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seresinhangmanjake · 22 days

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Becoming His

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x concubine!reader

Summary: Feyd chooses you as his concubine

Notes/Warnings: Smut (but not an overwhelming amount), so 18+. Possessiveness (ownership of other human beings and whatnot). It changes from third person perspective to second person, so i’m sorry if that irritates some people, but I just thought that it expressed the feelings of the story better, considering the tonal switch. This is based on a request. Sorry if there are typos.

It can be read as stand-alone, but it goes along with the following fics: His, Don't Touch What's His, and Only His. This fic takes place before any of those.

Words: 2400

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd was sent for peace. The Baron sees use in House Wallach and very specifically instructed his favorite nephew to arrange a deal. With House Wallach’s planet producing items of value, the Baron would not attempt domination over their world in exchange for those items. That seemed fair—as fair as the Harkonnens get—but if one party fails to deliver, consequences follow. Sometimes, that means the taking of other items of value.

They aren’t prisoners of war—they can’t be considered such when war did not actually occur—but they’re close enough: women taken from their home planet after their leaders failed to protect them, leaving them weak and vulnerable and unprepared for what their new lives will thrust upon them. For the first time in their blip of existence, they are a foreigner's property; the most humiliating of circumstances for women of their status: three high-ranking handmaids, the live-in bene gesserit, and the daughter of their Lord and Lady. And Feyd has to choose one.

“It’s within your right,” the Baron tells him. “And expected. To turn them away without taking one for yourself would be a showing of weakness.”

Feyd scans each one. He supposes they’re all appealing in their own ways. The handmaids were raised to obey, an ability Feyd would have them exercise often. The bene gesserit has knowledge beyond her years. And the benefits of owning an heir of a Great House can be summed up by title alone.

However, they have their faults as well. The handmaids aren’t particularly beautiful, and as they stand there, shaking, huddled together, with their eyes down and chins tucked into their chests, Feyd finds them grossly undesirable. If he wanted a mouse, he would take one of his own servants.

The bene gesserit, regardless of appearance, is a witch whose most vital loyalty will belong to the Reverend Mother and her followers before House Harkonnen—a traitorous snake in the making. He cannot have a woman in his bed that he will be unable to trust.

The one remaining, the Lady, she’s fearless. He can see it already in the set pout of her pretty lips. He doesn’t like fearlessness; it’s disrespectful, potentially disobedient, but at the same time, she encapsulates everything else he could want: a face he doesn’t hate to look upon, to say the very least; nobility, a reminder that he claimed something invaluable to an entire planet; and perhaps most intriguing: she’ll be a challenge—not easily torn down—and the more he looks at her, the more the others fade into nonexistence.

Feyd steps closer to her, drawn in by delicate features, and waves of hair, and luscious curves.

“This one,” he says.

With those two words, a spark shoots across her irises. Her knitted brow soothes. Her mouth, now unburdened by the weight of the pout, twitches up in the corners. There’s a hint of a dimple in her right cheek that is there and then gone, taken from him before he can fully understand why his heart thumped at the sight of it.

“Fine,” the Baron replies.

Commanding his guards, he says, “Rid of the others,” prompting gasps and tears of fear, and even Feyd is unsure what will become of them. Slaves? Entertainment in the arena? Perhaps his uncle will let him feed them to his pets.

To his servants, the Baron says, “Clean her up.”

And to his nephew, he says, “She’ll be brought to you later,” just before two small Harkonnen women take her by the arms and lead her away.

—

He thought all afternoon of the noises he would soon be forcing from you. The yelps, the squeals, the cracking from your grinding teeth. Everyone’s flesh makes a unique sound when sliced open, and he imagined what sound your flesh would make. The masterpiece your face would be after your tears melt your makeup he’d be proud to claim as his work.

But then his servants bring you to him. They push you through the door and position you in front of him before skittering away, and in the silence they leave behind, Feyd can only detect his own heartbeat.

He liked you in the pinkish-toned clothing traditional of your house—it made you stick out amongst the darkness surrounding you, like uncorrupted sweetness in its last moments—but in Harkonnen black, you’re something else entirely.

He’s read of goddesses and angels, deities and divine spirits lost with those who once worshipped them, and he always wondered how such beings cultivated mass devotion without the consistent doling out of immense pain. But he gets it now. He understands the draw of the ethereal.

After minutes of staring, his eyes feel dry, scratchy; he needs to blink, he needs to close his parted mouth, but he can’t, nor can he form a coherent thought separated from the way your hair frames your face and how the silk cascading down your body doesn’t do a perfect job of hiding everything underneath. Touch. He wants to touch. Run hands over soft skin. Press his lips to–

He stops himself. That’s wrong. He is meant to sink his teeth into you. He should be digging his nails into flesh, draining blood, staining sheets, licking tears from cheeks like the men before him have done to their concubines.

