family, but honestly you were glad - because even though you missed them painfully, you wouldn't want to accompany the Beast tormenting your people.

Dreading the confrontation you hoped that the maids would take their time adorning you, so you could mentally prepare for what's to come.

They dressed you up like a porcelain doll, always in some kind of black attire and with an unnaturally pale shade of makeup - a pathetic attempt at making you blend in with those awful people.

What could the Baron of all people want from someone like you?

This man was an enigma - a macabre personification of greed. He was probably the most ruthless, sick and twisted of all Harkonnens...

...and also the one whose influence turned your husband into the sociopathic killing machine he is now.

Everyone on Lankiveil knew the story about how Rabban became the 'Fist of House Harkonnen': Glossu Rabban was born and partially raised on your homeworld. His mother was a Bene Gesserit and also part of the influental native 'Rabban' family - and yet he shared nothing but disdain for his birthplace.

The former count of your planet, his father and the Baron's brother, was a surprisingly righteous man. He had ruled over Lankiveil with only it's best interest in mind, sparing the populace unnecessary cruelty as long as they'd fulfill their obligations.

Rabban however - as the tales from your elders said - was already born a monster.

Even his own parents, though loving him dearly, started fearing their instable son and his sheer insatiable urge for destruction and violence. And when the time came that he was pronounced 'Nu-Baron', being called to Giedi Prime in order to learn under his uncle's wing, all hope was lost...

...since at his return, Glossu was completely out of control, scarred both mentally and physically.

Only frations of the agony he underwent were whispered on Giedi Prime, what inhumane measurements his uncle had used to scatter Rabban's mind and form a perfectly obedient puppet.

Warped through the time spent under his uncles care, he had forsaken all the teachings his parents had so desperately tried him to embrace.

The list of his crimes exceeds your knowledge and contains basically everything one could imagine. Well, they don't call him Beast for nothing.

It pained you to admit, but despite his atrocious deeds your heart was breaking for your husband - what he could've been, if not for his upbringing.

That made you wonder: Lately, Rabban's behavior had shifted drastically.

Ever since his recovery he seemed to...hesitate. Refrained from laying hands on you or any other ruthless actions. Left you alone most of the time - no, he was actively avoiding you.

Could it be your actions have caused him to have a change of heart, as far as that's possible for someone like him?

Maybe that's just wishful thinking, though - most likely he was just lulling you into a false sense of security to strike soon after.

"One of your maidens has informed me that your monthly bleeding started again."

The Baron's words shook you like a hammer to the forehead, betrayal in your gaze as you locked eyes with the maid that merely did as she was told in order to survive.

Before you could possibly explain yourself, the hideous man would continue his lecture - both irritated and grossed out that he had to bother himself with this matter. "I couldn't care less about the affairs of my nephew's bedroom, but the Order of the Bene Gesserit has started asking questions."

Still kneeling down out of respect - and mainly fear for your life - you wanted to bargain for more time. "M'lord Baron, I-"

A single gesture of his hand cut you off and you immediately complied. It was hard to put into words, but everything about this man made your alarm bells ring. His way of talking was mellow and sophisticated, but he wouldn't even try to hide the malice behind it.

All you could do was hope for his mercy.

"I understand you find my nephew appaling" he explained while loudly chewing his food - talk about disgusting. "But you need to invite him to lay with you for as many times as necessary. Such is your marital duty."

Yes: As long as the Bene Gesserit were expecting you to bear them children, your life would be spared either way.

Not even the Harkonnen would dare to mess with the Order.

"B-But I-I..." So many thoughts were running simultaneously through your mind, but there was no use in explaining your situation. No way he'd take your side - and even if he believed you, the Baron couldn't be trusted. "I understand. Soon, M'lord."

"A doctor will make an appointment with you at the end of this quartal" he informed you, two guards already preparing to guide you back to the chambers. "Shall you not be with child by then, we'll find out if there's an underlying issue...and you know which consequences are tied to it. You may leave."

Still trembling when you arrived at your only safe haven on this planet, your facade immediately dropped as you curled into yourself and submitted to your panic.

Over those past weeks you had desperately offered yourself to Rabban, and every single time he had declined.

The guilt of being responsible for the suffering of countless random women he would rage himself out on instead of you was already crushing enough...

...but now you also had to fear for your own safety, shall you fail to bring forth a heir.

"Have you even stepped outside this room since I left?"

Rabban's greeting cut through the silence long after your breakdown, making you realize just how much time had passed. Sometimes it was hard to tell, on a planet where no sunlight ever hit the surface.

Usually you'd jump at your husband's voice, yet right now you felt almost jubilant being able to settle this issue.

"I rarely leave our home" you admitted shyly, gifting him a welcoming - and almost convincing - smile. "It's unsettling out there, without you at my side."

Indeed, all of those Harkonnen soldiers patroling the hallways painfully reminded you of the war and what it - no, what they made you lose.

Neither the Baron, nor the court or even the servants acknowledged you as one of them. Their aversion due to your heritage was no secret, yet other than subtle looks or whispers they treated you with rather neutral respect.

