#drank herbert

[severussnapedamagedlove]

Free the Animal ❗Chapter 41 UP 👆

Chapter 41 (😮😮) is posted. Cannot believe we are about to reach 200k for this fic. So wild that it started as a trial story which has become much much more.

If you like sci-fi, trauma bonding/healing, destiny, Dune canon, finding yourself, dark romances, please check out my fic! [mature readers only 🔞]

The title is THE LAST LAUGH

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55200823/chapters/171619654

[cr0wl33]

ouhh.. herbert west...

[mushyfart]

DOUBLE post (kind of)!!!!

part 2 of old stuff I never posted (bonus under text)

[geesecanon]

decided that the Ford POV chapter didnt really have a place in the narrative, but still thought it was fun, so...

Evidence in the Epistolary (Chapter Four ½)

a tumblr-exclusive in-between for Chapters 4 and 5 Rating: Teen & Up Type: Multi-chapter Chapter: Penumbrally Yours (4.5/9) Summary: "Respect is not something you get over, it is something you lose, and even now Ford is holding onto it tightly." read the rest of the fic here

I prefer Bach? Ford thinks wildly, standing in complete silence and staring at the door you had just left through. I’m a romanticist!

Only now is he starting to get his senses about him after the past few whirlwind days. First it was barely managing to dock the boat for repairs, then it was returning to find a small-scale crime scene in his lab, then discovering he may have drank an indeterminate amount of venomous mucus — for the first time in several days, he actually feels alone enough to just breathe, and reflect.

Annoyingly, the reflection keeps casting you in his peripherals.

He had meant what he’d said over the phone: he trusts Fiddleford’s judgment insofar as the man trusts his — although, Ford does wish he would consult a family tree before throwing around the term cousin so willy-nilly. Ford had gotten a real earful when suggesting that again, while standing in the cramped security room and running back the tapes showcasing your misfortune. 

It looked like it had hurt.

Whereas he had expected to return, unpack, dust some shelves and get back to his research pastimes in relative peace before the summer arrived, you had crashed through those expectations with wild abandon (not unlike, say, you crashed through his lab several days prior). With all the evidence finally amassed, the act comes off as entirely unintentional; in person, he can hardly parse your character from one moment to the next. Your actions oscillate wildly, between defending yourself emphatically to dedicating a not insignificant amount of time unraveling his riddle.

Giving you his number via cypher had been, admittedly, a spur of the moment decision. He had justified that, after forcing your hand to apologize, you would hardly want to see him again and would probably just toss the thing in general. But last time he had bothered to reach out to a stranger had yielded such promising results, he couldn’t help but test the theory again. He would have just gone snail searching the next day himself, if you never responded.

Instead, you gave him a very quick one.

Saying you simply had character is an understatement; you seem to suffer from an excess of it. Everything you did had some undercurrent of melodrama, from telling him to shoo to doubling down on that aberrant pianist comment, and every small thing in between. Ford found it endlessly frustrating not being able to keep track of your sudden turns; perhaps you, also, did not know how to deal with him.

So, finding the snowcone snail — Herbert — had been a wonderfully cordial moment between you two. Which leaves him wondering whether you can be actually tolerable sometimes, instead of being some degree of insufferable. Or, at least, whether you had a baseline of tolerant degrees of insufferability.

He looks down and studies his hands, curiously. You ever learn Clair de Lune?

The answer, somehow, is no.

Ford has been in quasi-isolation with his brother for the better part of half a year, and even though he manages to communicate with the kids fairly regularly, they are still part of the traditional cohort he rarely ventures out of. Getting cut on your sharp attitude stood as a bit of a wake-up call — I’m not going to crawl on all fours while some holier-than-thou asshole stares down his nose at me — and reminded him that he sounds… like that, a lot of the time, to strangers. Pompous. Lofty. A braggart. Someone who faxes their number in thirteenth century Cistercian number notation rather than, say, asking for your number via mutual acquaintance. 

Still, he does not stare down his nose — or if he does, his height is entirely to blame.

Eventually, he wanders away from the door and back to his desk, slumping in his chair and staring at the dark monitor in front of him, fingers steepled. On instinct, he almost pulls up his email inbox, to see if any new worthwhile correspondence has come in, but he halts the impulse and backtracks to examine it critically.

Ford is hardly an idiot; he has his suspicions. Stanford Pines is hardly a common name in the scientific community nowadays, since he is out of step with most of it, so there was hardly any reason for you to look so… stricken, when you first met him. He is beginning to learn that you cannot regulate your facial expressions for the life of you, which is a boon is in his favor because it means, thus far, he has a good track record of understanding when he has gone too far. Which, he has. Several times.

Why is it always silicone-based nucleotides? He’s heard that one before, too.

Who else is publishing research that carbon-based life forms are actually a rarity in the universe(s)? He isn’t even publishing on it (admittedly because his papers keep getting rejected) but you had claimed it was old news to you. Plus, the same initials, atop both finding strange creatures, atop your general argot… he wonders what your opinion on waveform continuity between D-branes on the level of quantum-scale spacetime turbulence at a great state energy in a vacuum would be.

He has yet to decide whether this is a reality he wants, that you and his penpal are concordant, or if he would rather keep the two worlds separate. The thought of meeting his penpal is thrilling; the thought of them almost immediately calling him an asshole, less so.

So, even though the coincidences seem to run rampant, he doubts the universe would hand his esteemed penpal over on a silver platter (or, dropped directly into his lab). Life hardly works out so easily for him, so he takes to any degree of ease in his life with a skeptical eye.

Infinite universes do beg infinite odds.

Whether his suspicions are unfounded or not are yet to be seen — and from the way your last encounter had just ended, stiff and professional, he would never get to investigate those suspicions in person. He is left at the mercy of waiting for an email back; whatever the response is would be a large indicator in the right direction.

He will just have to be patient, he reasons, which is a skill well-cultivated through the events of his life. Although Stan loves to tell him to quit the overanalyzing, the paranoia may actually come in handy for once. If adhering to the usual schedule, he should be receiving a reply sometime tomorrow.

So, Ford busies himself with cleaning up the crime scene in his lab.

The outcome he neglects to consider, of course, is a complete lack of reply.

The week steadily passes, and with each day his well-cultivated patience prunes itself more and more. This coincides with an unfortunate return of some recurring nightmares — which typically happen his first few weeks back on land, anyway — so the fact he has hardly slept or made it past a REM cycle does not help the situation, or his mood, or his sensibility.

Ungracefully, he whines about it, over dinner.