She’s yours, so train her well—that’s what his uncle said, and Feyd knows for a fact that the Harkonnen method of training a woman is devoid of anything but pure torture. Harkonnen training is rough, crude, brutal on the body and mind to break someone down. Only the strong build themselves back up into warriors—like he did—and concubines are not meant to attempt that feat.

“Am I going to stand here all night?”

Your voice sends a chill down his spine, yanking him out of his head. He finally blinks. As his eyes meet yours, he swallows and says, “Do you want to stand there all night?”

“Not particularly,” you tell him. “And I don’t think your servants spent hours fixing me up just so I can take post like a statue at the foot of your bed.”

He wouldn’t mind a statue in your likeness, actually. He’d feel a lot less conflicted if he had two of you at his disposal; one for what a concubine is meant for, and one unaltered from the way you are right now—no pain in your eyes, no quiver to your lip, no marks marring your skin.

“They did not,” he confirms.

He pushes off the desk he had been leaning against and uncrosses his arms as he steps toward you, stopping just before colliding with your body. Your head tilts back, and he knows he is supposed to smirk at your powerlessness; his eyes should be pouring with the promises of a painful future, but he can’t access that otherwise always-accessible emotion. The hatred is not quite there. The vile pool of black sludge that has resided within him from the moment he pierced his mother’s throat with a blade has started to drain because of the doe eyes that stare up at him.

“I’m not scared of you,” he hears, and for a second, he cannot tell if the words came from your mouth or from his. But you don’t reply, so that must be his role.

“It's stupid not to be scared of me.”

“Maybe,” you say, your head cocking, “but you don't look at me like you want me to be scared of you.”

That right there—he should kill you for that. You see too much. He wonders if you see his thoughts as well. He doesn’t need a woman with eyes that see more than what is tangibly in front of her.

Instead of his body operating on its own, he has to force his hand to wrap around the neck of the threat before him. But five seconds of the delicate column in his grasp goes by, and then ten, and then fifteen, and his fingers have yet to squeeze any tighter. Surprise is etched onto your face, but it’s different. It’s not the look of a woman suddenly in a vulnerable position. By the way your eyes trail from his face to bicep to forearm, it’s more like you’re shocked that his touch is as warm as it is, as if you expected the paleness of his skin to mean hot blood does not course through his veins.

Tentatively, your hands reach up until your palms are cupping his cheeks. He can’t bring himself to jerk away as your tongue slides out to wet your lips and you rise on your toes. You gently tilt his head down to yours, and then you brush your mouth over his.

Feyd’s lungs tighten in his chest as you do it again. The hand around your neck slides into your hair, holding your head in place so he can take more, kiss harder. But it’s not long that he’s devouring your taste before he comes to his senses and shoves you away.

“Stop that,” he spits, his brow drawn. “I did not tell you to do that.”

Your teeth trap your bottom lip. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Lay on the bed,” he says, then quickly adds, “On your stomach.” It’s better that way. If he isn’t focusing on you, your eyes, your lips, then he won’t be distracted from his own pleasure.

You don’t hesitate to do as he says, and you walk past him to the mattress. He doesn’t turn to watch you shed your thin gown, fearing what the combined vision of face and bare body will do to him, so he works on removing his own clothes, facing you only once he hears the shifting of the coverings on his bed.

Your arms are bent, hands overlapped under your head as you wait for him to join, and after taking in the curvature of spine and the dip in lower back before the swell of bottom, he does, settling behind you.

He doesn’t know where to start. There’s so much to take in and he does his best to memorize it all until, eventually, he lets his palm slide up the center of your back. When it causes you to shiver, he rips his hand away.

“It wasn’t bad,” you tell him. “I’m fine.”

Feyd hums in a manner intended to come off much more displeased than it does. He didn’t ask if you were fine, and a scolding is on the tip of his tongue for even suggesting the idea, but the piece of him that knows he would’ve stopped if you had said the opposite keeps the words from reaching past his throat.

Feyd tries once more, this time placing his hand at your hip for purchase as he guides himself inside of you with the other. With great effort, he swallows his gasp before he falls forward on clenched fists that press into the mattress on either side of your breasts.

You’re warmer than he expected. Tight and slick and warm, and amidst the sensations that take over his entire being, he somehow manages to find enough clarity to question the normalcy of your body.

Harkonnen women aren’t warm like this. Warm, yes, but your warmth is more comforting, more engulfing. He’ll feel an unpleasant chill when he removes himself from you and so decides it might be best to stay right there inside of you for as long as he can. But after he hears the little sound you make through the ringing in his ears, he doesn’t know how much longer that will be.