Your husband was simply too feared even by his own kin, so harming you was out of the question.

All things considered, you held a very high status thanks to your ties to the Beast. It was a luxurious life, at least superficially. And yet excruxiatingly lonely - like a bird in a golden cage.

And still you prefered to isolate yourself, staying in the security of your room to read, thus had even become fluent in their language in no time.

Rabban narrowed his eyes at you, seemingly doubting that statement - to be fair, he was not really the type of person others claimed to feel safe around.

Yet over time you had become at least civil with each other - might even say there was a somewhat mutual understanding.

"Let me help you out of that armor" you offered, realizing he was still in full - bloodied - battlegear. Better try not to think about who those stains belongs to...

Your husband flinched at the sudden invasion of his personal space, yet in the end accepted the gesture without further struggle. He even tried to make himself appear smaller as a sign of goodwill - a sheer impossible task for a man of his calibre.

His eyes would never leave you as you worked on the leather straps of his chest, muscles tensing under your touch. A deep breath escaped his throat, relaxing at the way your scent filled his nostrils, the feeling of your fingers dancing across the fabric and barely ghosting the skin underneath.

Rabban would rather drop dead than to admit it, even to himself - but he missed you dreadfully.

Slowly but steadily he grew fond of the way you were always at his side, indulging in your little acts of kindess despite the circumstances.

You began lingering in the back of his mind, invading his thoughts even when you weren't physically there - like an itch one couldn't quite reach.

No wonder he began killing more frequently, more erratic since you stepped into his life.

It's a need that must be met when the noise in his head becomes too overwhelming, when his muscles itch and his nerves felt like they were struck by lightning.

Holding back his destructive urges for your sake surely went against his nature.

"All done" you cheer clasping your hands together, and Rabban internally whines as your touch leaves him. He never felt like this before - so pathetic and needy.

Why now? And why with you?

You were a plain and inferior creature, there was absolutely nothing special about you at all.

Rabban on the other hand was the member of a main house, feared among the whole known universe. He could quite literally do as he pleased, with everything and everyone he wanted...

...then why was he still drawn to you like a moth to the light?

There is a saying that a person who has nothing to yearn for loses purpose in life - and without purpose, will eventually lose their mind as well.

Harkonnens had become so obscenely rich that their materialistic wealth turned them insane. They indulged in different facets of violent perversion, having compeltely discarded all moral and humanity in their shallow lives.

And yet...

"You got quite comfortable around me, huh?" he remarked, giving it his utmost to remain intimidating but failing miserably.

"Maybe we simply got used to each other" you chuckled bluntly, "Why, is that something bad?"

"No" he crossed his arms and grinned mischievously, "Was thinking of going easier on you anyway. My uncle warned me. He would be furious if you'd take your own life just because I went too overboard."

Oh, so that's the reason.

You felt almost sad that you were proven right: His changed attitude meant nothing - Rabban was still the same, selfish and opportunistic person.

Either way, now was your chance. "Concerning your uncle-"

"Here." It seems he was so deeply buried in thought that he didn't even hear what you've been trying to say.

You almost failed to catch whatever Rabban threw towards your lap, and when you recognized the item you were shocked to say the least. "Where did you-"

"Just take it and let me unwind in peace" he growled, sounding annoyed yet still on edge for your reaction. "It's been a long travel, so be quiet now."

Back during his campaign on Lankiveil, Rabban was desperately trying to distract himself from those nagging thoughts about you. So at some point, he decided to went out for a nightly hunt.

Laying waste to a small village, taking all that's not nailed down. Killing everything that moved, animals and humans alike - at least that was the plan.

When he and his men strolled across the lively market of the town, it fell dead silent. He realized there was some kind of festive going on, and decided if you weren't able to enjoy it then neither of them would...

...yet just when he was about to break hell loose, he spotted a familiar trinket on one of the sale-tables.

It was similar to yours - he accidentally broke the piece during one of his regular anger fits. He remembers your reaction precisely, the way your bottom lip was quivering during your failed attempts to restore it.

The saleslady was quite frightened when he interrogated her, explaining to him that this day was a celebration of Lankiveil's new year - and the trinkets were gifts given to your most beloved as a symbol of your bond.

Your husband took the piece without payment, none of the natives daring to object let alone make any sound. They naively hoped to avoid their doom with this gesture, yet soon after Rabban told the soldiers to wreck the place and treat themselves to whatever. He was almost tempted to spare them, but showing mercy would mean losing face in front of his men.

Rabban himself however wasn't eager to join them anymore.

He thought himselr to be incapable of feeling, that all he was doomed to know were negative emotions.

And on that day he had learned yet another, different form of anger - jealousy.

Neither envy nor greed, just the stinging question why you possessed a neckalce meant for lovers only.

Did you have a lover before you were ripped out of your old life and placed into his?

The Beast watched you without further comment, seemingly indifferent - at least on the outside. You admired the pattern of the jewlery, let your fingers run across the carvings in awe before holding it to your chest, eyes wettening with tears.

His heart drops at the sight - the possibility of his theory being correct.