“Maybe I should send another email,” Ford posits gloomily, thoroughly ignoring his full plate. Stan had, almost literally, dragged him up from his lab to have a sit-down meal, rather than the here-and-there snacking at odd hours that he had fallen into the past few days.

The conversational topic arose against his will; his brother had said something akin to, so, what’s with all the moping? before their butts had even hit their chairs, which is a classic Stanley Pines-style ambush. And Ford, lacking in sleep and common sense, had answered truthfully. Something about expecting a reply, no emails from the past week, adjusting to being back on land…

“Nuh-uh,” Stan replies around his mouthful.

Ford sighs, finding the answer unhelpful, and spoons his food around his plate.

“You better eat that,” Stan threatens. “I slaved away for hours.”

“Please,” Ford says flippantly, although gathering a spoonful as he speaks. “You popped a frozen meal into the oven.”

“And, that took a lot of effort.”

He smiles despite himself and takes a bite to cover it. After a few moments, having satisfied the arbitrary eating requirement for now, he continues with his list of possibilities. “Maybe, for whatever reason, it ended up in their spam folder…”

“I said,” Stan interjects sternly, “nuh-uh.”

“Or, maybe when I suggested to meet up, it was offensive somehow…”

It had been a fear steadily growing until it bloomed entirely, gnarled and convoluted. Say a confluence of events had brought you two together unexpectantly, at the same time he sent his messages suggesting to meet up. It is not a far leap in his mind that, after actually meeting, you decided you no longer wanted to theoretically meet and instead aimed to shunt him from your life completely, starting with your hasty fleeing from the lab a week ago to blocking his email address entirely…

“Maybe they’re just an asshole,” Stan says flatly.

Despite how inarguably rude this entire scenario is, Ford wrinkles his nose and does not grace that with a verbal response.

Which has never deterred his brother before. “Whoever it is has been ignoring you for a solid week,” he complains. “Just admit that you’re down bad and move on with your life.”

“I’m trying to at least give the benefit of the… wait, down bad?” The abrupt turn serves to stop the yawning maw of paranoia inside him from growing any wider, at least at the moment. “I am not down bad,” he says incredulously.

Stan rolls his eyes. “I’m not having this conversation again.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans back in his chair, legs widening, and now in front of an empty plate. Ford’s own remains picked over. “You know what I think.”

He does know. The conversation usually went something like: how’s the nerd crush going? and it’s not a nerd crush and what else would you call going goo-goo eyes over a bunch of emails and I don’t think having a modicum of admiration is a crime and is that what they’re calling it nowadays? and stop reading into things, Stan, not everything is an innuendo and…

Ultimately, it boils down to Stan chalking several months’ worth of extensive and exhaustive correspondence to being a kind of school-yard crush, which also means he thinks Ford just need to get over it and move on with his life. This implies there is something to get over, which there isn’t; respect is not something you get over, it is something you lose, and even now Ford is holding onto it tightly. Stan can call it a nerd crush all he wants but Ford thinks, in the aggregate, the data still falls in his penpal’s favor.

“Yes,” Ford says snidely. “I do know.”

Stan just shrugs, immune to that tone, as he is all others. “Just, don’t tell me that’s what you’ve been losin’ sleep over.” When Ford does not dispute this, instead busy hiding a horribly timed and incriminating yawn behind his hand, Stan groans. “Really?”

“It’s a confluence of things,” he mutters, not wanting to discuss what is causing his recent bouts of insomnia: it is a well-trodden path that neither of them enjoy revisiting. The food in front of him is suddenly very interesting again.

Yet, it is undeniable that he is starting to feel the tail-end of this stilted circadian rhythm. If he doesn’t voluntarily choose when to try and get some sleep soon, his body would choose the time  for him.

Whatever Stan takes from Ford’s tone makes him frown and sit up straighter, reaching forward and drumming his fingers on the table in a steady rhythm. “Nightmares are back?”

The question is redundant. Ford sucks his teeth and does not answer.

His brother sighs, shoulders deflating. “You do any perimeter checks lately?” he asks, resigned to the compulsion Ford occasionally succumbs to when the paranoia is especially bad. It runs in direct correlation with how many hours he has been awake in a thirty-six hour period.

“Of course I have,” he snaps, with little real bite.

“You wanna do one again, when you’re done?”

“No,” he says automatically. When Stan gives him a real, capital ‘L’ Look, he grumbles, “Maybe.”

Stan raps his knuckles on the table, twice. “Hear-hear.” It is probably one of the more amicable ends to these half-conversations they have. Stan must be feeling especially chatty, because he continues, “Listen. If you want someone to talk to about all your nerd crap, just call that, uh, new person. The one who broke shit.”

“That is the last person I want to talk to, right now,” Ford gripes, which is seventy-five percent true. Sixty-five. The more distance is put between your last meeting and the current moment, the more he finds himself becoming sentimental over the encounter. Which is hardly the correct way to feel; he has to remind himself that no only do you have an undeniable rude streak, you hardly seem like his biggest fan. But his mind keeps tripping over your ready acquiescence to everything new thrown at you that day. Your open and persistent curiosity over something as small as a snowcone snail had been… refreshing.

Not to mention, until he has the proof, he should really be keeping his ambivalent feelings towards you and his positive feelings towards his penpal separate. Low expectations tended to lead to better outcomes.

“Nothing but trouble,” he continues. “And an absolute pain in the ass to try and reason with.”

Stan thinks over what was just said for a moment, then says plainly, “Kinda cute, too.”

Ford guffaws. “You haven’t even seen…”

“I’ve got eagle eyes,” Stan claims.

“You have the literal opposite,” Ford insists, “because you are even more nearsighted than me.”

But he’s fallen right into his brother’s trap, because Stan then smugly points out, “You ain’t disagreeing with me.”

Ford just shakes his head; regardless of what he says, he loses. “It hardly matters. I doubt I’ll be getting any calls out of the blue.”

“Sweet Moses,” Stan mutters, then louder: “For someone so smart, you can be really dumb, you know that?”

He frowns. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Would it kill you to try and make friends, I dunno, the normal way?” Stan says.

“Yes,” Ford answers immediately, only mostly joking and not understanding what the ‘normal way’ even is.

“Just call pretending you’re concerned about that, uh… what was it?”

“Snowcone snail,” he supplies.

Stan snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that. Not hard. Send a text. Give ‘em a call.”

“As if it were that easy,” Ford grumbles, going back to his meal.

“If you can believe it,” Stan says with a grin, “it is.” With a melodramatic groan, he stands and stretches out his back. “Anyway, you’re on KP, Sixer.”

Ford, reluctantly, concedes to that.

