#Dune Part 2

[thorsonoflesbians]

god i love dune twitter

[moonbeammist]

This main character is so unique, I love the way you wrote her. She's unhinged, if not more than him. That's refreshing and super interesting. Their dynamic too is well written. The Kaleidoscope references and the way you wrote Harkonnen culture is expecially cool. The chants and the audience participation was spoooky. I'm a sucker for battle fics and you slaughtered here!! ✊️

Kaleidoscope

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: In a fight for freedom or death against the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, his woman figures out how she feels about him, her poor devil wrapped in the skin of a beast.

WORD COUNT: 2,750

TAGS: Third person POV, AFAB she/her FMC, explicit sexual content,  rough sex, PiV, Switch!Feyd, Switch!FMC, but mostly Dom!Feyd, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, blood and injury, pain kink, blood kink, extremely dubious consent, gory nasty smut, blood for lube, mutilation, very public sex, and they lived happily ever after

A/N: Happy FEYDUARY! 🖤 Pulling this one out of the archive (specifically the ao3) for the occasion.

I've been obsessed with trying to decode the Harkonnen language (even though there's just a snippet of it in the fic) and I've found this reddit post and especially this one extremely interesting. The user @/tharpi9145 on YouTube commented under this video that the Harkonnen arena chanting was translated in Chinese theaters and provided the translation, so here's where that's coming from in the fic.

The theme and some of the descriptions in this oneshot are heavily inspired by the RP I'm writing with my sweetest friend.

Reposted from Ao3 💕| Masterlist

Divider by @/saradika-graphics

"Ek te stroeng ge e deser xhakhing grul klaxhkseda de haun dau ek se en-Barun Feyd-Rautha!" ~ Our glorious, black sun welcomes you to these special festivities of our beloved na-Baron Feyd-Rautha's holy birthday! ~

The booming echo of boos and whistling from the crowd passes through her heart and soul as she stands poised at the center of the arena, a brutalist behemoth chiseled of coal-black concrete. With her hand wrapped around the chalky hilt of her double-ended spear, she lets the vibrations pass through her in waves, taking deep lungfuls of Giedi Prime's putrid air that gathers in the pit of the arena like a thick bog.

When the crowd begins to chant in Harkunnin, guided by the announcer's guttural timbre, she perceives the world as if through a filter.

sacrifice to House Harkonnen her mortal blood   (give up her blood!) dedicate to House Harkonnen her faithful flesh   (give up her flesh!) leave to herself the deadly fear   (leave the fear!) leave to the mortals the endless fear   (beckon to death!)

The halves of the oval doorway slide open, like a birth canal giving way to its hellish spawn, and Feyd-Rautha marches confidently into the triangular colossus. From the highest stand he is no bigger than a mote on the lens of the binoculars, yet his presence fills the entire arena, more god than man to the one million spectating fanatics.

What is she thinking, challenging their god of blood and rot? Everyone craves to see her fail, no one wishes for her to earn her freedom. No one understands how she could reject their idol who has chosen her - unworthy, unwilling thing - as his concubine.

A putrid breeze catches the fabric of Feyd's tunic as he saunters in a wide half-circle, like a snake drawing closer and closer, hypnotizing its prey with slow movements made of liquid. This is how the gladiators in the Empire of Roma on Old-Earth must have felt, she thinks, thrown into the ring with a beast to fight for life and death. Freedom or death, in her case. Feyd is the beast and she is the human. The only human, going by the fanatic crescendo of Harkonnen chanting.

"May my spear skewer you dead," she greets Feyd-Rautha when he stands before her, a smooth pillar of black and white, unfazed by the chanting and the radiation. The corner of his mouth twitches.

"And mine you." Feyd grins at the brief flicker of confusion as she glances at the weapons he holds so carefully. Blades, not spears.

The crescendo peaks, a beehive of frenetic anticipation, all eyes on who will launch the first attack.

She was never meant to win, she realizes the moment she lunges, soft sand shifting underfoot. The sand in the training pit is harder, more gravelly. Her balance feels off and Feyd knows it.

He playfully parries her attack, then the next and the next. The humor in his eyes is the worst thing, and the condescending gleam. 

Months of hoping and training for her freedom are reduced to nothing and less than nothing within minutes. This is not the fair chance he promised her. All of their training together was a slight. The sweat, blood and tears she shed into the gravelly sand, those times when she scraped him bloody with her spear and made him laugh, made him praise her like he was truly impressed.

"You dishonorable dog!" She screams against the thick smog and the wailing background noise of the crowd. "You promised me a fair fight, you promised!"

