These Destined Ends
Part Nineteen
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — 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: 4.5k
Warnings: MDNI, 18+. Fighting, Feyd eats ass and pussy, a little humiliation, violent sex, drowning(?)
A/N: I was really in the mood to write some unhinged sex, so, here we are. Surprisingly there is a lot of plot too
“For someone so…prolifically opposed to the Bene Gesserits, you aren’t working very hard to dismantle our ideas.”
Your mother’s voice slips over you, slick as oil. It takes an enormous effort not to keep walking and pretend like you didn’t hear her. She would just stop you, anyway, which is the only reason that you turn around.
“Go ahead and spit out whatever you’re trying to say. All of your riddles bore me.”
Jessica licks her tongue. “Hm, so cunning.” When you don’t say anything else, she draws up her shoulders and sighs. “You claim you don’t want to trick the Fremen and yet you are still dragging them into your fight.”
“This is their fight as much as ours,” you snap.
“It’s all apart of our plan.” Jessica spreads her hands wide. “They will follow you as the Holy Mother, and then they will follow your son as the Lisan al-Gaib. And if you’re successful in your endeavor against the Emperor…well.”
She smiles, the rest of her words going unspoken. We will rule the Known Universe.
A fist of regret forms in your stomach. “I want to liberate them. It is not my intent to keep them…under control.”
“Oh, but you’ll manipulate them to get your way first? Such a noble act. You’re just like your father.”
You tuck away this last insult to examine later, why it cuts you so deeply. Instead, you focus on how Jessica has said aloud your guilt, brought it to life in a way that you had been trying to ignore. No matter how hard you fight against the Bene Gesserits, you somehow end up still adhering to their false prophecy. An inescapable fate.
“What do you want from me?” You ask her. It’s repulsive how efficiently she can crumble your composure.
“To impart a reminder.” Jessica steps closer, sand crunching underfoot. “I did all of this for you, daughter. To protect you. And I will not tolerate your insubordination.”
“To protect me?” You echo, sneering.
Jessica’s laugh is dry and bitter. “You are not as cunning as you think. I married you to a man who would shield you with his life, fill your belly with his children — ensure you a status as a figure to be reveled. I made you a god.”
“You did nothing,” you say back, lacking any real conviction.
“You’ll understand soon. You might already, the depths that a mother’s love will go, and what we’ll do for our children.”
Jessica lifts a hand to touch your face, then thinks better of it. She must sense that this is the most devastating thing she could ever utter to you because she brushes past you without another word, leaving you open and bleeding.
You hate that she’s right.
That you’re playing into the Bene Gesserit’s design. But you see no other way to even glimpse freedom for the Fremen if not recruiting them in this self-made battle. Except it wasn’t self-made, your thoughts scream at you, it was the Baron and the Emperor.
Anger boils under your skin. You’re sick of others telling you what to do, dictating your life while you were pushed along like a leaf in a strong current.
“You need to eat,” Feyd chides you, bringing you out of your thoughts.
“Hm?”
“Eat.” He indicates your ration, which you haven’t even touched. “You need to be strong.”
You blink. You can’t even fathom eating right now, especially not with this much guilt churning in your stomach. Blurting out, you tell him, “I think I’m going to do something completely absurd.”
Feyd, who had been ravenously devouring his own ration until this point, pauses. He swallows.
“Alright.”
“Alright?” A smile tugs at your lips. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“I don’t care.” He leans back. “You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet. I suspected you were planning something.”
“You are either a wonderful husband or wonderfully stupid, Feyd-Rautha.”
“I’m told that I’m just all around wonderful.” Feyd’s eyes narrow. “Now eat.”
The plan unwinds from you between forced bites of food. It starts as a single thread that unravels itself until it’s all unspooled, leaving you to hold the pieces. A strange calm settles over you. You’re in control. Capable. Powerful.
Feyd gives you his support. Not that you believed he would do any different.
And when you reveal parts of your plan to Jessica, you frame it in a way to make amends with her. To be compliant. You have no way of knowing how convincing you are, but she lets you gather the Fremen to speak to them, all the while her blue-on-blue gaze watching you carefully as you ascend the slab of rock used to preside over sietch-wide meetings.
Feyd lingers a few feet behind you, Gurney not far from him, an uneasy truce between the two.
