The Peasant's Secret (Part 1)
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.
PAIRINGS: Feyd Rautha x Fem!Fighter!Reader
AUTHORS NOTE: I drew heavy inspiration from the Dune Soundtrack, especially the Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Suite by Hans Zimmer (avail on youtube atm)- truly sets the mood and tone for the story if you wanna have a listen. I appreciate this community of writers/readers! Any feedback and thoughts are most welcome! This is going to be a two-part series!
WARNINGS: (Mostly for 2nd Chapter): (Adults only 18+) profanity, innuendo, extreme violence, gore, sadism, masochism, dub con, erotic undertones, heavy petting, reader is a fighter who gets extremely hurt, bigotry against the poor, very immersive, feyd-rautha is his sick self
SYNOPSIS: Hailing from the Planet Caladan as a rice cultivator who somehow ended up at the Harkonnen Arena, You know two things to be true.. 1. You are peasant scum and 2. You are going to try something that's never been done on the battlefield.
WORD COUNT: 2.2k words
You were in a colorless oasis. It wasn't really an oasis in the scenery sense; it was an oasis in the sense that it felt like a bottomless void, a strange, deafening dream. It was an oasis because it didn't feel like reality. A desolate vision to where no judging eyes would befall you as you threw your whole self, your body, into its ultimate test. Thatâs how they all made their mark here, isnât it?
You reflect on Giedi Prime's obscure, bone-dry alternate reality to your home planet of Caladan - you were of peasant descent in the lush, grassy, biodiverse settlements. You and your mother had strengths in labour as rice planters, trading their services to the wealthy nobles in exchange for military protection. A life of labour and sweat in the rice fields, the economy depended on their work, as such, they had little free time.
Stepping foot into the outdoors, the crunch of your cheaply-made, scraggly brown boots is heard as you line up with the rest of the prisoners. The earth smelled of crust, rot, and blood. You somewhat know where you're supposed to end up as Harkonnen soldiers round you up, but at the same time, you havenât got a clue where youâll be settling before battle. Wide, dark tunnels arch over the sand like a protective roof against the beating black sun. You've been given the finest privilege to represent your low-status family members in a brutal and bloody ceremony where this pale, ghostly Harkonnen House cuts you down, down into the dirt. A death deemed worthy.Â
A death is worthy when you die with passion because youâre trying - kicking and screaming. It's a beautiful way to go because you feel everything.
The height of your human complexities is shown at the forefront - pushing yourself, testing yourself.. You who initially thought fighting was for those who have a reason to fight, like for political gain and power, defending your home and planets among the stars. However, you have never felt so alive, representing the absolute bottom of the barrel. What joy it would be to see an enemy fall from not hand-to-hand combat, not brute force, but peasant trickery.Â
This is worth something.
Thatâs what you tell yourself. What else can you cling to? You were living for the cultivation of rice before you came here.
Horns erupt in a deep, haunting bass. The ground is shaking. Shaking with such strength that your feet stumble forward, knees scraping the grainy, white sand. Your hands bite into the sand. A guttural song emits from the speakers suddenly, the force of it hitting your chest like a bang. Your body stutters.
Your fellow no-name fighters eyes snap at your movements. Hushed chuckles erupt over the heavy bass. You feel slightly embarrassed as you quickly stumble back up and rub the grainy sand away from your knees and palms. Your eyes narrow.
This is all of your first times, all of your fellow fighters' first essential phases into proving yourself worthy to Harkonnens. Granted, you were vermin first, something to gawk at, something like cattle. As far as you heard from your briefing on the way here, this whole spectacle was based on a test round. If you pass your initial testing round, then - maybe, just maybe, you can live in comfort. There was not much more elaboration than that. Either get cut down, sliced down, gutted down -Â or prosper. So why do you feel like you're the only one on edge? Youâre in your head too much.
Because I might fucking die.
You swallow that thought down, burying it deep in your stomach, where it should stay.
Underneath the arena, there is a place where the Harkonnen soldiers stop - a small, enclosed burrow tucked away from sight, away from the audience members that fill the seats of the large dome-like sphere of the arena. Through the dark, enclosed area you can make out the bleached atmosphere stretched and rounded out, seeing several egg-like craniums darting up and down in the stands. Their eyes were like inky, beady pools of onyx - almost insect-like. They were thrashing in excitement, the low murmur of chatter and whooping heard.
You look around to your peers. There is nothing really notable about any of you. Dressed in meek wool, burlap, or loin cloth. Prepped with various weapon satchels latched onto waists or knees. You have no advanced shields or armour, that is true. As suicidal as that may seem against these elite brutes, Itâs what you represent that really matters. The peasant trickery you have up your sleeve.
You were an only child born to common people. In the small moments, you would take to the hills with your mother and run and play. Your mother's long, flowing hair would crack like a whip against the wind behind her, in a game of âcat and mouse," as she would call it. You would try to grasp at the ends of her hair - your mother's high, sing-songy laughter echoing in the distance as you chased her.
You did not know your father - just that he was a passing tradesman who fell in love with your motherâs quirks and tenacity for adventure; in the odd breaks she could have them between planting rice grain. They spent 6 months together, you heard, and it was passionate. But he could not stay on this planet.
Your mother did not know if he was alive. But despite him leaving, she spoke fondly of him. âHe defied appearances. They thought of him as a simple, dull man in the trades, a grunt. But his intellect was his greatest secret.â
You supposed that maybe you were that small reminder of him to her, as her description of your father shadowed your motherâs slow moulding of your personality over the years. A weak, feeble rice labourer by appearances, always dressed in brown, murky colours to disappear. She did not want anyone to notice you at first glance; let that be your first safety. If they must stumble on you or pester your forgettable existence, you must keep up the act at first glance. You were scared, you were begging for your life like a common peasant. If they continue to prod and seek to damage or harm you, they would pry open the bottle of secrets that came spilling out of you in this fight-or-flight scenario.
You had a lot to learn and a lot to process as Caladan civilians. The threat of Caladanâs as well as other planets' potential hostile nature was something you were keenly aware of, a foot on your back of sorts, as you couldnât do anything formidle to stop an enemy.Â
The peasants, not permitted to use weapons or obtain shields or anything of the sort, could only offer you certain wisdom that was passed among the peoples. One they passed to your motherâs watchful eye and then onto you. They call it the peasantâs secret.
The art of dodging.
âRemember the game of cat and mouse?â You remember your motherâs voice barely over a whisper as she lay beside you one night in woolly sleeping bags on the soft greenery beneath you. The weather was hot enough to enjoy a night outside. The flow of the riverâs stream is heard against her.
You havenât used the peasantâs secret in awhile. You primarily used it against your mother and your fellow people, as they would take turns throwing you into mock battles. They didnât have any weapons, but they did collide, push, and throw themselves into your body at full speed, so you had to react quickly.Â
They did push you to the limit. Bless them. Until you were an exhausted heap of limbs on the ground and had the wind knocked out of you.
You knew that wasnât as valuable as practicing it against someone who genuinely wanted to kill you. You didnât know if the peasantâs secret had successfully saved someoneâs life against a brutal attack or if it was just used as a quick get-away.
So yes, you could fall into the trap of thinking you knew what you were doing when, in reality, it was based on instinct. Of course, the arena was a circle. A never-ending loop. Eventually, even though your stamina was now crafted to be well above average, you would eventually get tired. The peasant community of Caladan had a careful, pinpoint focus on the art of dodging rather than hand-to-hand combat or brute force, which made for a very interesting opponent, if you could even call it that. Most of the time, if you could, you were told to outrun them first. So your speed heavily improved. If they were just as fast, then you could begin your dance.
Now, you could finally put it to the test. To see how you fare, to see if it could actually prevent you from getting sliced and diced by the Harkonnens in the arenaâalbeit for a while. The main thing to keep in mind, as your mother had warned, was to keep your opponent on their toes, snapping not only their mental state but their body. Then, when the time is right, you steal their weapon and use it against them. Today you were permitted a small dagger, strapped and holstered on the outside of your thigh. Although you werenât concerned about it, you told yourself you would use it as a last resort when they werenât suspecting you to. You didnât know how to dance with a weapon; you only knew how to bob and weave without one.
Count Fenring, the Siridar-Absentia of your homeworld Caladan, while the Atreides occupy the planet Arrakis, had dealings with the Harkonnens prior to your descent here. You were never meant to come here. But Count Fenring had called upon the rice labourers one day for a strange proposal. Gathering in the high-esteemed buildings and feeling out of place, your people had looked upon Count Fenringâs narrow, proud face. You knew him to be conniving and manipulative in nature, a renowned assassin, and the Emperor Shaddamâs right-hand man. He was neutral toward the labourers; as long as they kept up on the plantation of their planetâs rice, he had no issues. He would often make dealings with the noblemen and women of Caladan; it was very rare that the rice labourers were added to any conversation.
âHouse Harkonnen of Giedi Prime is seeking entertainment, to those willing-"Â Count Fenringâs voice boomed, sitting atop his makeshift throne.Â
His voice is cut off by your thoughts at the Planetâs name. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen of Giedi Prime, called your Count âThe ambassador to the smugglersâ in spice production.Â
He continues. âI know you do not get to leave your trusted duties among the fields very often, but consider this a gift of sorts - whoever is able, and willing to be âbattle entertainmentâ to the Na-barron of House Harkonnen, Feyd-Rautha, will be permitted to win your chance at freedom to travel to a new planet, a new experience.. You donât ever have to return.â
An audible chorus of gasps are heard amongst your peoples. Hushed angry whispers fill the room. You gape at the vagrant display of lack of remorse for human life. You knew little, but House Harkonnen enjoyed pleasures in gore and sadism, is what you did know. Whatâs in it for your Count? This has to do with spice dealings.
âFreedom to die?â a male voice questioned loudly. âYou dangle freedom in the air as if House Harkonnen has any, and to dangle us in front of the Harkonnen brutes like meat!â
The crowd got louder and louder in frustration and opposition. The Countâs voice bellows as his army hits their swords to the ground in a clang to signify the rice labourers to quiet their naysayers. âEnough. To those who are not interested, you may leave. You are not forced to stay. To those that are, please remain.â
A number of your people shuffled out in a hurry, their bodies a large mass squeezing through the royal entryway. You blink. This is downright morbid. You had never considered such a thing before, as you only knew your planet to be worthy of laying down your roots until the end of time.
You feel your mother reach for your hands. They are warm, and so is her eyes as she peers into the core of your being.
Your planet is beautiful -Â access to bodies of lakes, rocky mountains, majestic trees and budding flowers, delicious rice...Â
âYou should go.â she mutters. âLive for us.â
Her words a grim truth. Brutal honesty. And that was enough for you.
A handful of the peasants stay alongside you. Your mother places her lips upon your cheek in a chaste kiss. Your tear ducts well with water as her hand leaves your grasp. Somehow, you know itâs too late to turn back now. You donât know what made you follow Count Fenring onto the ship and not look back. A chaotic chance for something other than field work? A plunge into absurdity?
You could try absurdity for a while, you decided.
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Girl are you the Hays Code the way you consider media irredeemable if it depicts anything that strays away from the norm you're comfortable with or depicts anything morally questionable without definitively condemning it and anyone associated with it, therefore creating worse stories and content and making it difficult for people to engage with complicated issues from a nuanced and controlled perspective?
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"You fought well, Atreides"
AUSTIN BUTLER as FEYD-RAUTHA
DUNE: PART TWO (2024)
dir. Denis Villeneuve
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Old sketch
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Sanji in 01x05
Netflix One Piece (2023)
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â STILL PURE
PAIRING â Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader
SUMMARY â Feyd yells at his daughter for interrupting him at work. His wife confronts him about his behaviour as she tries to explain to the little Countess that her father was never taught how to express love.
REQUEST â (1)
AUTHORâS NOTE â Feyd is already the Baron in this fic but I assumed women cannot inherit on Giedi Prime so the daughter is "only" a Countess while her younger brother is a Na-Baron. I used my headcanon that if half-Harkonnen children have hair, then they're white because they lack pigment. I also wanted her to have big black Harkonnen eyes so badly... Basically, I wanted Feyd's daughter to look like this:
WORD COUNT â 2,990
ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.