Feyd's expression darkens momentarily, pouty lips turned downwards, a storm brewing in his eyes. A telltale muscle in his jaw twitches.

Yes, she's made him angry, good! Perfect!

Feyd's blades smack against her spear, a quick succession of tack, tack, tack. Then a thump as he aims for her fingers with the handle to shatter her bones. She dips backwards, thrusting the spear forwards at the same time. Feyd's shield prickles angrily, repelling her thrust.

Back into defense, quick, tack, thump, sksshhh!

The longer of the kukris scrapes unpleasantly against the spear shaft. She gyrates in a tight circle, piercing Feyd's shield with the lower end of the shaft pressed against his neck. She ushers him with her in a circular orbit until he ducks under the spear and aims for her thighs, slowing his attack just in time to penetrate the shield. Her trousers tear and blood hotly soaks the fabric. It's a shallow cut. He could have sliced her femoral artery.

"Why are you holding back, you motherless bastard? Kill me now!" 

Disbelief slackens Feyd-Rautha's features as he takes a step back, blades dangling from his hands. He looks surreal in the glaring light, stripped of color, stripped of the soft hues that only show themselves in the artificial light of the glow orbs in her room. She is mad for provoking him.

The unbeaten gladiator roars - the birthday boy - he lunges and slams down, not with the blades but with the handles. With brutal force and precision, they hit the center of the spear's shaft, accomplishing the impossible.

A hairline fracture springs over the shaft, Sardaukar craftsmanship damaged by the ferocity of one apoplectic Harkonnen who laughs boyishly at her expression. Abusing her surprise (has her weapon been sabotaged?!), he tackles her to the ground.

Dust puffs up, momentarily obscuring her vision. Instinctively, she yanks up the spear, pressing it through Feyd's shield, shaft against his throat.

He sits on her thighs, blades sinking through her shield to kiss her sternum, tickling without killing. The pressure against his throat draws terrible grunting and choking noises from the na-Baron who laughs open-mouthed, spit dribbling off his teeth, an inky rivulet that penetrates her shield and slips wetly over her bare clavicles. She fights to shove him off with the full force of two hands.

The hairline fracture in the spear begins to branch out, crack by tiny crack. She stares awestruck and with horror as Feyd-Rautha's face turns grey, teeth bared grotesquely as he groans and salivates and laughs like a boy.

Aaaaaa-ooooohh!

The crowd bellows as the spear splinters right in the middle and Feyd's throat bursts through, marred by a fat bruise that stretches black and ugly just below his Adam's apple. His voice is hoarse and barely recognizable when his body pushes into her shield, chests coming flush, and his drooling mouth finds her neck, sucking a bruise as his breath rattles in his throat. His blade-wielding fists push harmlessly into the sand.

"Anything you'd like to feed the dishonorable dog?"

"I want you to choke on sand and die! I want you to- Ahhh!"

Feyd wrenches the spear halves out of her hands and throws them away. She screams into his laughing visage as he pins her to the sand, hikes up her tunic and tears off her shield generator, then slashes through the front of her pants.

When he reaches down to unclasp the armor plate that shields his crotch, she lunges and punches him in the guts, punches him again, only waiting for the crotch plate to come off so she can punch him there, but Feyd slices her hand with a flash of white metal. The lacerating pain momentarily knocks the breath out of her lungs and she falls back, clutching the hand to her chest, howling.

Gazing up, she is looking into a kaleidoscope of madness, a writhing mass of Harkonnens all around, an ensemble for a nightmare and she is the involuntary harlequin.

The heat of the black sun brings a second pulse against the inside of her eyeballs and she feebly lifts her lacerated hand, surprised to see that all of her fingers are still attached, though her middle and index finger stand unnaturally far apart, separated by a glistening, weeping gash diagonally through her palm.

A pale, writhing shape behind her hand catches her attention and Feyd-Rautha's disfigured voice penetrates her brain fog. "You thought you could ever make it off my planet, whore?" His eyes gleam with mania, bleached by the black sun. "Out of my palace, out of my arms, unless I allowed it?!"

His shield is gone, his blades lie next to him in the sand. This is his victor's feast. The crotch plate is gone too and he cuts through more of her trousers and underwear. Groaning, she feels for the spears or knives, hissing when sand grates against her injury.

The wailing crowd convulses like one entity, a parasitic hive mind that undulates back and forth, a sea of black and white.

  (give up her flesh!)   (give up her flesh!)   (give up her flesh!)

She screams when Feyd's hand wraps around her thigh where he cut her earlier, squeezing and prodding until it comes away coated in blood. The hot liquid touches between her thighs, spread over her cunt by calloused fingers that even find the mercy in them to sink into her once, twice, lubricating her walls with her own blood.