"Compensation for your old one." Tensed beyong belief, Rabban was pacing on the same spot as if not knowing what to do with himself. "I've learned they mean much to your folk."

"W-Why yes" you stutter, moved by his action but at the same time cautious: You were expecting an ulterior motive, a cruel twist to this gift. Maybe he had plucked it from a corpse of someone you knew, maybe he gave it to you just to smash it again and reenact your misery.

"It belonged to my mother, actually" you eventually opened up, and even though you knew he wouldn't care, having a proper conversation after such a long time of silence sure was enjoyable nonetheless. "My father gave it to her, and she handed it down to me. It was meant as a wedding gift before my department. So I won't forget them, or where I come from."

How ironic, he thought as he felt your confession remove the thorn that was so painfully planted in his chest.

So there was never a lover. It satisfied him, calmed down his racing heart yet only temporarily until you spoke up once again.

"Thank you, Rabban." This was the first time you used his real name instead of his title, and it sounded so smooth with your voice. "I appreciate the sentiment. I'll cherish it!"

Your words make him want to rip out your vocal cords so you lose that bewitching power over him.

Why does he care so much? Why does he - a literal behemoth - feel his knees weaken whenever you gave him the tiniest bit of affection?

The Beast merely harrumphed, tearing himself away from you and that damn smile that's too sweet to be genuine. "I don't care" he lies and hopes you know better than to inquire. "I'll be off-"

"Wait!" Just when you managed to grab the sleeve of his arm, his warrior's instinct caused him to turn around - his fist already in the air, ready to strike.

"...never do that again" he grumbled almost apologetic facing your cowering self, lowering his arm again.

"S-Sorry..." you whimpered, nervously fondling with your hands. "But we-we need to talk. Your uncle said the Bene Gesserit are growing impatient."

"So?" he shrugged, "We're only married for so long. What could they possibly want all of a sudden?"

"They want us to hurry. They want a child." Your husband's eyes widened for a sheer moment, murmuring "Did you tell my uncle?"

"The true reason? The fact that you're withholding from me? No."

"Why?" He gulped several times, but couldn't get that narrowing sensation out of his throat. "There's no need to cover up for me and take the blame."

Seeing a man like the Beast anxious like this made you grow even more worried. Who knows what punishment awaits for those disobeying in the Baron's schemes.

"That's a discrete matter and also none of his concern" you firmly say, taking a more confident stance. "And frankly, with all due respect, but I'd doubt he'll believe me with your kind of...reputation."

Rabban gives a crooked smirk at that jab of yours, but quickly grows serious again. "I'll resolve this, don't worry."

"How? You know there's only one way to do so." Your arms hung loosely, defeated to the sides - and then balled into fists as you accused him: "Or is that what you wsnt, having me rendered useless and disposed of?"

Your husband clenched his jaw, the piercing noise of a cracking teeth filling the room - but nothing else.

"What now, did the great Beast of Lankiveil forget how to talk?" Fury glimmers in his eyes and yet you were unable to hold yourself back, the only thing on your mind being a hopeless future. "I don't understand! Why are you acting this ambiguous? Stop being so cruel and dragging this out, if you want to kill me just do it now!"

With a loud BANG Rabban janked you by the hair and slammed your head onto the nearby tabletop, pressing your cheek onto the wooden surface. He had you bent over, an arm twisted painfully behind your back and the other flailing around to no avail.

"If you insist" His voice was calm, too calm and as unfaltering as his grip. "I can fuck that rebellious spirit out of you until you squeal."

You heared him groan shamelessly, crotch pressing against your behind in this indecent position, your wriggling and writhing only adding to his excitement.

"Then do it." Refusing to cry, you instead pierced him with a look of pure disgust and resentment. "Just get it over with, damn it."

Rabban was taken aback by your bold reaction, certain to have ruined this earlier blissful moment like he would always ruin everything.

"Stop looking at me that way." He shakily breathed out as he turned you around, now lying completely on the table. You felt his harness against your spread legs, about to lose focus as he pulled your hips even closer to his, fingers digging painfully into your thigs.

You wanted to resist, but he easily overpowered you, both hands tightly restrained over your head.

"Stop looking at me like that" he repeats, this time louder. There was something else in his voice other than anger and lust - it was hurt.

"I said STOP!"

When his hands find your throat dissociating became impossible, and your gaze softens with fear. Teardrops run down your cheeks and if it wouldn't be you beneath him, Rabban would certainly be even more turned on.

"P-Please" you choke, clawing at his arms as the lack of oxygen becomes more than a slight discomfort...

...and then, ultimatively, Rabban gave in to his desire.

Your husband's lips crashed over yours, surprisingly gentle yet still demanding as you got trapped in a firm embrace. He moaned - no, whined against your mouth, practically devouring you with this desperate kiss.

His hand ran through your hair, across your cheek to the back of your neck and down your collarbone - pushing you away just when you were about to reciprocate.

The Beast looked devastated, shocked with himself as he stumbled back, looking at you like you were the most dangerous enemy he's ever encountered.

"We'll find a solution" he stammers, already heading for the door. "I'll protect you, I promise by the little honor I have."

