"May thy knife chip and shatter."

You decide that she must know something that you do not—a piece of the prophecy that you were never told, or whispers in the Sietch that you've been deaf to, away from the high walls and deep, cool passages as your battles begin to drive further north.

You'll start small, you decide. Keeping yourself in his line of sight, periphery, earshot. Listening at his feet, sitting quietly at his prayers. Anything more and he may suspect something. He would be wise to. While you do not immediately relish the task, you find that the time spent in his company is not unpleasant. 

Stilgar is a kind man, a wise councilor. He cares deeply for his people, is ardent in his faith. 

And, in time, your presence piques his curiosity. 

Your evenings spent in silence shift to murmured questions—curiosities of your homeworld, fascination at the creature comforts you were once privy to. He teases you in the moments you struggle to adjust to Arrakis, to the life that you never thought you would come to know. 

But advice follows that teasing. He gives you the tools you need to thrive in the desert, to remake yourself as a warrior worthy of Sietch Tabr. 

You’d had strength enough already, cunning enough, but Stilgar roots you in rootless ground.

Is it any wonder that you begin to grow in your earnest attraction to him? That you keep to his side more than you keep to Paul’s, that you seek him out when you lose sight of him in battle? That you put your tent beside his when you camp, only to begin sneaking into his tent when the others are asleep? That you curl up beside him and feel his fingers sweep across your cheek as you drift off, as he murmurs something in Chakobsa that you can’t understand?

Is it any wonder that on a bold night, you get into Stilgar’s tent before he does, and lie naked on his bed roll to wait for him? 

Is it any wonder that when he steps inside, he pauses for only a moment before he begins to strip out of his stillsuit?  

-- 

Maybe it’s how wet you are already—maybe it’s been a while since he’s been with or tasted a woman. His knuckle traces up your slit, his tongue tracking the same path. You feel the push of his breath across your heated skin as his eyes slip closed.

The way he presses his face against you makes you gasp, the way his tongue probes your pussy makes you squirm. His hands clamp down on your hips, pinning you in place as he buries his face between your thighs. 

He makes few sounds, tongues lower to catch every bit, every drop of your juices. Your hand slides into his hair, but you don’t try to guide him one way or another. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. The way Stilgar tastes you is so singular in focus. You’re almost certain Rabban Harkonnen could come into the tent now and he would take no notice. 

You’ve hardly seen him more reverent at anything but his prayers. The only thing more devastating than his touch is how consciously focused each swipe of his tongue is—as if he’s not trying to satisfy you as much as he’s trying to ensure that not a single drop goes to waste. 

He works you up, brings you to and leads you over the edge over and over until you’re whining and pleading, pushing his head away. It’s only then that he climbs over you, slotting his cock against your pussy and grinding against your sensitive clit. 

“Thank you,” He murmurs against your lips, “For the gift of your body’s moisture.” 

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