Beneath you, the Fremen gaze up with looks of awe; even Chani observes the proceedings with a look of interest.
You’ve earned their trust.
And now you’re going to take it away.
"The final days of our siege on the Emperor and his Harkonnen pets are upon us," you call out, voice booming, "I have never been so honored to walk alongside any other people, and I have the utmost faith in our victory."
You’re met with a cheer of approval.
It takes a moment for the crowd to quiet before you can continue. There's an electric current in the air, nearly infectious, the anticipatory thrill before battle. You hope that you're not making a mistake as you say, "To go into battle, you must trust your brothers and sisters, trust your leaders. I must confess that I haven't been honest with you."
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jessica move to stop you. Feyd, with cotton in his ears and anger in his eyes, doesn't let her get far.
The crowd rumbles, wary.
"I am not the Holy Mother." Sounds of confusion arise, which forces you to raise your voice. "I am a flaw in the plan of the Bene Gesserits. I failed to learn their power, and therefore, my child cannot be the Lisan al-Gaib."
"What? Is this true?" At Stilgar's emergence, the sietch stills.
You regard them as evenly as you can, throat constricting. "Yes."
"But you knew everything. All of the signs of the prophecy —"
"It was a lie. A ruse."
Stilgar's tremulous control of the sietch snaps. The Fremen riot this information, hurling insults, pushing and shoving and jostling like one enraged creature. You stand your ground. You knew this would be devastating to deliver, not nothing could prepare you for the raw portrayal on their tanned faces.
As planned, Feyd and Gurney ward off anyone who tries to get to you — Feyd slides twin daggers from the sheaths at his waist, metal glinting dangerously. The Fremen lurk, circling, but they do not engage, not when the na-Baron has now learned their ways atop his own lethal training.
You bear the weight of their fury as best as you can. Somewhere deep inside, you know that they have to expel this from their minds and their hearts before you can say anything else, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less. You commit each expression of betrayal to your memory. If they were going to suffer, then so would you.
The sound of shifting sand is your only warning before someone hurtles past you — Chani, somehow slipping past your defenses, only barely misses you as you step aside at the last possible moment. There's not enough time for you to recover from the surprise before her next attack, sweeping your legs out from under you. You fall, hard, on your ass but have enough forethought to scramble backwards.
"Chani, listen to me —"
"I knew we should've killed you when we found you in the desert," she hisses.
She advances on you and each step she takes you shuttle back, pain ringing out in your spine. Your son is safe, you can sense it, but you don't know how long that will last with Chani gaining on you.
"Chani —"
"We trusted you," she wails, "we trusted you!"
You manage to your feet, one hand going to your stomach. A fierce wave of protection washes over you, and you insist, "You still can."
Chani springs for you.
You gasp with shock as she seizes you, eyes wide with anger. "When will you stop fucking lying?"
"I'm not lying," you breathe out. "I am not the Holy Mother. I am Lisan al-Gaib."
Whatever she expects you to say, it's not that. She pauses, and you take the chance to slam your elbow into her throat. A choked sound escapes from her, but she releases you, and you stagger past her to reclaim your spot at the top of the rock. You don't have much time. If you don't say what you need to, then you'll lose them forever.
"Brothers and sisters!" Gripped with desperation, you shout, "I tell you this because I am not the Holy Mother. I am the Kwisatz Haderach. I am Lisan al-Gain. And I will lead you to freedom."
"She's lying!" Chani roars.
"The prophecy states that the Lisan al-Gaib's mother will be a Bene Gesserit, that the Messiah will take the name Muad'dib, take you into battle for your freedom and for a new Arrakis. Have I not fulfilled that? Have I not promised you those very things?"
The protests subside slightly. It might be to decide how best to kill you, but you seize the opportunity. "I should not have lied. I was afraid. I thought if I told you the truth, you would be mistrustful because I was with child, that I was wed to your enemy. I know my mistake, and I know that I can't retract it, but I beg for you to forgive me."
"How do we know if we can trust you now?" Stilgar asks, expression hardened.
"You don't, and I can't fault you for it. But if you let me, I will prove my sincerity in the following days, by defeating the Emperor and securing our rightful place in the Known Universe."
"Never," Chani snaps from behind you.