What were you even supposed to do, think, feel after this surreal encounter?!

Another one had to take your place tonight - but this time the outcome would be different.

After all, your taste was still lingering on his lips, how he could feel the need between your legs and the way your body melted against his was driving him crazy.

As usual he is overcome with dire ideas as he wallows in the memory of you. How he wants to ruin you, make you beg and moan and cry his name, marked by his blade for everyone to see who you belong to.

In the end however, he comes undone to the mental image of you smiling at him - even though knowing it could never be honest.

"Get the fuck out of my sight." The slave didn't need to be told twice, wouldn't even try to get dressed as she ran for dear life.

Rabban buried his face into his hands, letting out a gutwrenching roar before his fist tore a hole in the next best wall.

Because the true reason he keeps denying you was not because he was afraid for your safety, no - it was because he knew as soon as he'd give himself up to you, it'd mean his imminent defeat.

But his walls were already crumbling, no matter how much he tried to keep it together...

...and as he watches the other woman flee instead of lying dead to his feet, he realizes it's already too late - he was past the point of no return.

[Next Chapter]

[whynot12317]

Notable Characters 2021:

Paul Atreides:

Characteristics: strong, inquisitive, hesitant of destiny.

Purpose: to become the Kwisatz Haderach and lead the Fremen to freedom.

Duke Leto Atreides:

Characteristics: steadfast, just, righteous.

Purpose: to be a guide and a role model for Paul.

Lady Jessica:

Characteristics: noble, resilient, fierce

Purpose: is Paul's mother and helps him to become "The Chosen One."

High Priestess Bene Gesserit:

Characteristics: serious, mysterious.

Purpose: to test Paul to determine whether he is the chosen one or not. She is also the advisor of the Emporer.

Duncan Idaho:

Characteristics: loyal, true, kind, brave, fearless.

Purpose: second in command for Duke Atreides.

Gurney Halleck:

Characteristics: brave, loyal, knowledgeable, serious.

Purpose: one of Paul's combat trainer along with Duncan.

Dr. Wellington Yueh:

Characteristics: smart, quiet, fearful, desperate.

Purpose: betrays the Atreides in an attempt to save his wife from the Harkonnen's

Chani:

Characteristics: strong, brave, sceptical.

Purpose: future love interest of Paul, for now just friend.

Stillgar:

Characteristics: wise, faithful, loyal, even tempered.

Purpose: leader of the group of Fremen that Paul and Jessica join.

Baron Harkonnen:

Characteristics: evil, power hungry, blood thirsty, sly.

Purpose: to try and gain control of Arrakis and Spice mining and eradicate the Fremen and Atreides.

Rabon Harkonnen:

Characteristics: blood thirsty, loyal.

Purpose: second in command to Baron.

Thufir Hawat:

Characteristics: kind, loyal, true.

Purpose: general for Atreides battalion.

Shadout Mapes:

Characteristics: honorable, faithful, hopeful, loyal.

Purpose: House maid for Jessica, believer in prophecy, saves Jessica’s life.

Leit Kynes (Empirial Liason):

Characteristics: trustworthy, loyal, caring

Purpose: guides Paul, Jessica, and Duncan through Fermen territory.

[imbricare]

"They would not question it. Why is insignificant in the face of–" Her mouth quirks. "Well, keeping face."

The Hawk Seal of Atreides does not suffer the question of why. Even the regal house of Belarilia knows there is Corrino blood mingled even now in the ducal veins.

But to the girl, Jessica gifts a smile, and wills it warm and welcoming. She is intrigued by her; and that is almost as good as liking her.

Besides: She has a son.

Whispers in the landsraad like seedlings. Of a Harkonnen betrothal which spells like betrayal between Jessica's teeth, a homonym hammered out in the soundscape of Giedi Prime. Quieting rumors isn't something the landsraad is good at; nor would it strive to be.

To a sister, rumors are found fodder for the right and righteous maws.

"And what would Princess Hara say to such an invite?"

We call this longing a nexalune. A word with little meaning now. To be acknowledged by someone outside her body would be a biblical revelation. It would shock her to be seen.

She had be betrothed to the Harkonnen's heir but it's under her assumption that that deal's been severed. Still, there is this dread that at any moment her father can pair her off — it's the height of her use to him, a daughter for a tie that only a marriage can do.

❛ I think my parents would be complimented by such an invite. They would ask why. ❜

Just as she asks it now, indirectly. An un-clunky segue is still a segue. And Hara doesn't understand the sudden shift in conversation. Nor why Lady Jessica would want her to come to Caladan. Despite the shift, the company is still amongst the fair favorable to engage with. Hara wonders if it runs in the family. She has met Jessica's son. Brief but not dissimilar to how Jessica holds herself and conversation.

[darling-child-tisarwat]

Morgan Reads Dune Part 3

Part 1:

Pages 21 - 27

“The Reverend Mother must combine the seductive wiles of a courtesan with the untouchable majesty of a virgin goddess, holding these attributes in tension so long as the powers of her youth endure. For when youth and beauty have gone, she will find that the place-between, once occupied by tension, had become a wellspring of cunning and resourcefulness.” When I tell you my eyes rolled all the way into my head...