After cleaning the kitchen then checking the perimeter with an uncharacteristically patient Stan, Ford wanders around his lab aimlessly, looking for something to do that will keep him awake even just a little while longer. Everything he tries filters through his brain like a sieve and he may just need to accept a restless sleep in his near future, if only to continue showcasing as a functional human.

This is a conclusion only drawn further by the fact that he is actually considering reaching out to you. Like Stan had said, it would be exceptionally easy to couch it in concern for Herbert’s well-being, a ruse to draw you back to the lab for a confab. Maybe that would keep him awake: a scintillating conversation. It actually sounds achievable: you seem awfully endeared to the little guy, which in turn has endeared Ford to you… or, the memory of you. The hypothetical overlap of identities of you.

Absence must really make the heart grow fonder. Or, at least more tolerant.

He isn’t trying to fool himself into ignoring that half the reason he wants to see you again is to suss out whether he has actually been talking to you for several months, over email. It may explain the rose-tint his memories of you now have. If he’s right, then the speed of your conversations can increase tenfold. If he’s wrong, then Ford can pretend he simply wanted to see you for you, which is a prospect not entirely untrue.

But the radio silence he has been getting from either end, regardless of who is on the other side, still worries him, and so there begs a third opinion, in which he is both right and wrong: you are his penpal, and have decided he isn’t worth the trouble anymore.

Frowning, he ambles to his desk.

Stan was, begrudgingly, right about one more thing. You are attractive. Being on the other end of your grin had felt like a sucker punch to the sternum, in probably the most pleasant way that can happen. It is impossible to not want to do anything to get you to smile like that again.

All factors combined, Ford still stands at a frustrating net neutral. He really should just fold and at least send a text, but he hates texting, which leaves a phone call, but that would be —

On his desk, his cell phone goes off, interrupting his inner monologuing.

Ford’s eyebrows raise when he sees the name on the caller ID, then proceeds to stare at it. Tries to figure out if this is an exhaustion-induced hallucination, or if he has fallen asleep at his desk without noticing and this is a dream.

Belatedly, he realizes he should probably pick up, regardless of situation. There’s nothing to lose. “Go for Ford."

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

“Are you aware of how I know my father?” she asked.

“I have some idea.”

“Let me make it clear,” she said. Briefly, she explained how she had awakened to Reverend Mother awareness before birth, a terrified fetus with the knowledge of countless lives embedded in her nerve cells—and all this after the death of her father.

“I know my father as my mother knew him,” she said. “In every last detail of every experience she shared with him. In a way, I am my mother. I have all her memories up to the moment when she drank the Water of Life and entered the trance of transmigration.”

words cannot explain how weird this passage makes me feel. frank herbert what the hecking heck

[leafsbabe]

Justin Herbert - sparks fly (SMUT)

4.3k words, reader is described as not small height wise but the rest is hopefully vague enough

Coming to LA had been a spur of the moment decision but you never regretted it one bit.

You wanted an adventure and one of your friends needed an apartment sitter/somebody to take over their rent for a three month trip overseas so you packed a bag and headed to Hollywood. What you didn’t anticipate was falling in love with the city and so your illegal sublet turned into a small apartment of your own, your vacation into an unpaid internship into a paid internship into a job, and your adventure into a new home.

You didn’t live lavishly like the upper echelon but you could pay your rent, go to large outdoor flea markets on the weekend, and splurge on tacos from the taqueria at the corner while still putting away some money for savings so it was safe to say that life was going pretty damn great.

Justin and you bumped into each other on a hike. Or rather he bumped into you, causing you to stumble, fall, and skim your knee in the least sexy way possible… if there even was a sexy way to get hurt.

But Justin had been sweet, squatting down next to you and making sure you weren't seriously hurt before helping you up. You weren’t a short girl, never had been, but this handsome stranger towered over you in a way that made your thoughts run wild. You couldn’t help but look up at him while he helped you to the nearest bench. He sat down with you and you both drank from your water bottles side by side, sneaking glances at each other from the corners of your eyes.

He was the first to say something, his words stuck in your memory to this day. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

Later you would learn that this was supposed to be a pick-up line and the follow up would have been about him seeing you in his dreams but at that time you had just filmed a scene in a popular tv procedural as scared coffee shop visitor #4 (something you had told everyone back home and no one in LA, because it felt weird to talk about something like that here) so you just blurted that out.

Was it embarrassing? Yes. Did it lead to you two sitting there on that bench talking about shows until the sun started to set? Also yes.

Justin and you exchanged numbers and you even threw caution in the wind and let him walk you to your car, because pretty serial killers wouldn’t talk about the nuances of copaganda for hours and if they did you’d take you chances at knocking him out with your reusable water bottle even if he was over a head taller than you.

That night you sent each other a handful of messages. The next day he even called you after work like a total weirdo. The weekend after he took you to a restaurant in the hills and encouraged you to order something that wasn’t the cheapest salad on the menu because he was going to pay, like a gentleman. You shared a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. Him because he drove, you because you wanted that gorgeous man to absolutely rail you and thought any perceived inebriation might prevent that.

He didn’t fuck you but there was a prolonged make out session in his car where he felt up your tits, so you didn’t even feel bad getting yourself off with your trusty vibrator after he dropped you off at your apartment. 

Your second date took you outside again with a small hike followed by a picnic. He had packed all kinds of food because he wasn’t sure what you liked and had forgotten to ask. Justin laughed about panicking and buying half a store worth of snacks just so that you’d have something you like. It was so sweet.

He didn’t kiss you like he did after the first date, wild and like he had to hold himself back. 

No. His kisses were sweet, hands never wandering above your waist or below you hips. He did accept it when you invited him up to your place for a coffee though. Half a dirty iced chai latte later he had you pressed against your couch, his large hands dangerously close to your ass.

Yet he still didn’t fuck you.

“Next time,” he promised with his head buried in your throat, “after our third date I'll take you home and won’t let you leave my bed for the next three days.”

It was sweet, in a way, and you hadn’t had sex since before you moved to LA anyways so what difference would a few more days make.

“Okay. Tomorrow?” You didn’t even care that it sounded desperate.

“Can’t.” Justin groaned. “We’re leaving for an away game the day after tomorrow and I meant what I said about keeping you in my bed.” 

You felt his lips against your pulse as he spoke.

“When do you get back?”

“In four days.”

Fuck. Maybe a few more days did make a difference.

He kissed your neck again, grinding down and showing you just why the wait would be worth it. Hopefully you would remember to charge your vibrator. 