STILL PURE
Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was circling around the big table in the conference room where the huge orb of Giedi Prime had been replaced with Arrakisâ one as one of his advisors was explaining the difficult situation regarding the spice production. The new wave of Fremen rebels who worshipped the long gone and deceased MuadâDib decided to continue their idolâs legacy as they sabotaged the spice production controlled by The Harkonnen forces. The Governor of Arrakis was slowly losing control over the situation and Feyd would rather avoid going there himself. He was needed on Giedi Prime â especially now when The Emperor was on his deathbed. He had to be around in case something important would happen and everyone knew The Baron had his eyes set on the Imperial Throne. Feyd had to choose a new Governor of Arrakis or provide the current one with good advice, hoping for the Fremen problem to disappear soon. It was worrying him because it was giving him a bad reputation at the moment for having problems on Arrakis â it could make some leaders of the great houses to think he was not worthy enough to become the next Emperor.
Feydâs hands were clasped behind his back as he circled like a shark and all his advisors looked down, taking a step back whenever he approached them. They knew his temper would only rise when he was angered whenever he would experience problems of such nature when it came to reigning over The Harkonnen properties.
âWhat does the Fremen leader say? Stilgar? That was his name?â Feyd barked at one of the scared advisors.
âStilgar says he has no control over the cultists. He does not support their actions. He wants nothing but peace, my Lord,â the man bowed his head.
âHow bad is it? The most important thing so far is to keep the problem on Arrakis a secret,â Feyd hummed to himself.
âFive percent of the decrease in the spice production income,â the other advisor answered. âNot bad, but can be noticeable in the amount we export.â
âWe shall export some of our own private reserves to cover the loss. In the meantime, we have to deal with the cultists,â Feyd decided, already annoyed at the fact he had to sacrifice his own supplies just to cover up the careless governing of Arrakis which was not his fault. âSend more troops there, the operation should be classified confidential. Threaten Lord Volonov to take care of it. Heâs got a month before I replace him with someone more capableâŚâ
Quiet pat pat pat sound coming from the corridor was becoming louder and louder until the black doors finally opened slightly and the guard standing by them spotted a pair of two big black eyes staring up at him.Â
âMy Lord,â he tried to catch The Baronâs attention but Feyd had his back turned on him as he angrily explained the details of the operation to his advisors.
Little Countess Sevina Harkonnen gave the guard puppy eyes as she struggled with the heavy doors. She wanted to come inside and he didnât know what to do. He was aware that his Lord Baron did not want to be interrupted but he didnât want to close the door in the girlâs face either. He peeked outside but there was no servant around and The Baroness was not there either. He decided it would be better for the girl to come inside instead of letting her roam around the fortress alone.
She smiled widely at him and jumped inside the room happily as her white hair bounced. She was lucky enough to inherit most of her motherâs looks although her skin was paler, her hair lacked pigment and her pupils were nothing but two completely big black orbs â those were the eyes even her father did not have but they were a result of the pollution her motherâs body had been exposed to on Giedi Prime at the time of her pregnancy.
Not realising how tense the atmosphere in the room was, she approached her father as all the advisors and servants were making wide eyes at her. She stood behind The Baron and pulled on his shirt to make him turn around.
At first, he flinched at the odd feeling of someone pulling him. Who would dare to do that? He turned around quickly with an angry expression on his face but then he looked down and spotted his little daughter. She startled a bit at the sight of his annoyance but she kept staring at him with her big black eyes filled with love and excitement.
âWhat are you doing here?â Feyd barked at her.
âCan you play with me, daddy?â She pleaded with a big grin.
A few lords smirked at that and Feydâs jaw clenched. Not only had she interrupted him but also humiliated him.
âCanât you fucking see that Iâm busy?!â He lashed out at her and she took a step back as her eyes filled with tears and betrayal. âGet out of here!â He pointed at the doors.
They opened at that very moment as the nanny entered the room and looked around, surprised at the sight of scared faces and the little Countess being in the centre of attention.
âThere you are!â She opened her arms at the sight of the girl. âIâve told you not to interrupt your father, heâs in the middle of a meeting,â she reminded nervously as the girl ran up to her and hid her face in the folds of her skirt. âForgive me, my Lord,â the nanny bowed her head at Feyd-Rautha.
âYouâre useless,â he drawled. âGet out.â
âY-yes, my Lord,â the woman held Sevinaâs hand and walked out as quickly as possible.
You left the nursery where your son na-baron had just fallen asleep. On your way back to your chambers, you passed by the doors leading to your daughterâs room and you froze at the muffled sound of sobbing. Concerned, you decided to enter without knocking.
Little Sevina was crying on her bed as the scared nanny tried to calm her down by rubbing her back and shushing her.
âWhat is going on?â You asked as the doors closed behind you.
âM-my Lady Baroness,â the nanny stood up and straightened herself to bow down slightly.
âWhat happened? Why is she crying?â You asked her in an accusing tone.
âI⌠I lost her out of my sight when we were playing earlier today, Iâm sorry⌠I found the young Countess in her fatherâs conference room. She had interrupted The Baron during a council⌠I think he lashed out at her, my LadyâŚâ the woman tried to explain nervously as her hands shook.
âYouâre useless,â you sighed and she widened her eyes. âGet out, Iâll deal with that myself,â you pointed at the doors and she bowed down once again before leaving quickly.
You approached the bed and sat on the edge of it as Sevina raised her head to look at you. Your heart squeezed in your chest at the sight of her cheeks covered in tears.
âWhat happened, sweet darling?â You asked her gently while you caressed her back.
âWhy doesnât daddy love me?â She asked with so much pain and sincerity in her tiny, shaky voice that you nearly cried yourself.
You knew it wasnât true. Feyd-Rautha loved his daughter. Even though he had been a bit disappointed she was not a son in the beginning â he had only said not to worry about it much; that the boy would come next. He had been treating Sevina as if she was made of glass in the first months of her life, so scared of accidentally hurting her because hurt was all he knew.
âOh, Sevina, donât think thatâŚâ You sighed and leaned in to kiss her forehead. âDaddy loves you so much,â you assured her but of course she wasnât convinced. âHe would kill and die for you, little girl,â you added.
âI donât want him to kill and die for me, mummy,â Sevina sobbed as those were the concepts she was too young to grasp. âI just want daddy to play with me.â
âHe doesnât know how to play, Sevina,â you fixed her ruffled hair while trying to explain calmly. âHe didnât have a mummy or daddy when he was your age. The way I kiss you or hug you and play with you⌠He has never had it, darling,â you felt a few tears streaming down your cheeks. You were angry at your husband for yelling at your daughter and making her feel unloved but you were also angry at all the suffering that he had gone through in his past.
There were scars and damages that could never be undone, no matter how much you loved someone.
âAnd youâre big enough to know that daddy shouldnât be interrupted when heâs working. You know that he tends to get angry more easily then,â you reminded her. âYou shouldnât have done that.â
âI wanted daddy to play with me,â she snuggled closer to you and you kissed the top of her head, rubbing her tiny arms with your thumbs and cradling her softly to calm her down.
Feyd had been back in your chambers already when you entered. You froze at the sight of him, irritated. However, he seemed to act as usual.
âFive percent,â he snapped at you, although not angrily. âWe will have to replace the loss with our own supply so the other lords donât realise we are expecting problems on Arrakis. That stupid son of a bitch Volonov canât handle a few cultists andâŚâ
âI donât care about any of that,â you interrupted him and turned your back on him to approach your vanity table and sit by it, pretending to be more interested in reapplying the powder.
âWhat?â Feyd was visibly surprised as he watched you in disbelief. You had always been a support for him, especially in difficult times. You both had been plotting on how to take over the Imperial Throne and now you werenât interested in something as important as the problems with harvesting spice on Arrakis? It didnât make sense to him.
You ignored him and focused on brushing your hair now, watching him from the corner of your eye in the reflection of the mirror of your vanity table. He approached you, hesitantly.
âWhat do you mean youâre not interested?â He tilted his head as he leaned in, trying to intimidate you but you didnât even flinch.
âIâve just spent an hour claiming down Sevina. You yelled at her,â you eventually looked up to look deep into his eyes. He took a deep breath in, irritated.
âShe should have learnt by now not to interrupt me,â Feyd straightened his back and walked away. âSheâs spoiled,â he added. âKnows nothing about discipline. Itâs your fault.â
âSheâs a little girl,â you turned around. âYou canât expect military habits from her. Sheâs your daughter, Feyd.â
âSheâs lucky I only yelled. If I interrupted my uncle as a child like that, Iâd be punished!â He raised his voice at you, frustrated that you were defending your daughter and making a problem out of something that he considered to be normal.
You hated it when he would raise his voice at you. You stood up angrily and yelled as well.
âOh, so you think she should be raised the same way you were?!â You asked. âAlright then! Go to her room, grab her by the neck and flog her back with a whip just because she wanted to play with her father!â You pointed at the doors furiously as your eyes were burning with wrath. âGo on! I dare you.â
But Feyd didnât even move. His jaw was clenched as he was staring at you speechlessly.
âGo. What are you waiting for?â You kept pushing him. âGo on.â
You kept looking into his eyes with so much intensity he eventually gave up and looked down, awkwardly as the guilt started to creep in. You won.
âYou rejected her. She thinks you donât love her,â your voice calmed down but it was still vicious. âAnd I was assuring her that you do but it felt as if I was assuring myself, too,â you added, just to hurt him. âI canât stand to look at you, Feyd-Rautha,â you drawled and approached the doors to leave him alone but not without striking the final blow. âI canât believe I wanted to give you children so badly,â you turned your head to look at him as he looked up, surprised at your words, âbecause you donât deserve them.â
The doors opened in front of you and you walked out to go back to your daughter.
You were sitting on the black fluffy carpet in the middle of Sevinaâs room. She was on your lap, with her tiny arms around your neck, cuddling you. There were toys scattered all around the floor but she wanted to take a break for the loving cuddles. She was very unusual for a half-Harkonnen and you were very aware of the fact she was making most people around feel uncomfortable.
Not only her father but everyone in the fortress were stiff around sweet little Sevina who was so full of life and curiosity, always wanting to hug everyone â even servants and guards. Wherever she went, there was a sound of laughter and a sudden feeling of warmth. Countess Sevina Harkonnen was the very first little girl living in that fortress in a long time and she was so different from all its inhabitants. She was too young to know that she was a daughter of Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen â a man feared all over the Empire. That her bloodline was cursed with death and violence. She was still pure and innocent. Perhaps she was a living proof that The Harkonnens were not born this way after all â but they were made in the endless cycle of abusive upbringing. You did not want the same fate for her. You knew she would have to get rougher with time but you hoped she would still remain gentle, too.
The doors to her room opened and you looked up. At the sight of your husband, you protectively put your arm around your little girl. You doubted that he wanted to do what you had angrily suggested before but you wanted to make sure he wouldnât anyway. Sevina stiffened at the sight of her father and clung to you. It brought you pain to realise that at that very moment she was afraid of him.
âSevina, we have to talk,â Feyd stood above you two as he started in a serious tone. You gave him a scolding look and your little girl hid her face in the crook of your neck, hiding. âYou know perfectly well not to interrupt me while Iâm working.â
Long silence occurred. You could see Feydâs struggle as he had no idea what to do to fix this situation between him and his daughter.
âSevina, apologise to daddy,â you looked down and she looked up with tears in her big black eyes. âYou shouldnât have interrupted him and you know that, darling,â your voice was soft and calm and she sniffed.
âIâm sorry, daddy,â Sevina turned her body around to face him but she refused to look at him.
âNow, you apologise to Sevina for being mean,â you looked up at your husband and you spotted panic in his eyes. âNow,â you insisted sternly.
âIâm sorry for being mean to you,â Feyd crouched down to be on her level. She hesitantly looked at him. âCan I get a hug, too?â He asked and his voice broke a tiny bit.Â
Slitting someoneâs throat open was less awkward and unusual to him than to ask for a hug. Your heart ached for him but you were an adult capable of understanding his patterns. Sevina was not.Â
Her heart was big, though, and she loved her father, so she would forgive him everything. She nodded her head with a happy smile and ran into his arms to squeeze him tight. Tears pricked your eyes at the sight.
âI love you, darling,â Feyd whispered quietly with his cheek pressed to the top of her head. âI would kill for you. I would die for you,â he confessed.
âBut she doesnât want any of that,â you explained. âShe just wants you to spend time with her.â
âIs that right?â He looked down at his little girl and she looked up with her puppy eyes as she nodded. Her tiny hands reached out to cup his face.
âI love you, daddy,â she assured him. âCan you play with me?â
âI donât know how to play, Iâm sorry,â he admitted with guilt in his voice.
âI will teach you,â she hugged him again.
Feyd put his arms around his little girl and pulled her closer. You crawled on the carpet to give him a hug, too. You could feel that he was slightly trembling, so you leaned in to place a kiss on his temple as your hand caressed his head soothingly.