“...her body tortured by the winds of puberty...” what the fuck?? What the fuck???

Anyway this is really dumb as I knew it would be. The only two women in the book just constantly talking about men aside, this is just really dumb. Like bitch, kill her? Who gives a shit.

This little metaphor about politics is absolutely transparent.

“Missionaria Protectiva” weird way to spell Missionary Protective but ok.

“Jessica shook tears from her eyes. It was an angry gesture.” Thanks for clarifying, Herbert.

Pages 28 - 37

Quick update: I’m starting to actually like Dune, but not THIS Dune. I’m starting to like the fake Dune I’ve made up in my head, the one where Paul is trans and a lot of other shit diverges from the text. Might have to Fic That. Anyway onward:

Okay I knew from my bf and others that the names in this book would be Wack As Fuck, but seriously. What in the actual fuck, Herbert. I’m not even gonna say his name. You know what I’m taking about.

“That witch mother of his is giving him the deep training certainly.” 1. Dont... don’t say it like that I glanced at the AO3 top tags and I ain’t kinkshaming but I ain’t looking a second time. 2. Everyone just calls her a fucking witch huh??

“And Arrakis is just another place.” I think the fuck not, Hawat.

Okay Paul keeps doing completely normal assessments and making logical assumptions about his situation and like, ok whatever magic, god boy whatever the shit. But like, what the fuck else could this dude be in here to do but test him or watch him? Like, it’s not that deep! He’s not that special! You all just keep saying he is!!

Hawat: mentions Paul’s father. Paul: completely fucking ignores it. Mood.

“I’ve been studying about the storms on Arrakis.” “They sounds pretty bad.” SIRI, PLAY SANDSTORM BY DARUDE, 10 HOURS MIX.

“Why don’t they have weather control?”

“Arrakis has special problems...” SPECIAL PROBLEMS FOR OUR SPECIAL BOY??

So they hate the Freman because the Houses are white colonizers, I’m assuming.

Hawat: *talks about how water is precious on Dune.* Suddenly it begins to rain. Herbert you are a goddamn masterful set designer.

Oh my god this bullshit fingers of a hand metaphor. “The world is supported by four things...” “The learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the righteous, the valor of the brave.” *makes fist* “But all of these are nothing without a ruler who knows the art of ruling!” Which of these is the middle finger, I want to give it to Herbert.

“Then she said a good ruler has to learn his world’s language, that it’s different for every world.” Ah yes, each world has one (1) language, Paulie.

“A process cannot be understood by stopping it.” Can you IMAGINE what these people would do when presented with Murderbot.

I like Gurney and this is all I know of him: he’s ugly, he has lots of weapons, he’s ugly, and he says shit like “if y’ won’t talk, y’ won’t.” Y’ !

Gurney is singing a song about fucking Various Space Women and I guarantee you that Paul, with his infinite Space Truth Knowledge, has no fucking idea what he’s on about. He knows only enough to fake this.

Putting sand in someone’s bed absolutely is a crime I’m with Gurney on this one.

Paulie: I’m not in the mood to fight.

Gurney: fuckin’ gen Z

“He recalled his sister—“ oh good another woman character! “But she was dead now.” :( “—in a pleasure house for Harkonnen troops.” :T Heeeerrrbeeeeeeert. That’s a Bad Woman Trope. *60s sitcom laugh track while I put my hands on my hips and frown but it turns into a rascally smirk.* “Oh, you!”

After a single fight, Paul is now clever and blocking things. “that’s not Duncan’s style and it certainly nothing I’ve taught him.” *Special Boy Jingling Sounds In Distance* this reminds me of no modern trope or gendered controversy! Nope!

[dune-thedewcollectors]

Hawat's Hawk: A love story.

Artist: John Schoenherr

Oh how I love my Lord, but my Duke, of course, first and foremost. Still, how did we get here? House shield generators gone. We're wide open and it looks like Sardaukar are disguised in Harkonnen livery. A Legion, maybe two? A witch's quiff that ain't Harkonnen. Back to back in formations of 3, I see the golden lions in the hilts of their flashing blades and maula pistols offhand coiled in close quarter combat. Gods! This is no simulation the Sardaukar are real the Harkonnen too. And yet Arkie and I hold our own. We are in our element street and dirty, close and personal as taught by our swordmasters Duncan and Gurney. Shin kick, upper pierce my knife through chin to the brain, eyes sunk - implode. Retract, reverse conceal scoping more flesh and bone. Gob shot the maula, knife thrown simultaneously target succumbs gurgling their death rattle. And the loud hurrah of Mua'dib! Seems our Fremen allies massacred Sardaukar with ease. Arkie's down. The Fremen look at me knowingly and then more so, the wound is fatal. " Yes, but what else? I stammer, as my childhood ailment returns in my panic. " Don't go near him, don't touch him, I'll kill all you Fremen scum." I snarl, knife drawn - pistol aimed. My Lord motions, stand down. I am Hawk.