You let some of your emotions leak into your voice, "Then what will you do? If you dispose of me, there will be no Atreides bombs. You will have no weapon against the Emperor and the Sardaukar, the Baron and his own army. Do not be so blinded by your anger that you make a mortal error. Only together can we be triumphant."
While Gurney and Feyd work together to fend off the crowd of protesters, Jessica finds you, nearly toppling you from the rock and wrenching your arm from your shoulder. "What are you doing?"
You wrest your arm from her grip. Quickly, you flick your gaze over the revolting Fremen, over all of those you had grown close to, then return your gaze to her. "Making myself a god."
The water lays impossibly still. You stand at its edge, taking in the enormity of the subterranean pool. All of the lives of the deceased Fremen reside within, a watery tomb, untouched. How deep did it go? You imagine your life's water funneled into it, how small and insignificant it would be, barely a ripple on the surface.
Tomorrow, you would fight.
The Fremen returned their water to the sietch to be used one day in their new world, an endless cycle of resourcefulness and unity. How many lives would end here? How many lives to reach the new world that Kynes described?
You sigh, and the sound echoes throughout the cavernous space. There's a strange, tranquil calm here, silent and still when everything else has been a mess of noise. Even now, focused on the depth of the sacred pool, your mind races with worry and indecision. You just want it to stop.
Perhaps tomorrow would offer you peace.
The peace of the battlefield, your body acting on instinct and years of practice. You could handle that — bloodshed, death, being a weapon. You could not handle this new position of power you put yourself in, though. An act against the Bene Gesserits, but at what cost? You alone were to blame now for the inevitable jihad. But you protected your son from this fate, you put a cease to the lying and the deceiving, and now you could wrest the control that you always wanted.
The sound of heavy bootsteps rings out in the death chamber, scattering the handful of Fremen who had been working. You hadn't missed their pointed stares or the wide berth they gave you, but you were grateful nonetheless for their departure, especially since it was prompted by your husband. His presence, even at your back, anchors you instantly.
"You've been here awhile."
"Have you been watching me?" You ask, turning to place him in your peripheral, a sketch of black and white.
There's no mistaking the twitch of amusement on his features. "You're a fool if you think I ever stop."
Since the day that you proclaimed yourself as Lisan al-Gaib, Feyd had taken it upon himself to be your security detail. It's not unlike before, but now with more menacing stares. A second shadow, one that you love more dearly than your own. You smile. "Should I be flattered?"
"If you'd like." The metallic sound of his blades sliding into their sheaths precedes him, then his hand gently sweeping the hair off your neck. Feyd's mouth is warm at the top of your spine, the tiny amount of skin showing.
Your eyes flutter shut. "I can't believe it's finally here."
"Finally being the operative word," Feyd rasps, "I've waited a lifetime for it."
You turn to face him, heart panging. He's so beautiful like this, in this dark light, the blade before its whet on stone. You know from experience that this could change frighteningly quick, but you still appreciate these fleeting moments with him, that they're yours alone.
"Only one more day," you tell him.
His gaze searches you. "We have better ways to spend it than staring into this pool and analyzing our decisions."
Your cheeks burn. Of course he knew what you were doing. Your attention drifts from him to the sacred pool again, the expanse of water beneath the teeth of the stalagmites. "It's difficult when our decisions impact so many."
"I know, jewel."
It's this level of understanding that compels you to him, how he knows better than anyone else the dilemma you have. And he doesn't offer empty words or sympathy. Just...himself. His strength and his solidarity. And you want him, all of him.
Unable to go another second without touching him, you pull him into you and tilt your head, his mouth claiming yours without hesitation. One hand slides behind your head, cradling you, and he deepens the kiss. There's nothing soft about Feyd, nothing done without fervor, and you moan as he bites down on your lip. Taking your open mouth as invitation, he slips his tongue inside, brushing it over your own.
Molten heat erupts in your core. You wend your arms around his neck, matching his intensity and scraping your nails over the back of his head. He shudders, the familiar nudge of his cock stirring against you in response. Wanton, you grind your hips into him, eliciting a growl from deep within his chest. Feyd guides your hand to palm his hardened length. "Let me distract you."
"This isn't an effort to fuck me one last time before we die, is it? Because you only had to ask."
You squeeze his head through his pants.
Feyd inhales sharply, but the intensity on his face never wavers. "You won't die unless it's by my hand. And I'm feeling charitable."