âItâs not weak to show affection,â you reminded him in a whisper. âIâve never loved you more than when you are like this.â
Feyd laid his eyes on you. They were filled with a mix of pain, guilt and relief. At the end of the day, the only approval he was seeking was yours. You had him wrapped around your little finger.
âSo, how do you want to play?â He asked Sevina as he caressed her white hair with admiration. She clapped her hands cheerfully.
âI want to be a Princess,â her eyes sparkled. âAnd youâll be my guard.â
Feyd chuckled at that, showing off his black teeth. Sevina giggled as she had never found them scary.
âSoon enough, my darling one, youâll be a real Princess,â he assured her.
MASTERLIST
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Anthony Bourdain, from Les Halles Cookbook
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ocs. have you guys heard about this?
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These Destined Ends
Part 5
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. Youâre now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child â the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?
Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader
Word Count: 4.1k
Warnings: hand to hand combat/depictions of violence and blood, cruel language, you get called a whore, (spoilers): you walk in on him getting head, you watch him get head/voyeurism, female masturbation, he cums on himself and you lick it up for him
A/N: Feyd watches you dispatch a grown man in only a few seconds and he would propose to you if you werenât already engaged
On your way to Giedi Prime from Arrakis, you had flown directly to the fortressâ own personal landing ground, missing most of the planet. On occasion, you had glimpses of the city surrounding your prison â er, home â but it consisted largely of industrial plants. You thought that there might be more, perhaps, to the landscape behind the boxy buildings that churned out smoke well into the night, but you were sadly mistaken.
The rest of the city boasted even more industrial buildings, like jagged teeth protruding up from the cracked and barren land. The black sun did not allow for anything to grow besides a few copses of trees that dotted the outskirts of the cities, nearly lost among the plethora of factories and arenas; these stood out most to you. You thought that there would be one central arena but in fact, several were spread throughout Giedi Prime, according to Asha. You had taken her with you and she spent the short duration of your ride explaining everything you were seeing.
No, the arena that the ship delivered you to was enormous â more like the cavernous mouth of some great creature than anything crafted by man. It would be mostly empty, of course, unlike most fights where every seat would be filled. The Crucible, Asha told you, was reserved for the very wealthy and the noble families. Despite this, however, a crowd of Harkonnen citizens gathered outside of the arena and cheered as you arrived.
"It's not every day that the na-Baron is married. He is popular among the civilians," Asha says with a lift of her shoulder.
You make a chuffing sound.
Asha pins you with a glare. "It's true. He is a hero to them, and many of the noblemen."
You're saved from replying as you arrive to your chambers for the day. Much like the Baron's fortress, it's sleek and polished, but nothing can disguise the underlying smell of death.
Last night at dinner Feyd-Rautha said that there would be no killing today, but clearly it was ingrained in the very essence of this place. You wondered how many fighters had resided in this room and met their fate by the blade. It wasn't hard to imagine, seeing that the room curved inward to the center of the arena, offering you a perfect view from a bank of spotless windows.
Someone was sparring now, a flurry of well-placed jabs and swipes of an imaginary knife. You notice first that they are shirtless, corded with the kind of hard muscle that speaks of an entire lifetime of training. And then the figure stops, pauses. and liftes their face, almost as if they could sense you watching them.
Your pulse quickens.
Feyd-Rautha.
He seems to hold your gaze for a moment longer than you would've liked, then returns to sparring.
Asha joins you at the window. "He's good."
"Hm." Your hands curl into fists. "What of the others?"
"Half of them are bored, pampered men, looking to enjoy themselves," she says, tone loathsome, "and half are bored, pampered men who spend their time training for moments like this."
"And what of me?"
Asha turns to you, her features shifting from questioning to certain. Her words glide over you and encircle you with warmth: "You're going to make them regret breaking tradition."
Asha helps change you from your formal dress to something more befitting â a sleeveless shirt and tight, dark-colored pants that tuck into your thick-soled boots. There's no need for armor, or your shield, since today is hand to hand combat. You still prepare yourself for the very real possibility that someone will sneak in a weapon.
"How do you know that I will succeed today?" You ask her suddenly. "You don't even know if I can fight."
There's no time for you to process the displacement of air as Asha strikes at you and you dodge it. She tries again. This time you catch her wrist, confusion swirling through you, the instincts of your training keeping it from hindering you.
Asha bends the arm that you have in your grip and, in a dance-like maneuver, draws you against her chest, circling her other arm around your neck. You stomp down on her foot. When she recoils, you slip free, using the shift in strength to ensnare her other wrist and then force both of them behind her back. Using your knee, you deliver a swift hit to the back of her leg that folds her over the nearby couch, submitting to you without a struggle.
Her shoulders tremble beneath you. At first you think you might've hurt her, but then you realize that she's laughing. You release her.
"What the fuck was that?" You ask.
Asha turns to you, grinning. "I know a fighter when I see one."
"You could've warned me that you were going to do that," you snap at her. The threat of an assassination fleeted through your mind in the short moment it took for you to dispatch her.
"Where's the fun in that?" Asha asks, dusting off her rumpled uniform.
A Harkonnen servant, employed by the arena, arrives to tell you that the fights have begun. Asha waves you off in favor of the view from your chamber, and you trail after the servant, unable to squelch your curiosity.
There's a few matches before you're slotted to fight, but it's your understanding that everyone is vying to go up against Feyd-Rautha; he is the one to beat after all, considering that the Crucible is a tradition stemming from the Harkonnen desire to create strong, fruitful marriages and even stronger children. It repulses you slightly. Though, you suppose you have little room to judge, being that you were only here in the first place to provide a womb for the na-Baron to fill.
Your stomach twists at the thought.
The servant leads you through a tunnel into the belly of the arena, the black sun winking out any color or vibrancy. A well-trodden ramp takes you into a row of seats at the lip of the fighting field, an expanse of gritty soil in the shape of an oval. You quickly spot the entrances used for competitors â slaves or prisoners of war, from what you remember.
Begrudgingly impressed, you gaze at the tiered seats that seem to climb all of the way into the sky, and try to imagine what it would be like when it's teeming with spectators. A shiver dances up your spine.
You choose a seat right as the first two competitors waltz onto the field, immediately zeroing in on Feyd-Rautha. He demands attention with his broad shoulders and innate strength, rippling from him with frightening intensity. You tear your gaze to the other man, who by comparison is nothing more than a smudge against the bleached background.
He fights well enough, though. He unleashes a flurry of attacks that Feyd-Rautha brushes aside effortlessly. All it takes is one sharp jab from the na-Baron to knock the other man to the ground. Silence settles over the arena.
Feyd-Rautha places his fist over his heart, then thumps his chest three times. The other competitors watching cheer in delight. It's a strangely menacing gesture, one that throughly chills you to the bone, and you wonder what it could've meant to elicit such a reaction.
Did they forget that they would also fight Feyd-Rautha? That they would soon be the man on the ground? Uncertainty prickles over you.
You watch the matches until it's time for your own. By then, adrenaline courses through you in an addictive rush, and you bounce from foot to foot as you wait for your opponent. It's been too long since you've flexed your body, felt the familiar stores of strength in your muscles. You find that you're eager for this â need it as badly as you need air in your lungs.
And seeing your opponent is like drawing in the briny ocean air of Caladan, expanding in your chest and awakening your senses in an invigorating outpouring.
If he was at dinner last night, you don't remember him. You could hardly be blamed, though, considering that Harkonnens lacked any distinguishing features such as hair or color in their skin. He stalks towards you, sneering, fists clenching and unclenching in anticipation.
You greet him with a blazing smile.
There's a movement to one side of you, and you discover Feyd-Rautha standing at one of the balconies higher up. He holds position like a gleaming monolith. Your heart hammers furiously in your chest at the sight of him and, emboldened, you toe an X into the sand with your boot.
A wave of mumbles ripple through the stadium.
"I'll take it easy," your opponent says. "I wouldn't want to damage your pretty face."
You don't bother with a reply.
A trumpeting sound blares, signaling the fight. You let your opponent cross to you and wait until he's close enough â then deliver a series of perfectly placed jabs. He crumples to the ground directly over the X. You step back.
He shouldâve lasted longer, you think in vague disappointment.
The fight ended as soon as it began. You rub your knuckles, which have split open after a month of inaction. The blood is warm, smelling of copper.
There's no fanfare or cheers as you step over your opponent, not that you expected any. Perhaps a better earned fight would warrant some.
You glance back towards Feyd-Rautha's balcony.
He lingers for a moment, then turns and disappears, swallowed by the darkness.
A frisson of irritation tears through you. You defeated your first opponent in the blink of an eye, and he couldn't even react. He had never seen you fight before either â how did he know that you wouldn't get pummeled?
A servant waits for you, bandages and an antiseptic spray in their hands. You push it away. "Bring me to the na-Baron."
Feyd-Rautha's room is even more extravagant than yours. You march into it, a bloody trail in your wake, knuckles throbbing with pain that dulls compared to your anger. "I can't believe â"
As your eyes adjust, you realize that the figure at the window is not Feyd-Rautha, but his brother.
"Rabban?" Your eyes dart across the room. "I asked for my husband."
The servant ducks out of the room, the doors closing with an ominous thud.
"He's not your husband yet," Rabban says. He turns, his hulking silhouette outlined by the bright light. Details appear as he grows closer to you, his eyes pinning you with a disdain so powerful that you step back as if afraid that it might slice you in half.
"What do you want, Rabban?"
"Funny you should ask," he muses, though you're not sure what's so funny. Was that a brotherly thing between him and Feyd-Rautha? But he is nothing like the former â where your betrothed is the kind of danger you can see, Rabban possess a quiet danger, lurking just out of reach. "I want you."
Your features scrunch in confusion. "What?"
"I should be the heir to the Baronship," he snarls at you. "You should be my bride, and it should be me that ruts you like an animal and fills you with my seed. My child as the Kwisatz Haderach." His nostrils flare with every word, his shoulders heaving with his aggravation. "Feyd-Rautha is weak."
"Weak," you hiss back. "The Bene Gesserits have chosen your brother for a reason. He will sire the Kwisatz Haderach because he is better than you in every way."
Why were you defending him?
"Do you really believe that?" Rabban asks.
Pushing aside your better judgment, you advance on him. "I do. You know why? There's a reason you've cornered me to tell me this, like a coward. You don't dare say it before him."
Rabban's face shifts into a mask of fury. "You're only saying that because you're his new little whore, just like the others, letting him fuck you with his fingers under the table. The only difference is that he won't kill you when you get pregnant." He barks out a laugh. "No, Feyd-Rautha is no better than me. Your cunt is lying to you. The only difference between us is what we're willing to do to become Baron."
You swallow, speechless. Your stomach churns in disgust, in fear, in shame. You want to believe that heâs wrong. But is he? You realize suddenly that there were more people to fear on this planet than just your betrothed.
"And what are you willing to do that Feyd-Rautha won't?" You bite out, the only thing you can think to say.
Rabban smiles. "I suppose you'll find out."
Your fist makes contact with the man's nose. It bursts in a spray of blood, and the crunch of bone satisfies the anger festering in you from Rabban. The man falls to the ground, clutching his face. It's your fifth win of the day. Most of them ending the same as the first: broken noses or legs, ruptured organs, shattered pride. It's the perfect outlet for your raging emotions.
"Who's next?" You call into the arena.
Dusk has broken the horizon, casting shadows like fingers over the field. You need the release, and you know that the Crucible has nearly ended â soon there will be only one person left to face.
Feyd-Rautha.
He hadn't shown his face the rest of the day. No matter if you tried to catch him after his string of victories, he always disappeared.
"I am," a voice rings out, breaking you from your thoughts of the na-Baron: your betrothed, not Rabban, who was a whole different creature to deal with. You could only handle one Harkonnen at a time.
You turn. Ze'ev strolls casually toward you, blood on the front of his shirt. A ribbon of unease unfurls within you.
"I've been watching you. Impressive," the slight man says. "But I suppose anyone trained by Gurney Halleck would be."
"You know him?"
"I study all of my opponents," Ze'ev says. "Even ones like you."
You do not have time for everyone's misogynistic bullshit today. Without waiting for the starting sound, you lunge at him. He anticipates this, though, and feints to one side.
Clearly heâs a much better fighter than most you faced today, engaging in a series of strikes and parries, equally matched. You notice that he favors his right side, where a shield would normally be, and you use this to your advantage â he drops his foot back out of habit to let the shield do its work, and you feint left, then kick at his right hip. Zeâev falls to one knee.
You take his shoulders, intending to drive your own knee into his chin, but thereâs a prick of pain in your palm. You hiss and withdraw. Zeâev launches himself at your middle section and you both fall back down onto the ground. Despite the pain, you refuse to let him win, struggling against him and blocking most of his punches.