We joined up as kids Arkie and I. Fresh out of Pike, one of many of the fishing villages of Caladan. And after boot we got assigned. I, 'specials' and Arkie, 'games theory.' In other words, Hawat's Corps. How we survived? By the Duke's bollocks, who knows? We're in a world of hurt and being an Atreides man on Arrakis now, ain't a good thing. We got taken alive my Lord and I. And if weren't for the stunners I would have bathed gladly knee deep in Harkonnen and Sardaukar blood. I am Hawk.

Arkie is gone. A water decision for the tribe. It was months ago but I can't forget it. Would you forget your twin? I promised Ma and I promised Pa. A blood oath broken twice. There can be no peaceful end with the grace of God. I'll die hearing screaming with my teeth in someone's throat and my blade in their groin. They caught us out the known universe. They caught us good. My Lord, still, fathoms the math that brought our house down. The price the cost of what that cur Baron was prepared to pay - for his peace. I am Hawk.

But my Lord keeps pace with the storm. Fool of a Baron took him on as the House mentat. Has he never heard the fable of the frog and scorpion crossing the river? The joy to my broken heart at that news as opposed to hearing of my Duke's death dispelled the despair and the hope upon hope of an honourable revenge is nigh. Oh my Lord grant me the Herculean labour of the task you have set me. You've given me life just enough for a most righteous death of another. I pray for the slowest of deaths so I can relish how I avenged my Duke a thousand fold in chaumurky. For the Duke. I am Hawk.

Plucked from obscurity and trained in the black arts of stealth, sabotage and surveillance. We shall serve until no Harkonnen breaths air, this I swear. Gone are the days of Caladan ale, steam baked fish and pundi rice. Long gone like my fear and heart forsaken. My very soul rests on the success of what I must strive to overcome tonight. God wills it. And trained are the faithful. I am Hawk.

My Lord has brought word tthrough his internal network of informants and dubious personnel. He plans within plans and feints within feints, that is our world. I dare not marvel the mischief he has in store for our enemies for they are legion. But this Master of Assassins will settle all Atreides accounts before the decades end. The na Baron makes moves within his uncle's domain and my Lord manipulates the Baron and Beast too. Oh Feyd what we have in store for you brings tears to my eye as poison does. Alas the combat will not be fair I'll be drugged as tradition and security demands and you will have poison and other treachery as determined by kanly the ancient rules of vendetta. You are no match as Duncan and Gurney will swear. You are a mere bird of prey to the Hawk I am the predator and will be immune to your elacca, at least for now. Hurry father time so we together will make things right for our world. I am Hawk.

I am proud of my service to my Duke and my Lord. Of Arkie's too. Caladan my home and Arrakis my end. My Lord will see me right back where I belong where I can sleep with the fishes and Caladan's daughters. Tonight I must prepare. The Harkonnen whelp must die but not tonight for later when it's best for my Lord's plan. I must make it look good as if outfought and outfoiled. Feyd is the subject but it's the Baron that matters. The time is nigh I must make it look good.

I am Hawat's Hawk, watch me soar.

#FanFiction #Dune #Atreides

[whynot12317]

Notable Characters (1984):

Paul Atreides:

Characteristics: strong, confident, inquisitive, accepting of destiny.

Purpose: to become the Kwisatz Haderach and lead the Fremen to freedom.

Duke Leto Atreides:

Characteristics: stead fast, just, righteous.

Purpose: to be a guide and a role model for Paul.

Lady Jessica:

Characteristics: noble, gentle, resilient

Purpose: is Paul's mother and helps him to become "The Chosen One."

High Priestess Bene Gesserit:

Characteristics: serious, mysterious.

Purpose: to test Paul to determine whether he is the chosen one or not. She is also the advisor of the Emporer.

Duncan Idaho:

Characteristics: loyal, true, kind, brave.

Purpose: second in command for Duke Atreides.

Gurney Halleck:

Characteristics: brave, loyal, knowledgeable.

Purpose: one of Paul's combat trainers along with Duncan.

Dr. Wellington Yueh:

Characteristics: smart, fearful, desperate.

Purpose: betrays the Atreides in an attempt to save his wife from the Harkonnen's

Chani:

Characteristics: sweet, brave, supportive.

Purpose: love interest of Paul.

Stillgar:

Characteristics: wise, faithful, loyal.

Purpose: leader of the group of Fremen that Paul and Jessica join.

Baron Harkonnen:

Characteristics: evil, power hungry, blood thirsty, insane, disgusting internally and externally.

Purpose: to try and gain control of Arrakis and Spice mining.

Feyd- Ratha Harkonnen:

Characteristics: blood thirsty, psychotic.

Purpose: Ratha is Paul's adversary and competitor in battle.

Emperor:

Characteristics: Conniving, power hungry.

Purpose: to spark the war between House Atreides and House Harkonnen.

[dune-thedewcollectors]

Ornithopter Down: A tribute tale so short.

Artwork: Simon Frost

Even the prison Hell of Salusa Secundus prepared me little for Arrakis - the spice planet. If there were Gods here, they have long since left. Only mortals and their machinations remain. The masters, House Harkonnen and the Fremen not as liberated as their name suggests assume the roles of old since time began. And oblivious to all - the worm, always the worm.