"Is that because I have your cock in my hand?"
"It certainly helps."
You smirk. Although you're both aiming to keep the tone light, his message is clear — he won't let you die tomorrow. It's a promise he's made before, and one that comforts you in your lowest moments. There's other ways to declare your love, but this one was uniquely Feyd's.
You never would've thought that the promise of your death could sound so sweet.
In vain, you make an effort to free him from his stillsuit, but they're infuriating efficient at keeping everything out. You can't help it, you whine. With a chuckle that brushes over your spine, Feyd steps back to relieve you of your frustration, working the mechanisms of his suit.
The first hint of his bare shoulders has you clenching your thighs together like a virgin, wet already. You should've been ashamed at the immediate reaction, but you really don't care. Feyd slowly rolls the stillsuit down his chest. Your stomach swoops. He's corded with muscle, powerful arms flexing as he moves the stillsuit low on his hips. Cunt clenching and pulsing with anticipation, you watch him remove it, noting every inch of your husband's divine physique.
"Have I told you that you're beautiful?" You ask him. There's an array of thin, delicate scars across his skin that you trace with the tips of your fingers — older ones, ones that you've put there, the still-pink wound from the thopter crash.
Feyd's lips hitch. "You've called me many things, but that's never been one of them."
"Well you are," you tell him, "you're beautiful."
"Quit saying things as if you'll never have the chance to again." His tone is brusque. The expression on his face can only be described as tormented, anguished, undoubtedly confronted by the same reality of tomorrow.
It's not your intention to provoke him, but it spills out of you. "We don't know what's going to happen to tomorrow. Anything —"
"I'll tell you what's going to happen." Feyd grabs a handful of hair at the back of your head, pain lancing through your scalp. "We're going to slaughter those that wronged us, and I'm going to fuck you amongst their still warm bodies. But tonight, I'm going to remind you that no harm will come to you unless I inflict it."
Something breaks open in you at this. Feyd yanks your head back and the momentum sends you staggering, falling to your knees. He advances toward you and you eye his cock, curved and throbbing, veins black with his blood.
Feyd fists his shaft, giving it a lazy stroke as he watches you. "You get on your knees and instantly think you get this cock?"
"I —" your face burns. Isn't that what he wanted?
"Filthy slut," he murmurs, still stroking himself.
Heavy lidded, dark eyes swimming with glee, he orders you to turn around. You obey, and the air is snatched from your lungs when he pushes you forward onto your hands and knees, sand biting into your palms.
The water of the sacred pool trembles.
You're utterly vulnerable as Feyd starts to work the clasps of your stillsuit, fingers grazing over your skin in the most delicious way. The suit falls from your shoulders and you lift up each arm as he tugs it off, mouth following its path with open mouth kisses. He snakes around you to cup your breast, flicking one stiff nipple with his thumb.
The action sends a bolt of pleasure straight to your core. You bow into him, and Feyd massages you, alternating between flicking your nipple and rolling it between his fingers.
It's truly torturous when he revokes his hand to continue pulling your stillsuit off, and you whimper at the cool air in his absence. Soon he's tugging it around your knees and finally discarding it, leaving you vulnerable to his gaze. Quivering, whether with cold or anticipation, you bite out a yelp as he traces the seam of your ass, then the tight ring of muscles.
Feyd palms your ass, kneading it, forcing you to spread your legs further. He blows a stream of breath over your sensitive center.
"Shit, Feyd," you mutter, teeth gritting. You hate when he teases you, offering you only a taste of what he plans to do.
In reply, he circles the ring of muscles, then dips his other hand to greet your clit.
"You are the most beautiful," he rasps to you, ministrations making you squirm. "Especially like this, so desperate."
The warmth of his mouth ghosts down your spine, the cleft of your ass, before settling there. He kisses your entrance while applying pressure to your clit, one, then two fingers slipping inside your slicked folds. If you could howl without somehow disturbing the dead, you would, but the sanctity of this place keeps your mouth shut.
A laugh rumbles from him because he knows, he knows that you'll let him fuck you here but you'll still uphold your respect in this way. All of the worry and concern for tomorrow is chased away by the punishing effort of his mouth and fingers, replacing it with a lightheadedness, the predecessor to your orgasm.