He wraps his powerful legs around your waist and keeps you trapped beneath him.
The point of pain extends out into your arm, lacing into your bloodstream. Your movements slow. Zeâev hits you right in the face â hard. Blood sprays out, coating your nose and lips. You spit a glob of it at him. âYou cheated,â you hiss.
And itâs then, at this proximity, that you notice the flip-dart buried into the fabric at his shoulder. Had he been feigning his weakness to goad you towards it? Panic seizes you.
âYou poisoned me.â
âNot much,â Zeâev says with a bloody smirk. âJust enough.â
You shove him off of you and roll over onto your hands and knees. Instincts tell you to throw up but the poison has already infected you, subduing your thoughts. The last thing you remember is the ground rushing up to greet you.
When you wake, Asha stands over you. Her face brightens with relief. âY/N.â
You push yourself into a sitting position, your mind muddled and groggy. The last moments that you remember flood into your mind. âZeâev, he ââ
âI know,â Asha says. âHow are you?â
You swallow back some residual nausea. âIâm fine,â you choke out. âWhere is he? Whereâs Zeâev?â
Asha pushes your hair back. âDead, probably.â
âDead?â
âAfter you passed out, the na-BaronâŚdealt with him,â Asha says.
âHe killed him?â
âIâm assuming. Thatâs how he solves most of his problems.â
Your hands ball into fists. âI wouldâve liked to have done it myself.â
âMaybe youâre not too late,â Asha says. âHeâs in his chambers now, relaxing before itâs time to return back to the fortress.â
âThe Crucible is over?â
Asha nods her confirmation. âThe na-Baron ended it after your fight.â
âLet me talk to him,â you say. On shaky legs, you find Feyd-Rauthaâs chambers. Itâs completely dark now, and glowglobes light your path as your strength slowly returns.
He shouldnât have ended the Crucible, not because of you. Even though Zeâev cheated, you still lost. You did not want the noblemen and their wives to think you weak, petulant like a child. He needed to continue the tournament.
You throw open the doors to his chamber. âYou have to ââ
Feyd-Rautha is reclined in a chair, facing you, arms spread leisurely behind him. A Harkonnen servant, wedged between his legs, bobs enthusiasticallyâ on his cock, you realize a beat too late, the image finally connecting. It would be a strange, infuriating thing to walk in on if it wasn't for the fact that Feyd-Rautha was fully aware of your arrival, the faintest hint of a smirk on his handsome face.
A strangled noise leaves your throat. The servant turns, saliva dribbling down her chin. It offers you a perfect view of Feyd-Rautha's cock. It's even larger than you had imagined it to be, not that you did often. Especially now, fully erect, thick and pulsing as he strokes it lazily in the absence of the servant.
"Iâ" you don't know what to say. Today has been an exhausting, confusing mess, and this was the last thing you expected to see. "What's going on?"
"Don't stop," Feyd-Rautha briskly instructs the servant. She returns dutifully back to his cock, using her hand to aid her. The sight invokes something dark and slimy inside you, sliding between your organs like one itself. "Do you not think I deserve something for my victory?"
"You deserve something, but it's not that." You grit your teeth. You can't let him know how this is effecting you â how you wish it was you kneeled between his legs. "What, do you bring your concubines with you wherever?"
Feyd-Rautha smirks. "I donât have to. I find that, no matter the place, most servants are willing to lend their services to me."
"You fight for my hand but then seek pleasure from someone else's?" You ask. It shouldn't anger you, but it does, and you're tired of tampering it.
"Do you wish to replace her?" Feyd-Rautha extends the invitation so casually, he could've been asking you for the time.
"No. I don't," you retort. Liar.
Feyd-Rautha fixes you with an indecipherable look. "Stay and watch then, wife."
You mull this over. Just like the rest of the Crucible, this is another jab, another challenge. In way of answering, you close the door behind you. There's no denying the sensuality in the servants act, the hollowing of her cheeks as she takes his cock as far down her throat as she can. He is a wicked god and she, the devotee, worshipping at the altar of his body.
To her credit, she continues as if his wife isn't watching, and it allows you to sink into the awkwardness of the situation. It also gives you a rare opportunity to look at Feyd-Rautha without repercussions: the rigid lines of his body down to his narrow waist, the large scale of his hands. And his cock, going in and out of the servantâs mouth.
You dip a hand beneath the waistband of your pants. Your clit is swollen, alert, and painfully aware that you want to be the one to kneel between him and take him for yourself.
The slightest brush of your finger against your clit and you want to cry out from the pleasure of it. The servant quickens her pace and you work to match it; you're not kneeling before him now, as she is, but straddled on his lap and sheathed around him, the sensation of his cock driving into you. The image causes a moan to leave your lips, and this draws Feyd-Rautha's attention.
"Ah, always so eager to fulfill your own pleasure," he all but purrs. "I look forward to the day that I will leave you too spent to bother."
Your breath hitches in your throat. "And when will that day be, husband?"
"Soon," he rasps. "The first time I take my wife will not be in the company of others."
Your pleasure crests. The servant loudly licks up the side of Feyd-Rautha's cock, circles it with her pursed lips. Your orgasm tumbles from you then, and you refuse to tear your gaze from him, from the pretty servant. She guides his cock back into her mouth but he pushes her away. "Enough."
The servant obeys and rocks back on her heels as he fists the base of his shaft. He pumps himself once, twice, before coming, head tilted back and features twisted deliciously in ecstasy. His cum, black as ink against his pale skin, jets across his hands, his stomach, his thighs. You trace your entrance with your finger, uninterested in a second round but turned on nonetheless â what would it be like for him to cum inside you? For his black seed to leak from between your legs?
The servant stands, turns to you. She uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. "He insists that his cum belongs to you now, and he won't let us have it."
She smiles like it's a secret between you.
"Leave," he orders the servant. She flashes you an almost envious look, then follows his order. "Come here, wife."
You step carefully towards him, greedily taking in the sight of him. He watches you. Proud, almost, appreciative. You ask, "Is what she said true?"
He nods, indicates to you to take her spot.
"It is for you. I will not waste it on others. It is meant only to fill your womb," Feyd-Rautha says with soft certainty.
You eye him. "Only?"
"Do you want a taste, wife?"
You do. Desperately. And you waste no time taking what you want, pressing your lips to the inside of his thigh. He shudders, and it spurs you on. You place open mouthed kisses to his skin, darting out your tongue to capture his cum.
It surprises you by tasting differently than any youâve experienced before, flooding your senses â bitterly sweet, nearly herbal, anise-like in the sharp spice of it lingering in your mouth after youâve already swallowed.
And you canât wait to take your fill of it.
His fingers slide into your hair, pulling you closer, and you set to slurping where it's pooled in the lines of his abdominal muscles. Each touch of his skin is electric. It leaves you needing more. You have half the mind to grab his softening cock and show him exactly how much more. You lick up every last drop of his cum until he releases his grip on your hair, tilting it back so that he may look at you.
He wipes his thumbs over your lips, collecting the excess and once again pushing his bitterly sweet seed into your mouth and igniting your taste buds. You run it over your teeth, your gums, hoping to savor it. He frowns slightly.
âI trust you are well.â
âBetter, now,â you say coyly. You rise to your feet, and he fastens his pants. Youâre almost sad to see him dress, that your business of cleaning him is over. âI want Zeâev to pay for what he did.â
âHe has.â
âYou shouldâve continued the Crucible,â you tell him. âDo not give me special favors.â
âI did this for you,â he says. Thereâs a quiet fierceness in his voice. âThere is no point in continuing without you.â
âI look weak. Childish.â
Feyd-Rauthaâs lips twitch. âThat is the last thing that the others are thinking. You stood your ground well today.â
âYou didnât even watch,â you point out. You loathe the disappointment in your voice.
âI didnât need to. No wife of mine would not be able to hold her own.â
You consider this, savor his words, then think back to your confrontation with Beast Rabban. Something is preventing you from telling Feyd-Rautha about it, perhaps your desire to keep it to yourself until you can properly examine it.
âI will train you,â Feyd-Rautha says, pulling you from your thoughts. He tugs his shirt back on.
You glare at him. âI thought you said I held my own.â
âIn poison tolerance,â he says.
You frown. Poison tolerance? âHow does that work?â
âSmall doses,â he says.
âYou poison yourself.â Not a question, an observation.
He hums in confirmation. âItâs the only way to build tolerance to it. A guarantee of safety in case something like today happens again and I am not there to prevent it.â
âI donât need you to protect me.â
Feyd-Rautha turns his gaze to you then, and you swear thereâs a trace of fondness in his eyes. âI know.â
Part 6
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These Destined Ends
Part 4
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. Youâre now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child â the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?
Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader
Word Count: 3.5k
Warnings: a striptease?, female masturbation, hints at incest/sexual abuse, mentions of killing, he fingers you at the dinner table, public humiliation aplenty
A/N: I made it exactly *checks clipboard* three parts without smut
The garment bag is composed of the finest fabric youâve ever seen. Your pulse hammers at the thought of whatever might lay within â what could Feyd-Rautha have possibly chosen for you? You eye his usual all black garb.
Zipper cool to the touch, you glide it open, pushing aside the garment bag to reveal your present. Bile rises to your throat at the same time you feel a familiar swoop of desire in your stomach, a summation of your relationship with Feyd-Rautha so far.
The dress â if it could even be called that â shimmers seductively, black, and somehow inlaid with thousands of glittering beads. Two slim straps keep it secured, dangling, from the hanger. And thereâs remarkably not much else to comment on: the straps descend daringly low, barely enough to cover your decency.
A belt encircles the middle of the dress loosely, and you can only imagine how it would withstand even the slightest of breezes without exposing you. You swallow, deliberating.
âWhere is the rest?â
Feyd-Rautha reclines back in the chair. âWife, why would I disguise your beauty with useless fabric? It would only pale in comparison.â
âI hardly believe this is acceptable dinner attire,â you point out, surprised at the coolness in your tone.
âItâs rude to refuse a gift,â Feyd-Rautha says. âWill you deny me the pleasures of gifting my wife for the first time?â
You bite your tongue to keep from lashing out. Fine, if thatâs how he wanted to play.
Clearly this was his retaliation for your bold behavior, you just hadnât expected it to come so swiftly after his arrival, or in the form of public humiliation. Normally you wouldnât dare wear such an affront to fashion, or your sensibilities.
âVery well. I would be remiss toâŚdeny you.â You look to Asha, who has presided over the entire interaction with wide eyes. With a smile, you say, âI would like you to undress me now.â
Her mouth opens, then snaps closed.
The upper level of the antechamber positions you higher than Feyd-Rautha, whose dark eyes have taken on the delighted glint of someone encountering a worthy opponent in the arena. Asha nervously obeys your command as you hold your arms out to your sides, allowing her to undo the difficult laces of your dress. The only sound in the room is the sound of it pooling at your feet.
âI hardly think my husbandâs generous gift will allow for underclothes,â you laugh. Asha then begins removing your thin chemise from over your head. She tugs it up over her arms and your breasts slip from the fabric, leaving you entirely naked in the glow of the black sun.
Desire unfurls between your legs. You donât even have to glance at Feyd-Rautha to know that he is fully captivated by your performance, at the sight of your naked form. In any other situation you mightâve been ashamed of your nudity; the curves you found unseemly, or the dimples of cellulite in the soft flesh of your thighs and ass.
But, beholden by the na-Baron, you were resplendent.
âThe dress now, please,â you order Asha, voice breezy and carefree.
Feyd-Rauthaâs gaze bores into you, sears your skin like its own personal brand. You loathe to admit that youâre actually enjoying this. Your thighs are slick with revel in your own cleverness, in wresting the control from the man determined to wield it over you.
Asha covers you with the dress, laying it gently over you â nipples hardened and skin flushed with self-admiration, in satisfaction of capturing Feyd-Rauthaâs attention so wholly.
Asha moves to fasten the belt next but is interrupted. âLet me,â the na-Baron orders.
Which unspoken, is understood as: leave us. Your friend ducks her head and disappears from the antechamber. You silently thank her for closing the door behind her.
Feyd-Rautha approaches you slowly, measured in his movements. A predator reconsidering its prey.
So then why are you so eager for him to devour you?
He stands infuriatingly close to you without actually touching you, absurdly concerned with the so-called belt hanging at your waist. It vexes you that he refuses to meet your eyes, refuses to give you what you so ardently seek.