The ornithopter thop thops in crow-like flight seaming the supposed Harkonnen sky. So predatory as it patrols Arrakeen airspace. The ornithopter a craft with multi-purpose - light armour, gun mounted, troop carrier and drop bomb capability, the mainstay of the air fleet, spearhead of the young Baron's occupational and commercial intent. Harkonnen Public Force more a euphemism for mass murderers than its corporate sounding title suggests. The HPF are no Sardaukar, nor Fedaykin. Scum! Them both, neither the rabble spawn of Zensunni wanderers or the Baron’s buffoons are fit to lick the excrement off the boots of the lowliest Sardaukar trooper. Still the Baron is always in need of men not shy of a little knifework, either for show or bounty. For fifty standard years house Harkonnen continues to suck the marrow out of the planet and its indigenous. Of course propaganda promotes otherwise. The Baron's silver tongue and public relation corps is second to none and as any Fremen under duress and the whip will testify, "that he has brought such prosperity and peace for the Fremen - the likes that God has never seen." In truth, the spice, Arrakis its unique source, is currently worth 620,000 Solari per decagram in the Imperial market. Which makes the Baron's fief , "so preposterously profitable like no other holding in the known universe," so he gloats, often, to envious ears in the Imperial court.

And as if offplanet, like leaves in the wind - we soar. Our 'thopter crows for murder, one eye in the sky the other trained below. The pilot is efficient enough and despite my instincts: I Iike this asset. Iaken Nefud - nefarious no doubt, yet steady in crisis. Slight and, still, menace in his stature with the appropriate scars shining on his pock marked demeanor. There are many of the Public Force with murky past and the most dubious of countenance that rally towards profit and violence, but I am above that, I am Sardaukar - of the blood of the orient soldiers slaves of old, same lineage of ancient assasins no less. I am Sardaukar - in league with my Emperor, in servitude to House Corrino. And to this, or their end - I prevail.

The air like my chest feels tight, as if pressed between the Heavens and Hades. The desert chokes the airspace around if not reverse. The sand covets all; basins, sinks, grabens, and dust chasms too. The terrain features in open bleds and ergs swirled in the currents and torrents of the finest grains of silky suffocating death. And what rock formations there are lay submerged, mostly, while its desperate peaks protrude the surface. Such vastness its wide emptiness deceitful and as crushing as any claustrophobic condition. A navigational nightmare where one dare not miscalculate. Storms either sand and magnetic or both, can ill afford mistakes. Where is a Mentat when you need one? The desert ever constant, continue to plots against us, still. A landscape in dual allegiance to its desertfolk. Contrary to intelligence reports, Arrakeen airspace is no haven from Fremen insurgents. These natives a little more than just restless. Their ordinance: assorted small arms, rocket propelled grenades, surface to air missiles and stolen long range lasguns, always gun ready and cleared to engage. The confirmed kills of Harkonnen personnel whether by hostile or friendly fire are never accurately recorded if at all or the files forever in bureaucratic limbo. What insurgency?

Ornithopter down! Beyond the shield wall the call no pilot and crew wants to make or answer in bandit country. An ongoing joke and what they call a secret war on this ulcer of a planet that they make play of that playwright's words,  "we few, we unlucky few,” the unofficial motto of the Public Force. I tire of their folly I say a plague on them both. I know my duty but I question the nature of the assignment I’ve been given. An exfiltration op in the middle of a holy war we’re at the wrong end of. I’ve seen the stats, and there’s no truth in them. The so call ragtag remnants of jihadists are the true masters outside the city limits. And they want us to retrieve one of their holy women? On the say so of some courtier ponce wanting his Bene Gesserit wife back who ran away to Arrakis decades before. There’s more than mischief here when the sisterhood are involved. Damned order of witches stirring up the natives with legends of the old Orient and its mysticisms. Fremen fanatics their numbers vast. More than the Baron will admit. I’ve seen with my own eyes the horrors of their resolve and their cause. A begrudging reminder of my own. But my God is stronger than yours. I am faithful, righteous and trained. And she, Sister Ramallo, is with us and with the co-ordinates she’s secreted, from under your very noses we shall steal her away from you, from this damned desert, from this Godforsaken planet and return her to paradise, praise Hallah!

Plans aren’t going as planned. Projectiles scar the sky looking to prey upon our bird in flight. Damn the Fremen! And that witch too. She promised us safe passage and proof of life. The invisible insurgents their work is done. The rockets locked on and propelling towards us, bent on benediction. Nefud as equal to the threat as any avoiding death becoming us all. He banks and performs an Immelman turn and the rockets explode far enough to survive but close enough to cause splash damage, thank the prophet for counter measures. “Looks like its a one way trip for this bird - sir,” chirps Nefud.