He took you to an arcade style place for your third date and it was an absolute blast. With so many options of games to try out you barely had time to look at everything. Justin was a gentleman the entire time, a pattern you noticed during your last two dates. Even though you’d worn a short skirt (and safety shorts because tall girls and mini skirts didn’t always get along) and cozied up to him all afternoon his hands remained off your ass and solidly in PG-13 areas.

You were having fun, challenging each other while laughing the entire time, but you were looking forward to the end of the date when you could finally go home with him. You could feel the vibe shift, growing needier as time went on, with Justin reflecting his own desires back at you.

When you accidentally touched a sticky surface and had to go to the bathroom to wash your hands you had the genius idea to take off the shorts and shove them to the bottom of your bag. 

And boy did that idea pay off.

Twenty minutes later you were in the front seat of his car as Justin drove the two of you back to his place with his right hand on your thigh inching higher and higher. He didn’t look at you as it slid under your skirt, eyes on the road, but the smirk on his lips made it clear to you that he knew what he was doing. He was so close to touching you where you needed him the most when the car stopped and he withdrew his hand as you groaned. 

“Patience.” He teased.

You climbed out of the car before he could help you out, downright eager now. By the time you reached his front door you could barely hold yourself back. All it took was a split second, the door closed behind you and Justin unceremoniously pressed you against it as his lips landed on yours. 

You’ve never been a small girl but the way you had to tilt your head to kiss Justin had a way of making you feel tiny. He bent down, lips never separating from yours, and just picked you up, hands under your skirt somewhere between your plush thighs and your ass. You moaned and he continued kissing you, fingers kneading against your soft skin as he turned around and started waking further into his apartment. God, you hoped his hands would leave bruises.

A noise interrupted you and when you looked to the side you saw a cat looking back at you from where it was perched on a cabinet. Justin didn’t follow your eyes, lip finding your neck instead. “That’s Nova.” He mumbled against your skin. “I’ll introduce you two later.” Then he sucked hard and you forgot everything except him. Somehow you made your way to his bedroom, something you only noticed after he let you fall back against the pillows.

With Justin standing at the edge of the bed looking down on you, you felt even smaller. He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, showing off his strong muscles. Oh, how you wanted them to hold you down as he took you.

You took off your shirt in one smooth motion, throwing it somewhere to the side of the bed and hoped that Justin wouldn’t mind. Judging by the way he was staring at your tits, he didn’t.

Justin soon followed your lead, stripping his clothes off as you watched. There was no denying that he was smoking hot, his body solid and you couldn't help but press your thighs together in the search of some relief.

“What do you need?”

Need. Not want. You had to take a moment to collect yourself. What did you need?

“I need you to fuck my mouth,” you started, “I need to choke on your dick until I cry and I need you to fuck me until I forget my name and can only scream yours.”

For a moment you worried that it would be too much. That it would be too rough for Justin or that you were too needy. But the look in his eyes showed you that he would give you everything you asked for. 

Justin stood in front of the bed, looking down at you while he stroked his dick. Precum gathered at his tip and a whimper left your lips at the sight. 

“You want it?” He asked, tone just mocking enough to make you close your legs harder, desperately looking for any kind of friction.

You nodded while looking up at Justin, moving on the bed to get closer to him. Finally you could almost taste him. The pink tip of his dick just barely touched your lips. 

“Please.” You begged for him to let you have it. 

“Be a good girl and show me you deserve it.” 

He gave it to you slowly. One hand holding his dick, the other cradling your cheek, as you took it.

Justin felt heavy in your mouth as you took more and more of him. He was big, yes, but you knew you would manage to swallow all of him. You looked up at him through your lashes until his muscles blocked the view and you could close your eyes, fully concentrating on making sure that Justin would give you everything you needed. 

Slowly you pushed yourself to your limit, fitting him into your throat until your lips wrapped around his base. Justin’s dick was a lot to take in and you didn’t know if you could take it should he try and fuck your throat but for a short moment —with him frozen in front of you— you managed to take all of him. 

You swallowed around him once, twice, and began to slowly pull back before Justin moved again.

“Fuck.” His voice was deep and low as the hand that had been cradling your cheek moved to now hold the back of your head instead.

You couldn’t help but moan around him, the vibrations around his dick only making him hold onto you tighter.

“Good girl.” His fingers flexed against your head and the combinations of both made you feel dizzy, happy that you could be good for him. 

With his other hand Justin reached out and trailed his fingertips from your shoulder down your arm until you realized what he wanted and gave him your hand. He brought it to his thigh, letting you lay your palm flat along the thick firm muscle before covering it with his own. 

“If I’m too rough,” Justin started, “or you need me to slow down, if you just want to take a break or stop for any reason, you slap my leg and I’ll stop. Understood?”

Nodding yes didn’t seem to satisfy Justin, instead he used the hand on your head to pull you off him. You barely managed to do that thing with your tongue before he had you looking up at him through your lashes again.

“I need you to say it.”

“Understood.” And oh how wrecked your voice already sounded. There was no doubt in your mind that it would be completely gone by tomorrow.

“Good girl.” He said again, before silencing your whine with his dick.

There was no denying that Justin was strong. He was thick with muscle, powerful, yet you never felt unsafe as he picked up the pace.

He was rough like you had asked him to. Thrusting hard and fast and pushing your head down to meet him halfway. It was maddening. Above you Justin said something but you were far too gone to listen.

It wasn’t until his movements got gentler and he slowly withdrew from your mouth that you tuned back in.

Justin hadn’t come and was still hard, was one thing you noticed, looking between his dick in front of you and his face high above you.

The fact that you had teared up like you had told him you wanted to, was another.

His hands came up to cradle your face and he gently wiped away the tears with his thumbs as you looked at him.

“So pretty.” His voice was soft, gentle as if to not spook you and the thought of him underestimating you made you want to protest but all that ended up happening was you pouting as he stroked your cheeks.

“Aw don’t pout. You can suck it again later. I just didn’t want to come until I got to fuck you.”

He had to bend down to kiss you, this tall man folding in half to reach you where you kneeled on his bed, and the reminder of your size difference made you squirm.

In response Justin kissed you harder, pushing forward until you lost our balance and fell back on the bed. In a fluid motion Justin followed, bracing himself above you as his lips found your lips, your jaw, your neck.

He made his way down your body, leaving behind a trail of kisses as he went. When he reached your chest he departed from his careful line of kisses. The two kisses, sweet little pecks almost, that he pressed to either boob, stood in stark contrast with his hand that bullied it’s way under your body so that he could unhook your bra. He tugged on the bridge until it became loose enough for you to get the hint and shrug it off while he pulled your skirt and embarrassingly soaked underwear down your legs in one smooth motion.

