{ A/N: this is clearly the best dune ship. clearly. oh man, their relationship is so wholesome and family-friendly! i am so unable to handle the charming romantic escapades of jessica and piter that if their passionate affair were a tangible object, i probably would have picked it up, fumbled with it, and clumsily dashed it to the ground by now! theirs is a completely appropriate, intimate, totally not repugnant relationship and i think piter would have been better for jessica than leto ever w—

jk lol piter needs to get a hobby (that isn't murdering people) }

. . .

He envisions her hands, those soft, lily-white hands, laced sweetly around his throat — squeezing, tightening, choking — and bites his lip in a brief, precious moment of abandon. He truly has never wanted anyone so much as he wants her — and he does not simply want her body or her mind or her powers, but her anguish and pain as well. He wants to bask in it all, to watch her formidable training bend and waver and finally break beneath the power that he wields, and perhaps — perhaps — if he is so inclined, to give her control, if only for one agonizing, torturous, beautiful moment.

And then his training takes over again, Mentat mind smothering such wanton delusions, and he snaps back into reality, admitting — if only to himself — that it is a silly fantasy, one which will most certainly never become reality. Quashing the ridiculous reverie, he curses his stupidity, that burning, barely-restrained lust that is slowly and steadily and viciously blossoming into a glaring weakness.

But within an instant he again begins to succumb to her, stumbling back into that treacherous licentiousness in the back of his mind once more. He struggles with himself for a moment and fights it yet again, beating it back into submission, for he has allowed himself long enough to stew in these trivial fantasies. He takes a breath. His mind races, then calms, and it is all over in a fraction of a second; the only evidence of his internal struggle is a twitch, a tiny clench of the jaw, and then —

— nothing.

Once again, his mask has been restored.

Reassured at last that his acumen has been renewed, he returns to his work with a deft flourish of his blade. The splatter of fresh, hot blood that graces his skin is a welcome coolant.