âI should strip this from you. Tear this dress from you with my teeth and bind your wrists,â he says, tugging at the belt, agonizingly composed, his breath fanning your face. âShow you exactly what you deserve for pulling a stunt like that.â
His fingers are deft as they fasten the belt. He doesnât touch you once.
âDid you not like it?â You ask, breathless.
His proximity intoxicates you, takes you by the hand and leads you into a fathomless darkness. And yet he wonât look at you, wonât touch you, just turns simply on his heel of his boot and says over his shoulder, âIâll see you at dinner.â
The smoldering shower water blasts between the blades of your shoulders, sluices over you and scathes your aching flesh. But itâs not enough, not a fit replacement for touch, for his touch.
Your fingers slip between your thighs and find your pleading cunt. A breathy noise escapes you, and you begin pumping your hand, no time for the attention you usually afford yourself â youâre desperate to rid yourself of this feeling, wash it away in the drain and pretend it never existed. Your release comes fast, insipid, and once your legs have stopped shaking with the effort of your touch, you wrench off the water.
And there you stand, cold and wet, cunt swollen and certainly not satisfied, but at least you can direct your thoughts from â
You slam your fist against the shower wall. Pain, leftover from Feyd-Rauthaâs boot, quivers through you like a bow across the string of an instrument. How dare you let yourself become so entangled in him, in his game, in his inescapable command. You are a fool.
Quickly you towel yourself off and step back into the sorry excuse for a dress, warding off any traitorous thoughts belonging to Feyd-Rautha. You have no clue when dinner actually is but you wonât be caught shivering and spent. You apply a simple, dark makeup and leave your hair untouched, determined to set yourself separate from the rest of the Harkonnens in attendance.
And when the scents of food and the clatter of guests float through the antechamber, you take it upon yourself to join the others. You follow the din of a party, a sound you are accustomed to from your time on Caladan, and traipse into the Great Hall to find it already engaged.
The long table usually void of company is brimming with noblemen and women dressed in various shades of blacks and whites, and every single one of them turns and stares at your entrance.
Not even the strictest training can prevent the flood of embarrassment through you. Itâs so prominent and all-encompassing that your entire body goes rigid with fear.
âAh, the Lady Y/N,â a booming voice calls. âHow lovely of you to join us at last.â
At the opposite end of the impossibly long Hall, the Baron lifts from the table on his suspensors and effectively stamps out any fleeting hope you had of going quietly into the night. Or perhaps dying on the spot. He hadnât given you enough time to decide which.
âCome, take your place at my side so that you might meet your court and feast with them on this splendid occasion,â the Baron says.
Surprisingly, your limbs do work, and you somehow carry yourself past the leering eyes in your scanty dress and sit upon the only empty chair at the table. If you werenât so completely mortified, you mightâve taken the time to glare daggers at the man beside you; Feyd-Rautha lounged regally at the right hand of the Baron. To your utter displeasure, he looked disgustingly wonderful in a dark tunic and pants, his lips reddened by the wine.
It looked a lot like blood.
âI apologize, your Baron, I had no intentions of causing a scene or demeaning your gracious invitation.â
The Baron eats in a ferocious manner best likened to a savage beast, wild and without abandon. Repulsion churns in your belly as you are forced to watch, doing your best to mask your horror as he gulps down his food in large, greedy mouthfuls. A smudge of sauce graces the corner of his unsightly mouth.
âThere is no need for apologies, Lady Y/N, as long as it does not happen twice. No court is ever won over by a careless Baroness,â he says icily.
âWhere were you?â Rabban asks next.
Rabban sits to the left of the Baron and across from you, fixing you with a glowering look. Itâs not lost on you that he is already tormented by this, demoted to the less favorable side of the table in favor for his wicked brother, who replicates Rabbanâs probing glare, no traces of awareness that he had been the exact reason for your tardiness.
âWe met initially in the salon to give you time to appear. Tell us, where were you, wife? What demands did you have grander than this celebration of our upcoming union?â
Your molars might grind into dust by the end of the evening, if you survive it. You smile sweetly at him. âI suppose I was preoccupied with preparations, na-Baron. YourâŚgift is not easy to slip into alone.â
âHowever taxing, you look splendid,â the Baron says. He drains the rest of his goblet. One massive hand descends on Feyd-Rauthaâs thigh, strangely intimate. âNephew, will you fetch me more wine?â
Feyd-Rauthaâs face storms over. âWe have servants for that, Uncle. Besides, have Rabban do it for you. This banquet is for my benefit, after all, I should be allowed to enjoy it.â
The Baron studies him critically then, more sober than you thought possible. âVery well. Rabban?â
The mountainous man snatches the goblet from his uncle and vanishes to find a servant. Youâre prompted to heap some of the food on your plate then, disconcerted by the lingering hand of the Baron and Feyd-Rauthaâs obvious resentment.
Dinner passes without a hitch, your tardiness smoothed over by your status as the future Baroness. A small grace for such a tremendous burden.
You entertain the guests with stories of Arrakis and spice production, fielding their endless questions with as much charm and elegance as you can muster. And, frankly, itâs not as horribly daunting or tedious as you feared it to be.
The last course is coming to an end when a man strides up to the Baron with an expression of self-importance. Heâs dressed similarly to the other Harkonnen guards but thereâs something different about him â where the Harkonnens you know are arrogant about their strength, he hides it well. You immediately start to eavesdrop.
âThe Emperor needs you for an urgent matter,â the strange man whispers into the Baronâs ear.
The Baron nods as if heâs been expecting this, and then without a word abandons his feast and glides after the man.
Feyd-Rautha had been surveying the party when you ask him, âWhat urgent matter?â
He sips his wine. âI donât know.â
Ha, you think, he had been eavesdropping too. You frown. âHe didnât tell you?â
âMy uncle does not tell me everything,â Feyd-Rautha replies. Thereâs a trace of anger in his voice, but itâs difficult to tell whether itâs pointed at you or the Baron.
Either way, this irritates you. You decide to provoke the beast. âWhat, like you donât tell me when our engagement dinner is?â
Feyd-Rauthaâs gaze cuts to you. âYouâre upset.â
âYes Iâm upset,â you hiss. âI thought I warned you not to humiliate me again. Tonight was inexcusable, you filthy ââ
âAh, careful, wife. You must mind your words before our court. And my oafish brother.â He indicates Rabban with a slight incline of his head. You spot the older Harkonnen approaching with quite the entourage and you scowl. âDonât make that face. Remember, this is a joyous occasion.â
âHow could I forget?â You mutter miserably.
At your side, Feyd-Rautha is a study in beauty. Not in the classical sense, of course, but that of something devastatingly cruel and dangerous, the glint of a newly sharpened blade or the ocean during a storm. Breathtaking, in both senses. Unwittingly, you trace the slope of his brow, his handsome nose, the cushion of his plush lips, and you feel the familiar flicker of attraction.
âWhere were you?â Feyd-Rautha asks without looking at you, still watching the party.
âHm?â Did he know you were studying him? âWhat did you say?â
âI asked where you were. Before.â
âOh.â Thereâs something in his voice that suggests that he knows exactly what you were doing. Your moment in the shower emerges unbidden in your mind, of your hand between your legs and his name in your mouth. You answer as flippant as possible, âI was waiting for you.â
Feyd-Rautha finally sets down his goblet. Rabban is taking his time returning, regaling his entourage with an undoubtedly riveting story, so the na-Baron must feel secure in your privacy.
âYou forget that those are my quarters too, wife, and the walls are very thin.â
Shame creeps up your throat. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âOh, is that right?â Feyd-Rautha grabs the bottom of your chair and pulls you closer to him. Any outside observer would simply think youâre having a regular conversation, which you suppose is the point, but thereâs nothing regular about the way he slides his hand across your thigh and dips down to your heat. âThen I didnât hear you touching yourself, whimpering and pleading for me? For my fingers? My cock?â
âI thought I was ââ
âAlone?â He clicks his tongue. âIf you didnât intend for me to hear, then should I not give you exactly what you were begging for?â
Itâs only too easy for him to nudge your dress aside and acquaint himself with your cunt, slide his fingers along your swollen lips and tease your entrance. You inhale sharply, without permission. He takes that as an invitation to delve a finger into your slick cunt.
âFeyd ââ
âTell me you donât want it.â
You swallow, throat working. Rabban is finishing his story, evident by his boisterous laugh and then beckoning his entourage to the table. Feyd-Rautha keeps one finger inside you, unmoving, a sensation unfolding within you that you certainly wonât be able to ignore.
The rest of his hand cups between your thighs, a reminder to you, as long as you yield to him.
âJust say the words, and I wonât,â Feyd-Rautha says, his lips on the shell of your ear.
Youâre frozen in indecision. When Rabban rejoins you, youâre sure that Feyd-Rautha will revoke his teasing hand. But instead he rocks his palm against you and drives his finger, then another, deeper inside you with dizzying ferocity.
You grip the edges of the chair, the force of his fingers cleaving through you, invoking a wave of pleasure that ripples throughout your body. It takes everything in you not to cry out.
âBrother, you remember my friends,â Rabban says. His cheeks are reddened by the spice-laden alcohol and he is oblivious to whatâs occurring underneath the table. âUriens and Zeâev.â
Feyd-Rautha says smoothly, âOf course.â
âUriens, Zeâev, this is the Lady Y/N,â Rabban introduces you. He indicates each friend in turn â Uriens, a man of notable stature but a blank gaze, and Zeâev, slightly smaller and sporting a sneer.
You dip your head and hope itâs enough to count as a greeting. You donât trust your voice, not with Feyd-Rauthaâs ministrations. Your cunt pulses with each one, clamping down on him, even the slightest of withdrawals enough to ruin you. Fortunately for you, or not, Feyd-Rautha shows no interest in stopping, curling his fingers in and out of you with agonizing precision.
âWe wanted to speak to you about tomorrow, actually,â Uriens says.
Feyd-Rauthaâs eyes narrow. âWhat about it?â
âWhat âoh! Whatâs tomorrow?â You ask. As soon as you speak, Feyd-Rautha pushes another finger in to join the others, spurring your body to jerk in response. You suppress a shudder.
Uriens, Zeâev, and Rabban look too intent to notice your falter. Uriens explains, albeit with less enthusiasm, âWe want to partake.â
Feyd-Rauthaâs jaw flexes. His pace slows as he considers this request, and itâs almost more torturous than his persistent thrusts.
âNo,â he finally says.
Rabbanâs face darkens with anger. âWhy not?â
âTraditionally those who partake do so because they are interested in the hand of the wife.â His tone veers dangerously close to a growl. âAre you telling me that you wish to take her from me?â
Uriens eyes widen. âNo, na-Baron, we ââ
âWe understand the ceremony is purely customary. We ask only for a chance to partake in the revelry,â Zeâev cuts in.
âThere is no killing,â Feyd-Rautha says.
Uriens and Zeâev nod. âYes, na-Baron.â
âThen I donât see why you shouldnât partake.â
You bite back a moan as Feyd-Rautha then resumes his ministrations. You ask, âWhatâs tomorrow?â
Youâre impressed that you manage to keep your voice even.
The Harkonnens exchange glances as if theyâre reluctant to answer you. The slight one, Zeâev, says, âDessid aperr. The Crucible.â
âIt doesnât concern you,â Feyd-Rautha says.
Your indignation overcomes your pleasure, and you glare at him. âIt does if my hand in marriage is being fought over.â
âThe Crucible is a ceremony dating back to Emperor Shakkad the Wise,â Uriens eagerly says, jumping to please you. âWhen a Harkonnnen of noble standing is to be wed, they will engage in a battle against the other noblemen for the hand of the bride. To ensure that the strongest bonds are forged.â
Feyd-Rautha pumps his hand violently against you, and you feel your orgasm building. You grip the chair even harder. âI would like to partake.â
âThe brides are not permitted to watch,â Uriens says. Rabban and Zeâev both glare at him.
âI donât want to watch. I want to fight.â
âAbsolutely not,â Feyd-Rautha rasps.
âWhy not?â You ask. You hope the breathy sound of your voice comes across as petulant and not aroused.
Rabban answers, âThatâs how itâs always been.â
Feyd-Rautha glances at you. He must know that youâre close, can feel it in the way that you clamp around him. âWife, is that what you want? Tell me.â
âY-Yes,â you stammer.
He says, âTell me that you want it.â
âI want it,â you breathe out, both of you aware of what heâs actually referencing.
More words form on your tongue but youâre unable to say it â your pleasure mounts as Feyd-Rautha buries his fingers inside you with swift finality and your orgasm seizes you. Itâs white-hot and dazzling as it tears through you, walls contracting, his fingers stroking you to the end. A shudder racks through you.