He pulls out slightly and then pushes in, and he receives another of your sounds, louder this time. Your hips lift an inch off the mattress, pushing back into his. He thrusts again and his brain fuzzes. When he shoves in deeper, you yelp at the spot he hits and he loses his mind entirely, left with the sole desire to see how many notes he can get you to sing for him. He finds there are many more, and as you continue to belt out a chorus along with each of his movements, he suddenly thinks: fuck everything else. Fuck the things he is supposed to be doing to you. Fuck the lessons he is supposed to be teaching you. Fuck the training that is supposed to be putting you in your place. He needs to see you.

Your head lifts and you look back at him as best you can when he leaves your body. “Why did you st–”

“Turn over,” he demands with heavy breaths.

“What?”

You’re not fast enough. His hands firmly grip your hips and he flips you onto your back, spreading your legs and stuffing himself back inside of you. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter. Your mouth stays perfectly parted as you reach over your head to tighten your fingers into the pillow.

That’s exactly what he wanted, and that’s all it takes to shun his cares for anything other than the way you look beneath him. His chest meets yours and he darts his tongue out to lick the bottom of your upper lip before capturing your mouth with his. You kiss him just as much as he is kissing you. You touch him as much as he is touching you. Your legs wrap around him, taking everything he has until his hips stutter and he’s coating the walls that are milking him with each pulsating squeeze.

He pulls out with ragged breaths, body falling beside yours, and as you both stare at the ceiling, his mind finally clears with the sudden realization that what he just did might’ve stolen some of his power and handed it to you. You know of the Harkonnens’ cruelty—everyone does—but what he gave you was not that, and he cannot allow you to get the wrong impression.

“You're mine,” he reminds you. “I own you. You follow my orders. Don’t irritate me. Don’t speak unless I am the one speaking to you. You go where I tell you to go. You do what I want you to do. And don’t get any ideas that you’re not disposable to me.”

Minutes pass in silence, but then you say, “What happens if you end up liking me?”

That question hits him right in the gut. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what the fuck happens if he likes you more than he already does. It won’t do him any good; he knows that.

His back teeth clench. “I won't,” he says. “So don’t ever ask me that again.”

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #austin butler #dune 2 #feyd rautha fic

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zaldritzosrose · 4 months

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Can't Stay Away Part 2 (Feyd-Rautha x Princess!Reader)

Summary: Second daughter of the Emperor and you were well used to being ignored in favour of your sister. That was, until you met Feyd-Rautha, nephew to the Harkonnen Baron. A tourney of old, bringing back the traditions of champions and favours brought him to your side - but how close would he stay?

TW: Minors DNI, She/Her pronouns, afab reader, mild mentions of neglect towards reader (ignored in favour of Irulan), Feyd being a badass, face sitting, cunnilingus, fingering, lashings of sexual tension, reader enjoying a blood covered Feyd, Irulan being a little bit of a bitchy sister.

Part 1 Here

(Maybe a part 3, we'll see)

Words: 2689

The air was thicker than ever as Feyd finished preparing himself for the tournament. You had helped him repaint his torso before fitting the lightweight and black armour to his body. There had been something so intimate, ignoring your encounter earlier, in the whole situation.

Preparing your champion for battle. Watching as he selected his weapons and psyched himself up for the impending battles. He was fascinating to watch, you realised. And it only made you more excited for what was to come.

“My father has decided we are to publicly show our favour,” You mused, as Feyd hooked his blades into his belt.

You remembered the tradition of favours from the fairytales you had read as a child. A lady would give her champion something special, a sign of her support and luck. Back then, you had found the whole idea ridiculous. But now? The idea that you could publicly claim Feyd as yours, in some way, was enticing.

Soon, you left Feyd to finish his preparations, feeling his eyes on you as you walked back towards the guest chambers. It was only then that you noticed the black smudges of paint on your dress. Your feet moved faster, not wanting anyone to see you in such a state.

You arrived quickly, opening your wardrobe to find an appropriate dress to wear. Your typical choices were far more feminine in fabric than Irulan. Where she chose metallics, more structured pieces for public outings, you preferred softer looks. Flowing gowns that accentuated your figure. Pearls and silks in a myriad of light tones. Always with a hood or veil to match.

Several options were spread out on your bed when you heard a gentle knock on your door. With curiosity, and wrapping your robe tighter around your body, you opened it.

A Harkonnen servant stood waiting, the girl barely looking you in the eye as she handed you a note.

“It is from Feyd-Rautha, princess,” she said so softly you barely heard it, but you took the note and thanked her.