Compared to the searing pain in her cut flesh, the ache of his blunt cock sinking into her is dull, almost comforting in its familiarity. How many times has he fucked her by now? It must have been hundreds. Humiliated in front of a million Harkonnens, this still isn't the worst way he's ever fucked her.

The thought makes her giggle and Feyd looks smitten when he crawls over her, fucking her with long, hard strokes. His eyes keep drifting to her lacerated palm, biting his lip at the sight of blood shed on his holy birthday. He supports his weight on his forearms, fingertips tickling her neck.

"Feyd…" she slurs and Feyd feels compelled to lean further down, anticipation on his features and a noticeable swell of his chest.

"I hate you."

Feyd's jaws twitch, serpent eyes becoming pinpricks while his hips roughly slam into her cunt. His hand wraps around her throat, but then he howls, open mouth turned to the sun, cursing, panting, eyes squinted. His own knife in her hand has slashed through his bicep, deep, deep, deep.

Feyd is unbalanced and she knocks him over. He hits his tailbone on the ground, dust billowing all over them. His cock is still buried in her cunt which has begun to warm up to him, offering slick to ease the glide of the thickly veined, velvety flesh.

She will give the Harkonnens something to boo at.

"Stay back!" Feyd laughs at the prowling picadors.

He is paralyzed by arousal, hips bucking on their own accord as she pins his arm down by the crook of the elbow and hacks the blade into the cut. Pieces of blood and gore splatter over his pale flesh and the armor plate covering his shoulder. His free hand clutches her hip, mind split between pleasure and agony, gripping her flesh to rut into her hard and fast, so he doesn't throw up into the sand.

There is a nauseating crack, hack, cchhrrkkk and Feyd bawls until her bloody hands come up to cover his mouth, knife victoriously planted into the sand. How is she covering his mouth with both hands when she's still holding down his arm? Feyd glances to the side and sees his severed arm being snatched away by a picador's hook.

The horned man-creature sprints away quickly, slipping into the bowels of the arena colossus. If the nerves are preserved, the arm  can be reattached later.

"Will you be a good boy now and let me go?" She growls, drawing the attention of black and white glassy eyes back to her. Her pelvis rolls greedily against his. Scratchy sand is trapped between their bloody, sweaty bodies.

Feyd laughs through the pain, laughs and laughs and laughs to mask the raging insanity because his woman still hasn't understood that she will die on Giedi Prime one day and nowhere else. His arm stump twitches against the ground.

"I'm, haha, never a good boy, hnnng-hah!"

"Hah! Yes, that I know!" She blurts out, voice high-pitched. The tears in her eyes may be from laughter as well. She gives a half-assed punch to Feyd's chest. "Fine, then I'll have to make do with a filthy mutt."

Feyd nods, yes, yes, he will be her filthy mutt and it doesn't matter if she wants him or not, if she hates him or not, it is not important, no, it is not important.

"Release me or I'll kill you!" She reaches for the blade again, but Feyd's knee jerks up, slamming into her ribs so she is knocked to the side. Feyd scrambles, crawling on top of her. They're only connected by his plump cock head that is still squished by her wet hole. Feyd's vision prickles with black dots and he sways, trying to catch his weight on the phantom arm that he swears is still there.

He falls down on the stump, howling, howling, like a beast in a bear trap, fighting against unconsciousness. He is the unbeaten gladiator - unbeaten! The ghost of a caring touch prickles against his ribs, stabilizing him.

With his intact forearm pressed against her throat, he throttles her like she did to him with her spear earlier, except that his veined forearm will never shatter, unless she cuts it off too.

She regrets not accepting the contacts that would protect her eyes from radiation. She had been scared of getting sand all over them, but now she wants nothing more than for the burn to stop and the throb-throb-throb behind her eyeballs that somehow matches the drag of Feyd's cock against her walls and the pulse in her slashed hand.

"Why don't you close your eyes, my darling, pretend we're in our bedroom?"

She does close her eyes and the cacophony of chanting voices turns into a warped melody, like wind tearing on leaves and whistling through porous rocks.

Humm, hummm, hummmm.

In this waking nightmare, the vision of her home world is swallowed by the black sun, a ravenous maw in the good universe. She lightly gasps when she feels hot lips against her neck and hot blood dripping on her chest. 

She wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tearing on the shoulder plate over the stump until it comes off. Softly, she caresses his shoulder while the rutting of his hips is anything but soft. Her legs wrap around his waist because at least he is familiar, an island in the sea of faceless, chanting monsters.