Pulse hammering and your thighs trembling, Feyd-Rautha withdraws his fingers. He rises abruptly to his feet. Horror dawns on you as he then pushes his fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. Without so much as glancing back at you, Feyd-Rautha says, âVery well. Donât be late this time.â
You stare after him. The aftershocks of your orgasm rumble through you â you canât believe that he just did that then left you to deal with the aftermath. Uriens and Zeâev stare at you in equal parts confusion and shock, while Rabban sneers at you, seemingly more aware than you thought.
You clear your throat. âWell, thatâs been settled.â
âSomething has been settled,â Rabban replies. His expression is nearly impossible to read, but the comment makes your cheeks heat up.
âYou hold considerable sway over the na-Baron,â Zeâev says.
You stand, smoothing down your dress and trying to maintain some semblance of composure. Itâs difficult when your thighs are still slick, the memory of his fingers imprinted in your mind.
âI will be the na-Baroness,â you remind Zeâev. âI hold considerable sway over everyone here.â
And with that you leave without excusing yourself, feeling the burn of their gazes on your back. Itâs suddenly too warm in the Great Hall for you, the sweaty, lingering bodies suffocating. Youâre not quite sure where youâre going. Certainly not after Feyd-Rautha. Though you canât stop the way that your heart skips hopefully when you feel a hand grab your arm.
âWhat are you doing?â Asha hisses, spinning you around. âThe party isnât over.â
Post-orgasm clarity is eluding you. You shake your head. âI know, but ââ
âAlso, what was that shit earlier?â Asha asks. She adjusts her hold on a tray laden with champagne glasses. âThere was some weird tension in that room. Donât involve me in your weird â whatever, with the na-Baron again. Do you hear me?â
You nod stupidly, although youâre not entirely sure itâs a promise you can make.
Asha studies you. âAre you okay?â
âIâm fine,â you lie. âBut Iâm going to retire to my quarters. Can you cover for me?â
âYeah, of course,â Asha says, obviously not convinced.
You huff out a breath. âIâm going to need the rest if Iâm participating in the Crucible tomorrow.â
Asha nearly drops the serving tray. âThe what?â
âIâve been invited,â you say, which is also a lie.
âWhat?â Asha presses the heel of her hand to her forehead. âWhat is wrong with you, Y/N?â
To avoid her gaze, you take to scanning the party. You know perfectly well whatâs wrong with you and youâre searching for his face even now, despite the fact that heâs the last person you want to see. You sigh. âI wish I could tell you.â
Part 5
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These Destined Ends
Part 3
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. Youâre now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child â the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?
Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader
Word Count: 2.7k
Warnings: mentions of killing/death, naked concubines (man and woman), threats via penis manhandling
A/N: I have a vague idea of where Iâd like the story to go because I love the fun in discovering different things when writing on a loose plan. This chapter ended up longer than I thought it would be but Feyd is just so damn fun to writeđ
You tried not to linger on the implications of your shared quarters.
Angrily you strode after Feyd-Rautha. âWhat is going to become of my parents?â
âI donât care.â
You wanted to grab his arm and spin him around, force him to face you. But you were afraid of touching him again, afraid that any little contact would result in an even trade â and you did not want to confront the flicker of attraction you felt when the Harkonnen dragged his lips across your skin. A second reaction would be indicative of something more, and you were determined not to let another scenario arise to find out.
The best you could do was stomp after him. âWell, I do.â
âNothing will happen.â
âHow can you be sure?â
âI just am.â
You mull over this response. Would he tell you differently? You sensed that Feyd-Rautha tended to be brutally honest. Probably because he never had to deal with any consequences in his life. How could he, as na-Baron?
You fail to think of anything else to say and lapse into silence, trusting that he is telling the truth and your parents will be fine. Besides, you comfort yourself, the Emperor would be furious if the Harkonnens just slaughtered one of the other Noble Houses like that. There were laws in place to discourage such atrocities.
Feyd-Rautha continues his unofficial tour, winding through a complicated series of interweaving corridors without speaking. You see several servants along the way, all who keep a cautious distance from you both. You couldn't ignore their curious looks. How strange you felt among them - pale and unblemished like stones smoothed over by a river's constant force. It didn't aid in your comfort.
"Do you not know any of them?" You ask. Feyd-Rautha is anything but a pleasant conversational partner, but at least if you're talking you don't have to listen to your rampant thoughts.
"Who?"
"The servants," you reply, brow furrowing.
He grunts in a noncommittal fashion. "Why would I?"
"Because they work for you." You were on friendly terms with the staff back on Caladan and trying to befriend the Fremen employed to you on Arrakis. The natives were untrusting of you, rightfully so. But you couldn't imagine just ignoring them.
"They're disposable," Feyd-Rautha comments with a wave of his hand. A pair of servants scurry by.
You watch them turn the corner and vanish. "They're afraid of you."
"Hm."
"Am I?"
"Are you what?"
"Disposable."
He casts you a sideways look. "Everyone is disposable once their use has expired. Thus is the way of the Harkonnen."
You contemplate this, frowning. "Even you?"
A dry, brittle laugh erupts from him.
"Are you planning on killing me already, wife? Perhaps you'll adapt just fine here."
That wasn't the compliment he thought it was.
You pointedly ignore him. "Are you telling me that there's not a moment that would make you disposable like the rest of us?"
"There is," he says, seemingly unbothered by the threat of his mortality, unlike you. "My uncle has promised the Baronship to me. If I am an unfit ruler then I would be challenged. Thus is the â"
"â way of the Harkonnen," you finish.
Feyd-Rautha flashes you a smile as sharp as the blade of a dagger. "You are quicker than you look."
"But what of the Noble Houses? The Emperor?"
Feyd-Rautha lifts a shoulder. "House Harkonnen has proved powerful for many, many generations. No one dares challenge us. Nor will they," he adds thoughtfully. He pauses. "Do you fret for our children?"
You inhale sharply, swallowing, and it sticks in your throat. You cough out an unconvincing, "I'm fine!" then set to composing yourself, confident that your sanity would be doubted by anyone who happened by. What a way to be viewed by your subjects. Feyd-Rautha just stares at you in poorly veiled amusement.
"I try not to think of our children," you say after you're sure you're done coughing. Something akin to embarrassment burns you skin.
"Pity," Feyd-Rautha says. "These are our quarters."
Feyd-Rautha's quarters are much more grand than your room on Arrakis. He leads you into an antechamber with a skylight, pouring the strange light from the black sun into the space. There's a sunken level in the floor furnished with dark colored furniture â two love seats and a sofa. A handful of glowglobes float aimlessly by.
Feyd-Rautha crosses the room, forgoing the sunken level, to the other side of the antechamber. You have no choice but to follow.
You don't know what you expected from his â your â room. Perhaps a chamber of torture. But it's not the sleek, elegant display before you, a full sized bed with plush bedding and tasteful curtains covering a bank of floor-length windows. It's impeccably neat.
And, to your abject horror, features three naked figures sprawled out on various surfaces. Two women and one man.
Feyd-Rautha ignores them, even as they slink from their positions to greet him, bodies slender and completely hairless, free of any visible blemishes. You feign an interest in the ceiling. It's not that you're naive to nudity or sexuality, but the sudden exposure to it roots you in your place.
"Do you need an invitation?" Feyd-Rautha asks.
When you force your gaze from the ceiling, you find him settled casually in a chair with a low-slung back, the two women kneeling on either side of him and the man behind. You follow their hands as they wander his body.
"No. No."
Where are you supposed to go? If he believes you will worship him like the others than he's sorely mistaken. You walk to the bed, ghosting your fingers over the bedding and confirming its softness. You hate the way that you can feel him watching you, clearly amused by your discomfort; you rally your courage to meet his stare, refusing to acknowledge the naked bodies draped across him.
"Are you quite alright, wife?"
"Fine," you grit out. "I didn't realize we would have company."
"Would you like me to tell them to leave?"
A loaded question, one that you were aware would set the tone for the rest of your life with Feyd-Rautha. A challenge. You control the slight quiver in your voice, "Leave. I wish to be alone with my...husband."
The concubines hesitate, obviously waiting to hear from Feyd-Rautha. He continues to hold your gaze. "Leave."
Uncurling themselves from around him, the women and the man are all white limbs and smooth skin, a multi-limbed creature. Whether or not they are disappointed by this development, they don't reveal, simply sauntering out of the room to wherever they go when they aren't waiting naked for Feyd-Rautha. A feeling of annoyance stirs.
"There's no need to be jealous," Feyd-Rautha says as the door closes.
You bristle. "I'm not."
âThen come here, wife.â Feyd-Rautha spreads his legs, indicating his lap and his powerful thighs. You resent yourself for noticing. âIf you dismiss my concubines, then you must come to me now and offer me your warmth instead.â
Another challenge. You wonder briefly if he is playing with you, testing your boundaries, but just as you refused to show weakness in the throne room, you refuse now, crossing the carpeted floor. A surge of bravery â or maybe stupidity â prompts you to wedge your knees on either side of his waist, straddling him, the skirt of your dress hitched up to ensure mobility.
The look on his face is worth the cost of the heat reigniting in the pit of your stomach. You chase it away in pursuit of the heady high you receive from asserting your dominance. He mightâve had the upper hand but you were in control now.
âWarm enough?â You ask him innocently.
âNot quite,â he replies. Heâs tipped his head back to examine you, leaving a blazing trail where his gaze goes.
Brazen beyond you imagination, you work the buckle to his pants just enough to slip your hand inside and grab his cock.
That bastard. He was already hard. Not fully erect, you observed with conflicting feelings, but clearly you had your effects on him. Feyd-Rautha showed no shame or guilt about this, however. Like it was expected â normal for women heâs just met to reach into his pants.
And it probably was.
Injured hand screaming in defiance of your actions, you grab the head of his cock and twist, slightly backwards and to the side. You apply pressure, hopefully enough to hurt him, he wouldnât dare reveal it to you anyway.
âDo not,â you hiss, âembarrass me like that ever again. I will not tolerate looking like a fool.â
Feyd-Rauthaâs throat bobs. Except instead of agony he looks totally enthralled. âOr what?â He mocks. âYouâll wrap your pretty hand around my cock?â
âYou wonât have a cock for anyone to wrap their hand around.â
âIs that a promise?â
You release him and climb off his lap, figuring it would be more impactful to leave him wanting then lustful. His utter indifference, his arousal, gives you pause to just who youâve been arranged to marry.
âYou disgust me,â you spit out.
Feyd-Rauthaâs mouth twitches slightly. Did he really have to find everything funny?
He says, âWeâll see.â
A month passes at Giedi Prime in a disconcerting blur. To your surprise, besides the first afternoon, you hardly ever see Feyd-Rautha. Always busy with important meetings or sparring sessions. Or whatever he did in his spare time. You didnât ask.
Ever since that day when youâd straddled his lap, youâd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had said clearly that you were even after the slap but then youâd unexpectedly turned the tables â did he intend on returning the favor?
You informed him that you would sleep on the couch in the antechamber until your wedding, to which he never remarked upon. That first night you lay awake, afraid and absolutely convinced that he would try something. But he never came.
The days passed without event and your anxiety dwindled. Besides, while Feyd-Rautha was busy with na-Baron affairs, you were forced to schlep through a mountain of preparations for the wedding ceremony. You didnât care, frankly. You chose the first sample of whatever you were offered â tablecloths, menu items, decorations â until one of the servants accompanying you threw down the sample booklet and scowled.
âThis will be the most horrendous wedding in the history of the galaxy,â the servant said in exasperation. âAnd all of them are too afraid of your husband to say anything.â
You had raised a brow, secretly thrilled by this confrontation. At least it broke the monotony of your life here thus far.
âDo you question my taste?â
The servant glared at you. âWhat taste?â
A moment passed. The other servants stared in horror, undoubtedly convinced that their demise was imminent. Perhaps that was one benefit to being betrothed to the na-Baron. He wielded a certain type of power.
You busted out laughing. In fact, you laughed so hard that tears stream down your face.
âYouâre right,â you said, laughter weakening into an uncontrollable giggle. âIt will be a horrendous wedding, but that has nothing to do with the decorations. Will you help me?â
The servantâs name is Asha, and in her you found a companion. She chased away the other servants that day and set to work rectifying your wedding decisions, weighing in on current trends on the planet and admonishing you for your Caladan tastes. âAbsolutely not,â she deadpanned when you inquired about floral bouquets.
Out of everyone on Giedi Prime â well, really just the Harkonnen fortress, as you werenât permitted to leave â Asha became your friend. No one else bothered or cared to talk to you, and now that you had bonded over wedding preparations, you spent infinite amounts of time together strolling the halls arm-in-arm and whispering about servant gossip since you had nothing to contribute.