You didn’t even get the chance to think about hiding yourself from Justin before his large hands gently parted your legs enough for him to fit between them. His mouth fit itself against the skin on the side of your knee before he slowly, teasingly, kissed his way up to where you needed him most. Even though you anticipated the first touch of his lips against your pussy it still sent a shock through your body.

Justin didn’t waste any time pretending to tease you any longer. His lips found your clit almost immediately, wrapping around the small bud almost lovingly before sucking. His tongue toyed with it while you moaned his name. Your hands found their way into his hair and you pulled, hard, but not hard enough to dislodge Justin’s wonderful mouth. It took two more moans before he released your clit and wandered lower, dragging his lips along your skin as he moved. The first drag of his tongue was testing, exploring. The second one wasn’t tame at all.

Justin groaned against your pussy and you swore you could feel it through your entire body. He pulled away for a moment and a pitiful whine left your lips at the loss of his mouth, only for it to turn into a moan when you saw him licking his lips before diving in again. 

You got lost in the feeling of his mouth on you, the way his lips moved so similarly to when he was kissing you just moments before. His long fingers joined his lips in bringing you pleasure and you couldn’t hold back anymore, grinding against his face until you came with your thighs wrapped around his head.

Justin continued to mouth at your thigh as you started to come down before he stood up from the bed and you took a moment to just watch him. The aftershock of your orgasm still ran through your body and combined with the picture in front of you it felt like a high you never wanted to end. Justin was breathing heavy, his thick chest rising and falling hard. The last bit of sunlight shining through the curtains tinted the bedroom in a soft light making his face glisten and you realized with a jolt that the wetness on his cheeks came from you.

The fading light painted him golden, with his hair shining like a halo, a statue as a tribute to raw desire. His likeness could grace museums across the globe, giving other marbles complexes but instead of the Louvre he stood in his bedroom, looking down at you sprawled across his bed, waiting for him to take you like he had promised. 

When Justin finally moved it was in determined long strides. He was a simple man that kept his condoms in the first drawer of his nightstand. Part of you wanted to tell him to forget about them, to fuck you bare until you were dripping with him, but you didn’t want to spook him with your eagernes, so you resigned yourself to bringing it up the next time. Justin passed you on his hunt  for protection and you had to crane your neck back to watch him, but the view made up for it. His front was absolutely gorgeous but you had to admit that his backside was quite nice to look at as well. You were debating whether or not you should reach out to touch him when he turned around, box in hand, before throwing it onto the bed near your head. It still had plastic around it and you couldn’t help but imagine Justin going to the store in preparation of your date, grabbing it not just in case but on purpose. Had he gotten it in preparation for this date? After the second date? After your first? The big box seemed awfully ambitious though. Perfect.

Instead of walking back to the end of the bed and working his way up your body again Justin just skipped straight to holding himself above you and you didn’t waste any time getting your hands into his locks and pulling him down until your lips connected. He kissed you hard and fast while slowly lowering himself until his heavy body pressed yours into the mattress. It felt so easy to let yourself be blanketed by his warmth, his solid body so close to yours that you could feel every inch of his desire.

“Fuck.” He exclaimed as he pulled away from the kiss. Justin didn’t venture far though, staying close enough that you could feel the strands of his hair tickling your cheeks.

“Can you…” He nodded towards the box.

You nodded, eager, before reaching for the box and struggling to rip it open. When it finally popped open it did so in spectacular fashion, spilling an avalanche of little foil packets all over the bed and your body.

“Oh.”

You didn’t know which one of you laughed first but it took some time before the two of you calmed down again. Justin helped you clear the mess, swiping the countless packets towards the free side of the bed. It should feel weird, at least a little bit, now that the tension between Justin and you got broken. For a second you feared that your clumsiness had turned him off completely but then he kissed you again, slow and deep and like he wanted to devour you.

One of his hands reached for the pile of condoms while the other moved up your side, cupping one of your boobs when he reached them. His thumb barely grazed your nipple before Justin moved away but he still managed to pull a moan from your lips.

“Ready?” He asked, looking at you with hungry eyes.

“Yes.” You needed him so badly. “Please.”

The first push of him inside you was careful but determined. Justin gave you all of himself until he was buried to the hilt, pausing once he was fully inside you and giving you time to adjust to his large size. You wanted to tell him to move, to fuck you until you felt him days from now, but before you could ask-beg-demand he silenced you with another seering kiss. You learned why when he pulled away from the kiss, still buried deep inside you.

“I need to be careful with you.” He talked low, almost whispering. “Don’t want you to be sore when I fuck you again later.”

It made sense. Afterall Justin had promised to keep you in his bed for days. But with him filling you up so perfectly, there was simply no room left for logical thinking.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he started to move. Slow, meticulous thrusts that didn’t feel overwhelming at first but drove you wild after just a few movements of his hips. There was something otherworldly in the way he managed to hit all the places that needed to be hit, filling you up perfectly again and again and again. Justin stayed close to you while he fucked you, his hips grinding in deep and putting just enough pressure on your clit to send sparks of pleasure through your whole body.

Your hands tightened in his hair, making him groan before dipping down and encapsulating one of our nipples with his hot, wet mouth.

“Jus- Justin.”

His teeth grazed against the soft flesh of your boob teasingly before his tongue delved down, soothing the hard peak between his lips in gentle laps. Justin groaned when you tugged on his hair and the sensation of it vibrating against your skin just made you tighten your grip further. There was no denying that you needed him. Him and his soft mouth and his hard dick and his strong body pressed against yours. This perfect wave of pleasure just kept building with every single movement but you couldn’t reach your high.

“Just—” He bit down hard enough for it to sting before his tongue traced the slight indents. “Please.”

You weren’t above begging but your fucked out brain couldn’t think of any more words. Thankfully he seemed to understand what you needed even without your saying it.

“Fuck. Okay.” He lifted himself a little bit higher, chuckling when you whined at the loss of his weight and warmth. “You asked for this.”

He sounded just the right amount of condescending when you clenched around him and he rewarded you with a “good girl”.

You didn’t last long after Justin started fucking you properly, rough and fast like you had wanted him to. The power behind his thrusts was enough to move you on the bed, closer and closer towards the headboard every time your bodies connected. He had stopped holding back and made you come with only a handful of thrusts.

When you came to it was with Justin holding himself above your body —breathing hard— and your still shaking thighs wrapped around his hips. Part of you felt disappointed for missing what he looked like when he came but you knew there would be more than enough orgasms for you to catch a glimpse.