 

It could be worse, I know. Yet Nefud skillfully maneuvers and grounds the aircraft on the luminous landing zone marked out by a baradye pistol. Seems the witch keeps pace with the storm assuming the handiwork hers, as looming dust clouds and lightning sweeps over the the basin of Tuono, I exit with haste and disorientated, Nefud even more so - and shivering like an addict needing his vice. We're greeted by the squinting sunflare and the whipping wail of shifting sand. And then a disarming whisper deep within my subconscious suspends me still, motionless against my will, Nefud and I swap startled glances, he hears it too - a slow deliberate and suggestive murmur yet echoing as if repeating over and over, "guard yourself for truth, Out Freyn," in perfect Galach, accented in the way only highborn or courtesans speak. A lone Jubba cloaked figure appears in desert fashion prepared for violence while we remain prone, conscious - yet slumbered in our stupor.

"Ramallo! release me," I spat, " and come with us we are under orders of the Emperor." She cuts a fine figure in the sand, svelte not pretty but handsome still for a woman mid-aged living on this desolate rock far from the preen and pamper of better days. The return of muscle and bone comes slow as we slither down to ground. We've seen something not many live to tell. The voice, the cloaked fist of the Bene Gessirit. The sisterhood's ability to manipulate muscle and mind literally bending an enemy to their will. She is close enough. Instinct, perhaps, self preservation bids me hold, not so Nefud his sense tells him otherwise and lunges for her foot and coils round her heel. Almost instantly she slips, side-steps and side kicks towards her assailant’s temple side. Over in a blur no blood drawn only shock. As adept in close quarter as she was with voice, I awe in wonder. She's close enough now as I stand, hands raised upon my head contemplating the shigawire sewn within my scalp. I see her eyes blue but not as blue within blue as if born to their ways. There's more to the color of them eyes that disturbs. She has no intention of leaving with us that's plain to see. Even more obvious - she is lost to us, lost to them, but lost to herself most of all. In just a few moments I've assessed we can not retrieve what's unhinged, bordering the path to insanity, and for whatever reasons before during and after this incident, which is sure to be brushed under the royal carpet, she is tainted Fremen thus compromised. Not a further word is exchanged between us. As if all is understood, she retreats and I gather my asset.

" You managed to apply the tracer?" I query the stirring Nefud, "aye sir," Iaken stirred but not shaken. I secrete the transmitter from my bodice and attach the hairline shigawire as antennae. I call in our support hovering high but nearby. And quickly reference the co-ordinates of the landing zone.

We should have stunners for this kind of deal. Or initiated the Holtzman effect! The point is moot. What should of been a simple pick up and retrieve has turned into a fire mission now as protocol demands. The stench of spice reeks from my fellow Sardaukar soldiers in Guild garb as we board their 'thopter and ascend rapidly from the LZ. I remove my Public Force livery and slip into my Corrino jumpsuit with the embroidered on Ensign epaulettes. "Welcome aboard Aramsham," salutes my handler, the Captain. I nod, return the salute and hand him the tracer receiver. We have been trying to locate the secret sietch - Tabr with no success. Thanks to a cuckold and his witch we have an opportunity to firebomb the hidden cave of warrens to blazes. The blip remains stationary on the screen has been the last ten. We hover above in our Ornithopter looking down. The bomb bay doors open wide. I look across to Nefud, "look sir, wormsign!"

#FanFiction #Dune #Sardaukar

[deficd]

A part of him has known that they needn't rely on him for survival. They are Fremen, if not in entirety, then in the spaces their blood makes them. Atreides, too. Paul and gurney's training and sparring.

And Harkonnen, in the ways that hurt them the least.

He can hope.

A grunt begets anything his tongue and teeth can form, though he accepts the aid his emperor offers, hoisting up. Pain slips into the obscurest angles of him; bruises, blood, and a fracture if the way a leg burns is any indication. Feyd-Rautha has been through worse hells. He finds this one tapering as Paul's words set in. Lips find respite in lips, a moment lingered, before they move.

"They killed ten," spoken with a pride fastened by a father. No amount of agony, no promise of a slit throat, could ever eclipse. The 'thopter enters his view, furious sunlight slicing his eyes in the absence of dark corridors. "Before I--"

Another grunt.

This one bathes itself in rage. Captured like an animal, he's remiss to disengage from a self-righteous slaughter.

Feyd will not finish his sentence.

@deficd asked ❝ FOUND + “ghanima and leto? they are safe?” ❞

Always, the twins were first priority; his, Feyd's, Chani's, Irulan's. Even Alia's, though she was not much older than them. Godhood held no comparison to the ultimate amalgamation of the love found throughout the years.

They had been the first to be found, hidden but ready with poison tipped weapons and training-on-training-on-training. Not in the palace but seeking the safety of the sands, knowing the landscape as well as any Fremen. A horror-tipped relief that they had been safe even without their father — but without their father.

It makes the question expected, just as much as Paul's first instinct to look over the damages done to Feyd, every nerve ending and synapse screaming he's alive. "They're safe," he answers immediately, almost unaware of his own words as he checks wounds. Between Gurney and Stilgar, troops will empty out the small hidden base; it will be a concern later but at the moment Paul has no space to consider such things.

"You need to get on the 'thopter." Medical attention, of course — and Paul's hands won't steady again until he has each and every member of their family in the palace.