He curls his fingers, twisting and turning them with practiced precision. Meanwhile he slurps from behind you, vigorous, eager, his spit combining with your arousal wetting you from front to back. Feyd continues to finger you while he flattens his tongue and licks up, circling the ring of muscles before flickering over it. You can feel yourself spinning closer and closer to your climax, stomach tightening and cunt throbbing.
"Do you want to come, jewel?" He asks, biting at your ass.
You cry out in surprise and then, panting, answer, "Y-Yes."
Feyd withdraws from you. He sucks his fingers clean, the sound driving another bolt of pleasure through you, before shoving your face into the sand and tilting more of you to him, hips shifting. This time he brings his attention to your cunt, implementing the same ferocity, lapping and feasting with dizzying effect.
He seals his mouth around your folds and sucks.
It doesn't take long for you to completely come undone, whimpering, shuddering with each wave of your orgasm. Feyd focuses on you until you're thoroughly spent, then releases you with a satisfying squelch. Gasping for breath, you would've collapsed if he hadn't been holding you upright. There's no time to recover, though, as he slips his hand back into your hair and inches you to the edge of the sacred pool.
Stars are still bursting behind your eyes. You stammer, "Feyd, what —"
"I hurt you because I love you," he rasps into your skin, pressing a kiss between the blades of your shoulders.
And then he forces your head underwater.
The pool is shockingly warm. But it's not enough to ward the chill of shock that washes over you: first, that Feyd would desecrate such a sacred site, then the twist of horror when he doesn't immediately release you. Bubbles escape from your mouth. Your eyes are open, you think, but you can't tell, it's pitch black beneath the surface.
As you expend the last of your air in a silent scream, your lungs pinch with panic — he's going to kill you now, he's going to drown you.
He yanks you back up right when you think that you might never take in another gulp of air. You sputter and gasp, wet hair clinging to you, using whatever measures necessary to keep yourself above the water. But Feyd overpowers you, and he ducks your head under.
This time you have some notion of preservation and keep your eyes and your mouth shut, even when your lungs scream in protest. It's all for nothing, though, when you feel him notch his cock at your entrance.
Feyd wrenches you up again. Through your gasping he growls out, "You are mine. In life and in death, jewel."
He slams into you up to the hilt. You have just enough time to cry out before he's dunking you back under, withdrawing and then slamming into you once more. The pain and pleasure entangle themselves within you, make it difficult to decipher one from the other, entirely infused.
Your survival instinct is yelling at you to fight and you thrash, desperate to rake air back into your lungs. But there's no mistaking the utter thrill of him pounding into your cunt over and over again, quite literally holding your life in his hand while he does it. Only Feyd could straddle this delicate line of control — only Feyd would you let hold such power, one infinitesimal decision away from ending your life for good.
And so it goes, Feyd rutting into you while intermittently releasing you from the pool's watery embrace. Sometimes he keeps you above the water for longer periods of time. At least, it feels that way, there's really no way to tell. Tears leak from your eyes and you cry and beg. No matter how much it makes your cunt clench, you can't turn off the part of you pleading for reprieve. And sometimes he keeps you under the water for eons, the edges of your vision darkening, but he always pulls you back up.
You're suspended in this constant ebb and flow. You have no sense of being, of time, no sense of whether you're coming or not even though there's waves of pleasure beneath the panic.
Feyd's cock swells inside you. You're sore already from his fervent thrusts, thighs quaking, but you know he's close to chasing his own release.
You flop down onto the wet sand as he finishes. Chest heaving, you squeeze your walls around him as he spills his cum in you. He lingers until he's done, then crawls by your side by the edge of the pool, where you're still trying to catch your breath and find some inkling of clarity. Feyd curls up beside you, pulling you into his arms and whispering praises in your ear.
Shivering, you allow him to envelope you, warmed by his rasping voice and the gentle touch of his hands over your bare skin. He brushes a thumb over the slight swell of your belly. You don't know how long you stay intertwined like that, both of you coming down from the high of your passion as the pool returns to its former stillness.
Frankly, you didn't want to know the repercussions you would face for treating the sacred place so vile. No one would know but the two of you, of course, and the countless people who had returned their water there. You say a quick prayer of forgiveness to whoever is listening as Feyd kisses you. At least you would both go to whatever Fremen hell together, which was the least you could ask. Just like he said.
In life and in death.
Part Twenty
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