It took you a while to feel secure enough to remove your legs from him. After you did so Justin carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom. While he went to get a towel to help clean you up you were left in his bed. It took some energy to sit up but it didn’t hurt. You felt empty but that could be changed soon enough. 15 minutes. Maybe 20. Depending on when Justin wanted to go again.

Speaking of. Justin returned to his bedroom, still gloriously naked, holding water bottles in one of his hands and what looked like a washcloth and a towel in the other. You didn’t feel self conscious as he helped you clean up. He had seen every part of you already anyway.

He offered you a shirt of his to cover up but you didn’t mind being bare before him. There was the hint of a love bite starting to form on your chest and you hated the thought of covering up all his hard work. Still, you made a mental note to take him up on his offer later. You had a feeling that a shirt that fit his large frame would swallow you up and you wanted nothing more than to live out the big men’s shirt moment that had been denied you for so long. 

Instead you curled up with him, his blanket half draped over your bodies while you just laid there, enjoying the closeness between you. The energy between Justin and you continued to be magnetic, even after giving in to your desires, and you found yourself unable to tame a wide smile.

“Happy?” Justin looked at you with a soft smile on his lips.

“Hmmm. Very.” You let your eyes wander for a moment. “Want to make out?”

Instead of verbally answering Justin just cupped your face and brought your mouths together in a saccharine kiss.

[aabbiiee]

had the most wild dune dream the other night that chani and irulan just decided fuck it, and started a torrid, gentle love affair, but it totally pissed paul off. feels like I snorted gay spice and drank lesbian worm juice and am now dreaming things that frank herbert could never have imagined.

[herbertwest-official]

herbert

Herbert I have a question

If I in theory drank all your reagent like a shot.... Would I become immortal or just die immediately? Also what would it taste like?? It looks like it would taste yummy

I haven’t actually tested that theory out. It’s compelling. Are you saying that if we made a corpse drink the reagent, or someone alive drinking the reagent?

[perplexed-sea]

Herbert ‘The Chain Dog’

Part II

A good dog doesn't need a command. All he needs is a look

(Herbert: ‘A collar? - Huh, tactical equipment.’ Brechius: ‘A chain? He chewed the chain himself and now he carries it everywhere. And yeah, sometimes strangles the rabble. Ha ha ha. But it's a hobby.")

About the nickname: Once upon a time, ‘Uncle’ Brechius joked, ‘You're either on Flop's chain, or you're on our expense account.’ Herbert chose the first option - and did it in his own style, so he's been ‘Chain Dog’ ever since.

Always knows where Flora is.

Growls at anyone closer than 3 metres to her - especially charismatic heretics. (As Flora says, ‘Chains? It's not a restriction - it's a kill radius.’)

Turns into a hybrid of a chainsaw and a hurricane in combat. The built-in ‘Frenzy’ mode is activated by Flop's gaze. ("He doesn't bite…. if Flop doesn't point the target,’ Brechius quips and laughs as he shows off his scars to the newbies)

A few facts about Herbert:

Afraid of the dark (but only confessed to Flora). After nightmares as a child (starvation, slums), slept only in the light. Later ‘cured’ by burning lamps on captured ships.

Collected teeth (not only his own). After fights he picked up knocked out teeth - his own and others'. He kept them in a pouch engraved ‘For Good Luck.’ Flora thought it was disgusting, and ‘Uncle’ Brechius laughed: ‘But if he loses his own, he has a spare.

He could whistle without two fingers. After losing his phalanges, he learnt to whistle even louder - he modified his technique. Everyone recognised the ‘Flop, come here!’ signal. Now his servo-cranium sometimes makes a similar sound - creepy and piercing.

He only drank through a tube. Because of the lack of teeth (until he got dentures) he was afraid to pour, but the habit remained. The mercenaries used to tease: ‘Look, “Dog” with a cocktail!’, until he replied: ‘But your blood is more convenient to drink’.

Extravagant gift. Gave Flora his sealed locket with a drop of poison inside: ‘If you're in a pinch, chew on it. But a kiss is better.’

Always guarding Flora's ‘peace’. Flora knows that when she sleeps, the skull turns towards the door. Brechius swore he saw him grinning at that guy who sat too close to her…..

Flora's diary notes:

Note #34: Today this fool broke into the compartment screaming ‘Flop, hide!’ and literally threw me into a corner and covered me with himself. Turns out - Rotten Gut had another bang, and the whole ship is in the foul stuff. But when the smoke cleared, we were so close that I suddenly realised he had one chipped incisor. And he smelt of gunpowder and cheap soap. Then I didn't care about Rotten Gut and his experiments, or anything else. Brechius is still screaming that someone trashed the medicine storehouse. We won't admit, of course, that it was our fight with the nightstand. (In the margin much later written in red: ‘He never fixed the broken incisor, it scratches. Still does.") Note #65: He's sticking to his style as always, how annoying, always having to worry about him: 1) Calling the Chaos techno-priest a ‘wired broad’ (and some other stuff that would make even Rotten Gut's ears wilt) 2) When her guards chased her, he climbed up the statue of Tzinch. 3) Threw the statue over their heads and said, ‘Catch the grace!’ We had to make a hasty retreat. But it burned like hell. (A burnt fragment of a scroll with bits of heresy pasted between the pages and an inscription over the top: ‘As a memento. I love the explosions. And you.")

[distinguishedscientist]

Hey Herbert.... Shimmy shimmy yay shimmy yay shimmy ya... Drank... Swalalala

Quit mumbling nonsense!

[psybrepunk]

Thank you for the tag @101-android-luvr-010 !

Favorite color: black/blue/teal

Last song: Afterglow by Scandroid

Currently reading: Eye by Frank Herbert

Currently watching: Dexter

Currently craving: the things I'm always craving in the background - sushi and a burger (not together)

Coffee or tea: both but I've definitely drank more coffee in my life. I'm drinking coffee rn

Tagging: @fox-stuck @decahedrones @synthbiosis @doppelgangerleaverite @milliemakesmagic @farthest-harbor @dairsmuids @stick-zac @radioactive-synth

[shopcat]

i'm not super sure how to keep posting on here specifically it feels a bit harder somehow but yeahhhhhhh. herbert drank out of his water fountain for the first time today

[westscain]

just got the mental image of one moment being dan going "i've got the new grimace shake, happy birthday grimace" and the next being herbert crouched over dan, who's on the floor surrounded by a half-drank grimace shake, with a vial of reagent on hand

[historybunnny]

After the shock wore off, Winifred invited both men inside for tea. Harold, who insisted she call him Harry instead, was incredibly thankful for the hospitality after their travels, and he and Winifred got on straight away.