Asha made your miserable new life interesting.
âAre you scared?â She asks you one day, plucking at your eyebrows.
You outright refused to shave them off in order to conform to the hairless style of the Harkonnens, but regrettably agreed to a touch-up. You kept one eye on a nearby mirror just in case she got any ideas.
âOf what?â
Asha yanks at an eyebrow hair, and you cry out in surprise. âOh, stop, youâre fine â I mean are you scared of Feyd-Rautha?â
âNo. Why would I be?â You avert your eyes from her probing stare. Asha, unfortunately, is able to read your expressions better than a trained Bene Gesserit. You learned that this stemmed from the combat trainings that all young children received on this planet.
âBecause,â Asha stresses. You frown when she fails to elaborate, and your friend issues a long-suffering sigh. âIâve heard things about him, you know, in bed.â
âOh.â You twist your hands in your lap. âWhat kinds of things?â
Asha grins triumphantly. âI knew you were scared!â
You laugh and shove away her hands as she playfully jabs at your sides. âIâm not scared,â you say, fending her off. âIâm just curious. Arenât all brides?â
âJust you. We arenât all Noble daughters with arranged marriages. We fuck ââ
âI get it,â you interrupt. âConsider yourself lucky.â
Youâre about to prompt her again about the things sheâs heard when thereâs a light rap of knuckles on the door. Asha shoots to her feet. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes â of course sheâs respectful to Feyd-Rautha but not you. But you supposed it was the basis of your only friendship, so you couldnât exactly complain.
âYouâre back,â you say, standing up slowly.
Feyd-Rautha rests, hip and elbow, against the doorframe into the antechamber. He hungrily drinks you in.
âIndeed,â Feyd-Rautha replies. Last youâd heard of him he had left for an offworld obligation without saying goodbye. Something stirs in you at the sight of him after so long.
âI hope your trip was well.â
Feyd-Rautha scans the room before his gaze returns to you. âI would prefer to be here. The Baron seems determined to keep me occupied until the ceremony.â
Did you detect a trace of resentment in his words? And why would the Baron keep him from you? The heir wouldnât exactly conceive itself; though he would have no way of knowing that you had been sleeping on the couch all this time.
âRetrieve the present Iâve brought back for my wife,â Feyd-Rautha suddenly instructs Asha. She secretly meets your eyes before dashing away.
You fold your arms over your chest. âA present? And I thought youâd forgotten I existed.â
If he picks up on your anger, he doesnât show it. Feyd-Rautha crosses the room to you, replaces Asha in the chair across from you.
âItâs for tonight. The Baron has requested our attendance for dinner.â
You bristle slightly. âThe Baron? Tonight?â
You had been exceedingly lucky to avoid the monstrous head of House since your arrival. But perhaps it was because you ran the other direction at the mention of his name, or the fact that you hadnât strayed from your quarters.
âYes. You needed somethingâŚacceptable to wear.â
âMy clothes arenât acceptable?â
âYes,â he answers. âI have no doubt that my uncle has planned something magnificent for tonight. You will need to look the part.â
Your careful, fragile existence on Giedi Prime was crashing at your feet. From wiling away the hours to suddenly being thrust into the explosive political landscape that was House Harkonnen.
But no matter. Jessica had raised you for this very purpose.
âFine,â you agreed coolly.
Both of you turn as Asha returns from her errand, a garment bag folded over her arm. She goes to deliver it to your closet but Feyd-Rautha halts her in her tracks. âI want her to open it here.â
Part 4
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@heartarianagran
@torchbearerkyle
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These Destined Ends
Part 2
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. Youâre now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child â the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?
Pairing: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: he steps on your hand, non-consensual kissing, slapping
A/N: In which you try to stand your ground against Feyd and it just makes him horny
Palpable tension fills the room. You notice, not happily, the heavy presence of guards. As pale and unmoving as the walls, you wouldnât have recognized them if not for the subtle hand signals from your mother. Jessicaâs fingers twitched in the ancient Atreides language.
Stay on guard, she warns you. You donât even have to look at her to know what sheâs saying â you learned the secretive hand signals before you could even speak. Even just a quick flash of her fingers in your peripheral and you understand.
Will this day end in bloodshed?
The thought rags at you.
âWelcome,â the Baron finally bellows, voice thick and rasping as sand over the dunes of Arrakis. âIt is truly an honor to receive you here today.â
Leto nods, ever the diplomat. Youâre grateful for his lead and the prowess of his social navigational skills because, at the moment, youâre afraid that you wonât be able to speak. Not in the face of your destiny and certainly not under the severe scrutiny of your betrothed.
The Baron beckons you and your family closer and you swear that you notice Feyd-Rautha lean forward in interest.
âI trust your journey from Arrakis was well,â the Baron says.
Your skin prickles at the mention.
âCertainly. It was a smooth ride. Iâm sure youâre familiar, since youâve taken it recently,â Leto replies coolly.
The Baron snaps, âAnd will again soon.â
An insurmountable current of hostility perpetuates the room, not visible but impossible to not to notice. The Baron claps his hands together, the sound resonating. âBut we arenât here to discuss space travel, are we? Lady Y/N, step forward so that we may see you.â
The slightest nod of approval from Jessica. Her hand brushes yours as you pass by her.
Itâs unknown to you how far you should go but you take several large steps away from your parents until youâre completely vulnerable. You hope no one is able to perceive your nervousness, or the slick state of your palms. You keep them hidden in the folds of your dress.
âMm, lovely enough,â the Baron remarks. His repulsive gaze travels your form. Not in the way that one might appraise a mate but rather a livestock for purchase. âExcellent hips for birthing.â
You bite your tongue to stifle your retort.
From the shifting of garments behind you, you know the comment has unsettled your parents as well. Your mother warned you that the situation was delicate, that the Harkonnens would wait for the slightest aggression to attack. You do your best to maintain a comprise of neutrality, the cool indifference your mother manages to exude.
âStill an Atreides,â Rabban growls, low enough only for you, the Baron, and na-Baron to hear.
The Baron ignores this. âWell, nephew, wonât you greet your betrothed?â
A small exhale escapes you.
Feyd-Rautha lopes from his position beside the dais to stand before you. His proximity is overwhelming, the sheer size and force of his presence eclipsing all else; his lips have not loosed from their taunting smirk, an infuriating expression you wish to rid him of.
âHello, betrothed,â he says. His voice, too, rasps against your ears, cool and unbothered.
âHello,â is all you manage.
In a move that startles you, Feyd-Rautha unsheathes a dagger from his armored uniform. It glints dangerously in the low lighting. Although you canât see her you hear Jessica cry out in surprise, in objection, and the guards at the perimeter of the throne room coil with anticipation. However, you keep still.
Feyd-Rautha presses the tip of the dagger lightly into your neck, below your ear. His dark gaze flickers down the column of your throat, following the trail of the blade. Itâs a strangely sensual act, intimate in ways that disturb you, the fragile balance of trust and power it commands. Feyd-Rautha stops at the dip of your throat, where your heart is beating wildly, directly above the Atreides clasp.
He clicks his tongue. âYou wonât be needing this.â
The Harkonnen slices at your cape faster than you can ever react â the garment flutters from your shoulders to the ground. Itâs then that you realize heâs cut away the clasp and effectively stripped you of your Atreides title.
The clasp bounces against the polished floor.
Compelled by shock, by pure reflex, you bend down to grab it. Feyd-Rauthaâs boot closes down on your hand before you can retrieve the clasp, slamming your palm down over it as he traps your hand against the floor. You gasp in surprise, and pain, the pressure of his booted foot clearly more demonstrative than punishing. For now.
âI told you that you wonât be needing that,â he says, exasperatedly informal. âStand up.â
Teeth gritting, you squirm beneath his boot, trying desperately to reclaim your hand. âNo!â You shout at him. âIt is rightfully mine.â
He presses his boot down harder. You squeal.
âYou are rightfully mine. And you will do as I say. A wife with a broken hand is still capable of fulfilling her duties.â
Shame burns your face and couples with the disgust taking root in your chest. Feyd-Rautha regards you coolly from above. If you thought you would survive the attempt, youâd snap his leg.
âFine,â you spit out.
His smooth brow raises. âWhat?â
âFine.â
âLouder,â he orders. âI want them all to hear you. Forfeit your Atreides loyalty.â
In the few seconds that you take to consider this, he pushes his entire weight down on your hand. The pain steals away all rational thought as stars appear in your vision. Your breath saws painfully in and out of your lungs. It takes all of your strength to grit out, âI forfeit my Atreides loyalty.â
A bout of protest explodes from Leto and Jessica, and the sound of their disbelief cuts you deep. You collapse onto the ground, clutching your injured hand and watch in horror as Feyd-Rautha stomps on the clasp and shatters it.
Pieces go flying.
Thereâs a terrible joy in the Baronâs voice: âEnough, nephew. I believe youâve made your point.â
âThat was completely unnecessary ââ Leto begins. He quiets as a trio of Harkonnen guards gather not towards him, but you, weapons and lasguns trained on your crumpled form.
A memory emerges from your subconscious, an afternoon in which Leto mentioned that having a child is like having a lasgun pressed to your temple at all times.
His throat bobs with suppressed emotion.
Your parents wonât try anything if it puts you in peril. Even Jessicaâs control of The Voice is useless.
âLady Y/N is now a member of the House Harkonnen. Her husband will do with her what he sees fit,â the Baron declares. âNephew, have you had quite enough?â
Feyd-Rautha faces his uncle. âFor now.â
You tremble beside him. A heady mix of pain and anger boils beneath your skin. The Harkonnen soldiers fall back as the Baron waves a massive hand.
âTake her to her chambers. Iâve had enough.â
You protest, âNo! I need to say goodbye to my family!â
A sickening smile spreads on the Baronâs face, and he holds out his arms. âWeâre your family now.â
You donât even get a final glimpse of your parents as the soldiers hoist you to your feet and corner you off from them. The roughness of the guards jostles your injured hand. âGet off me,â you growl, yanking yourself free from their grasps.
The soldiers move to contain you once more but Feyd-Rautha rasps, âListen to your future Baronness.â You gape at him. The faint hint of a smirk returns on his face, and he steps toward you. âIâll escort her.â
Then he grabs your injured hand as a tether.
The doors to the throne room slam shut.
Feyd-Rauthaâs grip on your hand is strong, undoubtedly a reminder of his control. It takes more than a few pulls to dispatch him and, once you do, he whirls on you with a curious, almost bewildered look.
You seethe, âWhat is wrong with you? How dare you destroy my family pin.â
âYou cannot be my wife if you have loyalties elsewhere,â he says, as if the explanation is obvious. âYour loyalties are to me and the House Harkonnen.â
âI decided where my loyalties lay,â you tell him. âAnd they belong to no one but myself.â
Feyd-Rautha studies you, then huffs.
âIâm being serious,â you hiss.
âI know.â He steps casually toward you, though itâs anything but. Your body tenses. âSo am I.â
An indescribable feeling crashes over you, sweeping you nearly off your feet. Everything youâve heard about him vanishes. In a move that surprises even yourself, you advance on him, close enough to see the glint of glee in his dark eyes. Heâs actually enjoying this.
âYou have taken everything from me,â you sneer at him. âMy home. My family. My name. My future.â You inhale shakily, fighting back a sob. âBut you will not take away my allegiance.â
âDo you think that I wanted this?â Feyd-Rautha asks bitterly. âAnd donât pretend as if you didnât just forfeit that allegiance. To me. Have you already forgotten?â He touches your face, much to your chagrin. He crooks one finger under your chin and raises it. âNeed I remind you?â
âYouâre a monster.â
Feyd-Rauthaâs handsome features arrange into what you can only describe as satisfaction. âYes I am.â
You recoil as the Harkonnen then presses his lips to yours, holding your chin in place to keep you from shying away. Itâs brief, almost perfunctory in nature. A passionless, predatory claim.
He pulls away, and the subsequent sound of your slap reverberates through the empty corridor.
Feyd-Rautha clenches his jaw. Your hand stings from the strike, and you hold it at your side in anticipation of a retaliating blow. He rolls his neck. An eternity passes before he turns his attention back to you, pale cheek still reddened by your hand. It pleases you to notice it.
âWeâre even now. Wife.â
Feyd-Rautha snatches your hand, which until that moment the pain had been subdued by adrenaline. You wince. He kisses your already mottling knuckles, the sensitive skin of your wrist, never pulling his eyes from yours.
You refuse to react, to acknowledge the flicker of heat ignited low in your belly.