This is what happens when one listens to the voice of the devil. It crawls into the soul and rots you from the inside.

And suddenly the beast you've pitted yourself against is no longer a beast but a man and you're friends with the devil. The thought strikes her and she begins to laugh while tears track down her cheeks. Her poor devil has a severe bruise on his neck and she mustn't think about the arm — Oh, her poor devil!

Her laughter drives Feyd over the edge, pain, pleasure and humiliation, and he spills his rot inside her. Thick, lazy pulses of his cock that she finds oddly comforting. Her toes curl inside her boots and her pelvis happily grinds against Feyd's while the warmth of his seed sinks into her core.

Feyd's breath is heavy and strained when he shuffles away from her and stands, gritting his teeth. He is imposing even though a part of him is missing. The glaring light curls around his soft cheeks and full lips and touches his anemic eyes.

She wants to lie here just a little while longer, the sand is so nice and warm, but Feyd's hand cruelly wraps around her biceps and he drags her across the sand. She calls his name but he keeps marching, fueled by the mad cacophony of chanting and stomping. The hive mind salutes. Sand whirls up under his boots and dusts her face. Her shoulder joint screams in agony.

This was never a battle for death or freedom, it was death or rot.

   (Flesh!)   (Flesh!)   (Flesh!)

They probably don't care whose flesh was given.

Feyd-Rautha maintains his posture for show, internally trembling from blood loss, but the people only see the inhuman strength of their idol, virile and unfaltering despite sacrificing an arm. Still unbeaten. 

A black trail of seed and blood stains the white sand where the na-Baron walks and pulls his spoils of battle through the oval door, back into the womb of the concrete behemoth.

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[zorosnavigator]

[lagooneah]

"But they're so silly!" I say as I point to a character that has killed, cheated, bribed- a genius who doesnt know how to fucking interact with people.

[junkfoodcinemas]

Dune: Part Two (2024) dir. Denis Villeneuve

[bigbadgirlyman]

[moonbeammist]

AHHH! Appreciate all the love Peggy.

I have been writing little notes for this here and there, but have never hammered down to make a second part for this. Seeing your interest and your BREAKDOWN of it on ao3 makes me so grateful for your time and energy into that. And also your comments and tags here. I'm gonna fully delve into the ao3 one and respond when I can thank you so much. Kudos my fellow writing queen! I absolutely love your style as well. I think it's quite distinct! 🤩

Thank you for saying you can see a second part. Wooo! 😩❤️

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.

[zegalba]

Zendaya at the premiere of 'Dune: Part Two' (2024) wearing Thierry Mugler A/W 1995 Robot Suit

[ooohladymaria]

"Sons of sand"

An artwork of mine that blew up on tik tok

❗️Please don't repost without credit❗️

[niallsdaya]

[rfskia]

Muad'Dib

[lochlanratliff]

Dune: Part Two, dir. by Denis Villeneuve // A Panathenaic amphora (Greece (Attica), ca. 365BC - 360BC) (x)

[sersh]

FLORENCE PUGH Entertainment Weekly, February 2024

[vonlipvig]

the people on reddit being confused about this is so funny because I Get It. still, it bears discussing:

dune and wicked being at the top does make sense since they're previously established fandoms, and a lot of those are probably just tagging the new movies as well. also, gelphie is gelphie.

conclave having 200+ works is not surprising. the only thing surprising is that it only has 200+ works. honestly, i expected more. one person on reddit was like 'well yeah, nuns are a staple of horny fiction!' and everyone else was like 'honey...'.

substance and anora with about 40 is about what i expected, they're not the most fanfic-inspiring types of movie, tho i can imagine some cute ani/igor or wacky substance hijinks.

the brutalist having 15 is wild because if you've seen the movie you can probably imagine what kind of fics they are. equal parts concerning and totally understandable. there aren't more because not everyone can commit to writing smut for a 3hr30 slow american epic.

a complete unknown is weird because you'd think people would be all over RPFing bob dylan, but maybe that all falls in another tag. nobody saw ACU is more like it.

none for ISH, nickel boys, and emilia perez makes sense. though i'm surprised there are no EP shitpost fics at all. hello very nice to meet you i'd like to know about fanfic publication. i see i see i see. male on female? female on male? male on male. from yuri to yaoiiii.

[thetownsendsw]

A thing that sticking with me about Dune Part2 [SPOILERS] once Paul takes the waters of life, he stops being the protagonist. The film isn’t from his POV anymore, we don’t see his visions, the camera rarely meets him at eye level. He’s not a character anymore, but a force people must navigate.