They shared stories of their mother & sister happily and seemed genuinely curious about each other’s lives. As they talked, they began to notice little quirks in each other's mannerisms that made both of them realise Alice's spirit was still alive and well within them.

Lawrence listened curiously, watching his wife warm up to her Uncle the more they got to know each other. 

Before they knew it, the sun was beginning to set over the hillside, a beautiful orange glow cascading into the dining room, and as they chatted and drank their way through an  entire pot of tea, they almost forgot any mention of money or business. 

However, not everyone at the table was keen on taking a stroll down memory lane.

Gerald didn’t bother to remove his hat or drink a single drop of tea; he seemed to have no intention to make himself cozy in their home. Instead, he lowered his head and glowered the whole time, arms crossed as some sort of defense mechanism, not uttering a word until he’d finally had enough of their small talk. 

He leaned in towards Harry, bushy eyebrows somehow furrowing even tighter before speaking. “Shall I remind you of the reason we’re here, brother?” He enquired, impatiently.

Harry sighed, bringing his hands together before he explained everything, starting with the night Alice first fled the Bloomsburg home. 

Of course, Winifred had heard this story as a girl, and later on, began asking questions once she was old enough to be curious about her mother's family and where she came from. Hearing it through an unfiltered lens as an adult was very different though, and somehow worse than she’d ever thought. As Harry recounted the tale, she realised just how cruel her maternal grandmother had truly been to her mother.

As he continued, he informed them that unbeknownst to anyone, Herbert, Winifred’s grandfather, never wrote Alice out of the will as he was instructed by his wife and she was the heir to both his vast fortune and successful business, however neither could be turned over to her until Ada passed away, and she outlived her husband for many years. It seemed he had less than traditional beliefs and wanted his daughter to be able to support herself without needing a husband to do it for her.

But, after a series of faulty investments, it seemed the company had become less than profitable over the years and was due to go under at any moment. 

"So you mean to tell us that my wife has inherited the Bloomsburg fortune?" Lawrene asked, more enthusiasm in his tone than Winifred would have liked.

"Well technically speaking, Mr. Baudelaire, since Miss Winifred is married, you have." Harry answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

For the first time since they'd sat at the table, Gerald chuckled darkly to himself. "Rightfully so, if you ask me. Leaving this company to a woman in the first place was a load of codswallop."

"But neither Mrs. Baudelaire or I know the first thing about running a business, much less one doomed to fail." Lawrence replied, paying no mind to Gerald's terribly sexist comment.

Both Bloomsburg brothers went on to explain a deal of sorts. If the Baudelaire's signed the company over to them, they would take over the legalities of closing a business, and handle all other affairs concerning the estate, if they split the inheritance with them.

While the men discussed the finer details, Winifred sat in her chair silently. She didn't care about the business itself, truthfully she wanted nothing to do with any of it, even the money. But Lawrence hadn't even stopped to ask what she thought, or consider her feelings on the matter. 

Quietly, she excused herself outside for a breath of fresh air and time to process everything she’d learn that afternoon. 

It felt queer to doubt what seemed to be a once in a lifetime chance to escape poverty, for her husband never to work long hours or do back breaking work. To send her children to school and give them a life of opportunities that she could have never imagined even in her wildest dreams. It was surreal to envision such a different life, and as she tried to picture it, she could only think of her mother who had been robbed of it.

After a while, Harry came out to find her. “May I sit?” He asked, gesturing to the seat next to her on the wooden bench. She nudged Thistle out of the way and scooted over to give him some room to join her.

“I know we don’t know each other all that well, Winifred, but I did know your mother’s face; how you resemble her…it’s as if I'm looking at a photograph." He smiled to himself at how true it was before observing her expression again. "And I can recall the look on her face when something puzzled her. Will you tell me your troubles?”

As she looked back at Harry, she wasn't sure what to expect. It wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination for him to be disinterested in her concerns and only inquiring over her dismay out of politeness.

Except, instead of a troubled expression like her own, she only saw a face wanting to comfort. She had not seen that face for such a long time, and she was surprised to recognize it so easily, for she too recognized Alice's face in his own.

“I…I don’t know what to make of this.” She admitted once she decided she could trust his intentions. “But my husband has already made up his mind and since I am just a woman, it seems I have no say in the matter.”

Harry listened while she expressed her concerns until he was sure she'd gotten out all that she needed to say. It felt nice to be vulnerable with someone, her relief over having someone to express these things to was almost tangible.

In return, he shared with her how nearly inseparable he and Alice had once been, how much he missed her, and that he regretted not doing more to keep in contact with her before she passed.

Afterwards, he turned to her with a bittersweet expression, pain and regret glowing in his eyes, yet a subtle softness painted on his lips. "I might not have spoken to your mother for a long time, Winifred, but I do know this... everything she did, she did for you. She would want you to have a good life, no matter what."

"Even if that means taking money from my very estranged family?" She asked with a slight laugh, noticing how ridiculous it sounded to say out loud.

He chuckled, also realising the ludicrousness of the situation. "Even then." He assured her.

“And, Miss Winifred, if I may say one more thing, don't pay any mind to my brother. He's nothing but a chuckle head, you understand?” He added, waving his hand as if to dismiss his older brother. Winifred giggled in response, feeling much less guilty than she had only moments ago. "You are more than just 'some woman'. You are Alice Monet's daughter." 

Before Winifred could ask what he meant by that or how he came to know the last name her mother had chosen for herself, he reached inside the pocket of his coat to retrieve what at first glance appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper. "I thought you might want this." He said, handing it to her quickly.

There in her hands was a photograph of herslef as a girl, dated February 13th, 1876 - her 7th birthday. "I found it while going through my father's things." He mumbled, trying to hide a playful smile before heading back inside.

next / previous / first

[theicarusconstellation]

TELL ME ABOUT DUNE ALIA ATREIDES DUNE just anything I just need to read more about it I'm brainhungry

OH MY GOD OKAY OKAY OKAY FJSJSKNDNF

THANK YOU FOR ASKING ME PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT DUNE ANY TIME THAT GOES FOR EVERYBODY

SO. ALIA.

my poor girl was doomed from the START from CONCEPTION😭😭😭😭once jessica drank the water of life, alia’s fate was pretty much sealed.

it’s so fucking tragic to think about her relationship to jessica and paul. jessica loved her kids, truly, she did, and we see it in how she cares for paul and alia throughout the first book, even after paul thinks, my mother has become my enemy. and yet. even before paul was born, jessica has been motivated by selfishness. she defied the bene gesserit and bore a son instead of a daughter to make leto (and herself) happy, thus damning paul to the fate of the kwisatz haderach. she drank the water of life and took on the role of the fremen reverend mother while pregnant to help implement the bg’s plans (and her own plans) even though she knew what it would do to her unborn daughter. from that point on, alia was sentient. she had the memories of billions within her fighting to gain control.