Feyd-Rautha drops your hand then and, as if nothing had happened, turns on his booted heel and starts down the opposite direction. âCome, wife. Itâs time I show you our quarters.â
Part 3
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These Destined Ends
Part 1
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. Youâre now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child â the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?
Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader
Word Count: 2.1k
Warnings: none for this chapter. Masterlist of warnings overarching the series
A/N: Hello! If youâre here then thereâs probably something wrong with you too, so letâs be friends. I havenât been able to write anything lately until I saw the latest Dune movie and then all of my thoughts became dedicated to Feyd-Rautha. I must get these thoughts out. Help. Me.
âChin up.â
Your mother brushes your hair back, bronze, like hers, and lifts your chin. Her gaze is critical. You stare back, thinking only of the things that she will find fault in you. An endless amount, you muse. The slightest flicker of expression on Lady Jessicaâs face informs you that she suspects what youâre thinking. Your teeth grit.
âMust you do that?â You hiss through your painted lips. The servants have dressed you specially for the occasion. A floor-length black dress and, settled on your shoulders, a red cape clasped together with the House of Atreides insignia.
Jessica withdraws her hand. Your mother radiates femininity and power, a feat youâve yet reached. Even the cool way in which she regards you drips with regality.
âDo what?â She asks, feigning innocence.
âDonât make me say it.â
Jessicaâs blue eyes harden. âYou donât have to, daughter. Itâs plain enough.â
Mother and daughter stare at one another.
She tried to teach you the ways of the Bene Gesserits, but you failed to take to it. You were too expressive, tooâŚvolatile. You struggled to detect the slightest change in voice, you could never sit still long enough to study, and your facial features always betrayed you. The only aspect you succeeded in was combat â there was no need to mask your feelings, your thoughts, able to just completely lend yourself to the blade.
But it wasnât enough.
âYouâre fortunate the Reverend Mother has chosen to see through with this arrangement,â Jessica all but snarls. âThereâs hope for you still, in form of an heir.â
The Kwisatz Haderach.
The only reason your mother still spoke to you, affords you any attention at all. The fact that youâve been painstakingly bred to produce him: a Bene Gesserit of male origin, capable of accessing the memories of his ancestors and see through time and space itself.
A terrible mantle for an unborn child.
In the black of night, you sometimes lay your hand on your abdomen and utter apologies to the egg nestled in your ovary; burdened with horrible purpose. If only you could avoid its fate. But you were not even in control of your own.
âI want to stay here,â you plea finally, pitifully.
Jessica steps away from you, brushes off her skirt. âYou know that you cannot.â
âI can help Father,â you insist. âYou know that he worries about gaining the approval of the Fremen. I can ââ
âEnough!â The Voice. It snaps your mouth shut and renders you mute. âThis is bigger than both of us.â Jessica snatches your upper arm, pulls you close enough to feel the heat of her anger. âYour father wanted a son. A heir. But it was my duty to produce a daughter. I ignored the pleas of your father because I understand what it is to serve. Donât make me regret my decision.â
You swallow your disgust, though it lingers like a foul taste on your tongue.
This isnât the first time that your mother has told you this. Nor did you think it would be the last.
Perhaps making a home among your enemies would be better than staying here among family.
âFine,â you say. You wrench your arm from her grasp then turn away. Itâs futile, you know the heighliner will be here soon to whisk you away, but you canât stand to be in the presence of your mother any longer. Fortunately she lets you go.
Youâre not even aware of where your feet are taking you until the familiar sound of the baliset meets your ears. Gurney rests lazily on the ground in the massive corridor, back against the wall and string instrument in his scarred hands. He doesnât look at you as you approach nor when you collapse down beside him.
Usually Gurneyâs situationally appropriate songs bring you a modicum of comfort, but today it seems more ominous than insightful.
âI wonât miss your singing,â you say.
He stops playing. âYou jest.â
Playfully, you crack open one eye and peer at his baffled expression. You try not to laugh. âI donât.â A sigh escapes your mouth then, and you slump further down, uncaring if you rumple your gown. âI will, however, miss the singer.â
âDonât bother appealing to an old man like me. It wonât get you anywhere.â
âHm,â is all you say, lost in thought.
Gurney sets the baliset to the side. His hand finds your knee and he squeezes. âYou will be fine, Lady Y/N. Iâve taught you well.â
âNot even what youâve taught me will suffice for what Iâm up against.â
âNonsense.â
Both eyes open now, you stare pleadingly at the swordsmaster. âJust come with me. Please.â
Itâs Gurneyâs turn to sigh. With a groan he heaves himself to his feet and offers you a hand. âYou know that I canât,â he murmurs.
His loyalty to your father doesnât extend to you.
He is Leto Atreides, Duke of Arrakis, after all. And you are just his daughter. A pawn. A womb and nothing more.
You reach out to ghost your fingers over the scar on Gurneyâs cheek. âTell me about them.â
The Harkonnens.
âThereâs nothing you donât already know or havenât learned from the filmbooks,â Gurney says to you in a terribly soft voice. Itâs unfitting of the great soldier. âThey are a cruel people. Do not trust them.â
You nod, irrationally devastated that your final plea to Gurney did not work. But his words were not anything new.
Nothing you learned about the Harkonnens has been pleasant â from their oppressive rule and misogynistic society down to their industrialized homeworld. Your chest aches.
First you were forced to leave the lush beauty of Caladan for Arrakis. You had even grown admittedly fond of the desert planet, just to yet again be snatched from another home.
âThank you, Gurney. For everything.â
He dips his chin in acknowledgment, then holds out his arm for you to take.
Gurney has been like a second father to you over the years. While Leto was out securing political alliances and holding meetings, it was Gurney who kept you company. He aided in your combat training and believed in you when no one else did. To lose him would be to lose a great friend, indeed.
By the time you return to the antechamber where youâd been, Leto has arrived. He looks as cunning and handsome as ever, and the smile he flashes you is enough to cut you to the bone.
If what Jessica said was true about your father wanting a son and being sorrowful he did not get one, you would never know. He has only ever made you feel loved.
âMy beautiful daughter,â he greets you. He smells wonderful. The same way he did all of those years ago when he would tell you stories of your grandfather and tuck you into bed, his beard tickling your cheek.
You breathe him in for one of the last times. âHello, father.â
âYou look marvelous,â he says. His smile falters slightly. âAre you ready? I wanted to ensure that youâve said your goodbyes before we leave.â
Bitterly, you think, Before I leave. Everyone else will return to Arrakis and you will be moored on Giedi Prime, married to a bloodthirsty monster and forced to grow round with his child.
The thought makes your knees tremble.
The Harkonnens controlled the fiefdom of Arrakis before your family and were unbelievably outraged that it, and the flow of spice, had been stolen from them. You couldnât even begin to imagine what your reception on their planet will be like. Itâs any luck if you donât get slaughtered upon arrival.
Especially since the Baronâs nephew, the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha â your betrothed â was known for his brutal nature. You hoped stupidly that the arrangement of marriage and promise of an heir would be enough to keep you alive.
At least for awhile.
Feyd-Rautha killed his own mother. Who knew what the status of wife meant to him?
âIâm ready as Iâll ever be,â you answer Leto. He squeezes your hand.
You hug Gurney goodbye then board onto the heighliner after your parents. Itâs difficult to suppress the tears threatening to fall as the ship takes off in a flurry of sand and departs.
Normally youâd be completely enraptured with the endless golden dunes, but today you stay rooted to your seat and refrain from crying.
The flight to Giedi Prime happens much too quickly for your liking. Already your heart is in your throat, hammering out your nerves in a steady rhythm.
The view from your seat reveals the strange nature of your new home â a black sun. Never again will you see the stretch of blue sky from Caladan or feel the formidable heat of Arrakis. The entire world outside the ship stood in sharp black and white contrast, all color drained from the surroundings and its people.
You spy hoards of Harkonnens gathering beyond the ship, awaiting the arrival of the na-Baronâs wife and their future Baroness.
Your stomach churns. How could you ever lead such ugly, wicked people?
Jessicaâs voice engulfs you. âChin up,â she says again to your dismay. âYou mustnât show any weakness. Not here.â
You raise your chin the slightest amount. Jessica nods stiffly in approval, and itâs in that moment you understand that your motherâs harshness has been preparing you for this. While you hardly feel the urge to forgive her, an odd sense of calm washes over you.
You are an Atreides. And you always will be.
No one can take that from you.
The boarding ramp disengages and youâre the first one to step onto it. A hush of silence befalls the crowds.
You stride forward with as much confidence as you can muster, focusing not on the leering eyes of the Harkonnens but instead on the Baronâs fortress. A large pathway separates you from it, granting you plenty of time to get your fill. Itâs as grand as it is excessively boastful; tall, pointed towers cleverly connected, all sharp lines and edges. It leaves the impression of a finely crafted dagger.
A display of power and wealth.
Behind you your parents emerge and the carefully observant crowd launches into disarray â shouts and yells of anger, of hatred, grate your ears. You know that they take it in stride, however, and their strength fortifies your own.
By the time youâve crossed the distance from the heighliner to the inner walls of the fortress, your eyes are blurried by the strong contrast outside now given away to darkness. It takes a few moments for you to adjust. When you do, you quickly look over your surroundings.
Thereâs few decorations or art. Itâs cold and impersonal and extremely clinical.
Your slippered feet reverberate off the high ceilings.
Bracing yourself, seemingly, has been for no reason. For itâs not the Baron and his nephew that meet you but rather a line of Harkonnen soldiers. Their faces are stoic.
You bristle. âWhere is the Baron? And my betrothed? Do they not wish to receive us?â
The soldiers do not answer.
A man appears then from down the hall, a Mentat by the look of him. Heâs pale and bald and clad in black like the other Harkonnens.
âMy apologies, Lady Y/N,â the Mentat says. âMy name is Piter de Vries. I am here to escort you. The Baron and na-Baron will receive you now in the throne room.â
Leto lays a hand on your arm as if to stifle your response. âPlease, Piter, lead the way.â
You canât help but glance curiously at your father. This entire situation was delicate, you knew, but you wonder at his subservience. Itâs an insult not to be immediately greeted by their hosts, especially when your guests happen to be the Duke of Arrakis, his concubine, and their daughter. If Leto agrees with this affront, though, he doesnât show it.
Leto simply strides after Piter with you and your mother in pursuit.
The fortress boasts sleek walls and floors, polished to perfection. Piter guides you to the throne room a short distance away, the sight of it stealing the breath from your lungs. Itâs larger than any room youâve seen before, outfitted on the far side with steps leading up to a grand dais.
And upon the dais, demanding your attention, is Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. The man is as large as the throne room itself but not nearly as impressive, pale and beastly, his enormous weight supported by suspenders. He makes no movement as you enter.
Your gaze moves quickly, eagerly, away from him.
Standing on either side of the dais are his two nephews. Aware that you canât stand to face your betrothed yet, you fix your attention on his brother. Rabban, you recall his name.
Rabban is bound with hard muscle and swathed in what you can only describe as thinly veiled anger. At his side, his fists clench and unclench restlessly.
Then, without permission, you look to your future husband.
Feyd-Rautha stands as tall as Rabban but roped instead with lean, attractive muscle. His brow sits above dark eyes and a generous mouth. Thereâs a frightening intensity to the way he stands, encapsulating both nonchalance and a dangerous arrogance. Clearly this man is used to getting his way and will stop at nothing to do so.
And itâs this man that makes no effort to disguise the way he studies you, starting at the top of your head and trickling languidly downward.
A chill dances down your spine.
When he catches this, catches you watching him â he mustâve known that you were â his lips twitch into the faintest of smirks.
Part 2
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just some designs mainly created because I wanted to draw hakama and then it spiral out from there
bald zuko under the cute
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One aspect of the story of Dune that the movies don't make super clear is that, before Paul, the Fremen already had a central leader figure in Liet Kynes. In the book, Kynes has a generations-long plan to gather enough water to transform the environment of Dune (this is why the Fremen have those big pools, they never get super clear about that), then retake the planet for the Fremen and create paradise. Paul showing up and then leaning into the whole Lisan al-Gaib bit pretty much directly gets Kynes killed, creating a power vacuum into which he assumes himself with the aid of his previously-unheard-of levels of white privilege. While Kynes was an ecologist, however, Paul comes from a family of colonial military aristocrats. All Paul can offer the Fremen is all he understands: revenge. Bloody revenge for everything they've endured in centuries of oppression by the Imperium, temporarily in line with the revenge he craves for the Imperium's attempts to control him and his family, and spiritually in line with the resentment built up all across this socially stagnant feudal space empire.
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