for the first few years of her life, she had a very distinct sense of self. she and paul, despite their age difference, loved each other SO MUCH😭😭😭😭there’s this one quote from dune messiah where reverend mother mohaim says, “who could understand but the sister?” in reference to paul’s struggles, and yeah. they understood one another in a way no one else could.

she had a sweet family dynamic with harah, jamis’ wife and paul’s eventual servant. their moment together in the first book is honestly the most open declaration of familial love we ever see in the books (“i love you, harah.” FUCKING RUINS ME), and right after that, alia snuggles up to jessica and takes comfort in her mother (she was so young she just wanted her MOM😭). like yeah she has many different memories within her that are not the memories of a child, but she, alia atreides, was still a child. and i know brian herbert and kevin j. anderson’s books are…certainly something😐but there’s a moment between alia and irulan in paul of dune where irulan tells alia, “you deserve to have a childhood too” and that just BREAKS ME because she never got one. since birth, she was treated like a freak and knew it. she literally said, “i know i’m a freak.” (she was like TWO when she said this MY BABY😭). when paul’s jihad was going on, she was running arrakis in his place as a CHILD. she had so much wisdom and knowledge and did an amazing job, but underneath that, you do see that she was a literal baby.

once she hit about four years old, jessica left her on arrakis. jessica went back to caladan and reverted back to her old bene gesserit ways, living in fear and disgust of the children she created. the children she once loved so. much. are now her biggest regrets, and we see this when she visits alia in children of dune and literally hesitates to call her “daughter.” once she admits it, there’s an understanding between alia and jessica that they are still family, but the “…daughter” DOESNT HURT ANY LESS.

then dune messiah comes around. she’s ≈ sixteen and already regarded as a demigoddess by the people of arrakis and has a little mini-cult surrounding her. she is paul’s closest confidante (some may argue that it’s chani, but i say again, “who could understand but the sister?”). she’s “saint alia of the knife” for a reason too. her fremen upbringing + her genetics make her incredibly skilled, so much so that breaking records is second-nature to her. however, as paul’s state declines, so does hers.

(WHO. COULD. UNDERSTAND. BUT. THE. SISTER.)

she starts slipping into spice trance, letting ancestors converse with her for longer periods of time. she’s argumentative and so, so lost. when duncan idaho’s ghola is given to paul, this 35+ year-old zombie man sees this 16 year-old and is like “yeah i’m gonna get up on that,” so he and alia get into a “relationship” that my poor girl didn’t know any better than to accept.

i think the start of her breaking point came when paul lost his sight. up until then, they had understood one another as easily as breathing, like those saplings that grow next to each other and end up twisting around one another (or turning into one tree). but when paul comes back blind yet still able to see, he knows she’s scared of him, and an irreparable rift develops right then and there (i pretend this doesn’t happen for my mental health).

once paul wandered into the desert, alia was gone. her sense of self and grasp on reality went right with him. he was the only one who didn’t live in fear of her, the only one who she ever felt truly loved by, who didn’t put her on a divine pedestal she didn’t want, who she could TRUST😭

this fucking monologue from messiah guts me inside:

“i wish i could burn this thing out of me…but i’m sister to an emperor who is worshipped as a god. people fear me. i never wanted to be feared. i don’t want to be part of history; i just want to be loved. and love.”

WHO!! COULD!! UNDERSTAND!! BUT!! THE!! SISTER!!!!!!!!!!!

the (almost) last things we hear her say in messiah are literally, “duncan, duncan, he’s [paul’s] gone! i need you duncan, love me!”

then, children of dune occurs. it’s nine years after paul wandered into the desert, AND ALIA STILL WEARS YELLOW, THE FREMEN COLOR OF MOURNING. she hates him and loves him and hates him and loves him and can’t stay out of a possessed trance for more than five minutes. rather than help her as the people around her notice her falling victim to the voices inside her, they ice her out, even her former lover, and call her abomination, trying to send her to her death and looking upon her with disgust. leto ii and ghanima, who she raised since birth, have no sympathy for her.

the only person we really see her close with is irulan tbh. which like. oh i love their dynamic. they went from being curt and uncaring with one another in messiah to being one another’s only comfort in children (for irulan loved paul too). still, irulan distances herself the more wrapped up in her own head alia becomes. when jessica returns to arrakis, she does nothing but stand by (and encourage alia’s execution) as she watches her daughter slip away as a result of her selfish choices!!

after alia finds out paul is alive, god there is so much conflict going on within her. the last time she saw him, they loved one another with a love that was more than love, but now, he’s preaching that everything they’ve built is a blasphemy and alia should be overthrown. she wants him dead but she wants him alive but she wants him dead but she wants him alive and she wants to see him but she hopes it isn’t him but she wants to see him. her big brother.

when she finally does see him, he looks her in the eyes and calls her a blasphemy.

then, paul is stabbed. alia watches him die, and to me, that is when the last string within her finally snaps. she turns to jessica and shouts, “that was paul they just killed!”

so many voices fight to overtake her, including her grandfather, baron harkonnen, who had been possessing her up until this point, but she is just so, so tired and so hurt and so unloved that she can’t do it anymore. she doesn’t even bother to fight. she jumps to her death and does not scream on the way down.

and this is what gets me too. we know it was her decision, the last decision she ever got to make of her own volition, and it was one of self-destruction. the baron was screaming at her not to do it — everyone else watched as it happened — but she did it anyway, and honestly, she found more peace in death than she ever did in life.

god i could talk about her for hours i love her so much she’s my girl my love i need to wrap her (and paul) up in little blankets and hold them so close.

also there is just…something about jessica watching both her children die in front of her. and the comparison she made in the first book when alia walks into her room and she thinks, “she reminds me of paul at that age” with both their big, curious eyes and quiet mannerisms and OH😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[hideousharlequin]

Look, I know the whole book is Victor frankenstein telling that cool sailor abt his life and how it all went wrong but like- the fact that he didn't even give a HINT about how tf he made the creature?? Like--

Doctor Jekyll says he did some kind of potion, drank it, and turned into Hyde

Herbert west has that little serum he puts in corpses and they turn alive

Frankenstein DIDNT SAY SHIT

How am I suposed to imagine the scene, bruh?? I can just say he threw his student loans at the corpse and it came to life and it would be canon???