As she left, you pushed the door closed and quickly read.

My princess, not that I wish to command you, but I have one request. Please, for me, would you wear something white. Something to make you stand out on this dark planet. You look so very beautiful in white. Like a goddess sent to tempt me. That is my request. F.

You read the note twice more. He wanted you in white? There was something more to the request and you knew it. But you could not quite figure it out. You had a few options. White was a colour quite synonymous with you, pearls being your favourite jewel as a result.

You looked at the note again. ‘Stand out’ he had said. Asking you to make yourself known. It was something you were quite unfamiliar with, in truth. Having always lived in the shadow of Irulan, you were well versed in fading into the background.

But this was your chance.

You made your choice, picking a gown you had only worn once before. A more fitted design, strewn with layers of pearls that accentuated every dip and curve of your body. As was usual for you, and your sister, you chose an accessory to cover part of your face. But instead of a veil, you opted for a lower face cover, made of silver chains and jewels to match your dress. Feyd wanted you to stand out for him, and there was every chance of that in this.

Something about the choice made you feel powerful. Like you were finally taking a stand. Even if it was a small step.

Feyd stood stock still at the doors to the arena. The first round was being announced and he could hear the murmurings of other warriors in the surrounding chambers. Melee style fighting was first. Each champion would fight, to the death, until the fight was called to an end. The round that followed would consist of any of those champions that remained.

He twirled the blades between his palms, anticipation making his whole body feel like it was on fire. Combat was what he lived for, and these opponents would be a welcome challenge. What excited him more, was knowing you were watching.

Soon, his name was called, and he strode out to the chants of his name, raising his two blades in the air in response.

All eyes fell to you as you entered the room. Everyone from your sister and father to the Baron and his attendants stared. You knew why, and you could not stop the small smile the pulled at your lips.

You sat beside Irulan, who was quick to whisper in your ear.

“You picked Feyd-Rautha? Sister, he is a psychopath…” Irulan whispered harshly, low enough for only you to hear and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Psychotic or not, he is an excellent fighter. Is that not the point of this, to choose the best?”

Irulan scoffed and you ignored her. Feyd had been nothing but kind to you since you had arrived. More than kind in fact. And you were buzzing with excitement at the idea of seeing him fight. There was a feeling, deep within you. Like you needed to be near him.

The announcer called Feyd’s name, and you nearly flew from your seat to lean over the balcony to watch his entrance.

Feyd strode around the arena with confidence. But his eyes searched only for you and soon he found you. The pearls on your dress shimmering under the black sun of Giedi Prime. You looked perfect. Just the push he needed to truly show off, your words from earlier ringing in his ears.

“Win for me, and you can have any part of me you wish.”

He no longer just wanted to win, he needed to. Purely for that promise. He knew he was capable, but he was more determined now than ever.

The announcer began to introduce the fight and Feyd waited for you to look at him. Neither of you hearing the announcer’s words as you looked at each other. But all eyes fell to Feyd when he dropped to a bow for you, making a show of offering himself and his blades to your name.

You leaned over the balcony wall, despite Irulan’s protests and made sure everyone and Feyd could see you. There was no hiding whose champion he was now.

The fight began with a loud bang of a drum, and you watched intently, eyes following Feyd’s every movement. It became clear quickly that there were few others in the arena that could match him for skill. His first two opponents were dispatched quickly, staining the ground below with streaks of blood.

And the rest of the fight continued much the same, Feyd cutting through enemy after enemy with what seemed like pure joy on his face. Blood staining his forearms and face and you found yourself enjoying the sight more than you expected.

You watched as most of the ladies, Irulan included, turned away from most of the gore and violence. You, however, watched every second. Something about it all fascinated you. Especially Feyd. The way he moved, like a predator stalking prey. Cutting down each one with precision and skill.

It was not long before the fight was time out. Leaving only five champions of ten remaining. Feyd included, of course. He wiped his blades on the fabric of his trousers as he was ushered back to the holding room.

You sat back in your chair, letting out a breath you had not realised you were holding.

“Do you really not find this exciting?” you asked, turning to Irulan and the other ladies.

“Watching men fight for our favour and affection?”

Every single one of them looked at you like you were insane. How could you possibly enjoy something like this? It was not that you enjoyed the death per se, but the skill and precision of it all. Watching people who had trained for years show off their skills was exhilarating.

The second round was much the same as the first, though less contenders. And it was clear that some had advantage over the others. It lasted far less time than the first, with Feyd soon coming out as the blood-stained winner.

You stood at the balcony as he was named the winner, the ultimate champion and he repeated his bow from before. But this time you returned it, dipping your head in thanks to your champion.

Feyd was lead from the arena and you did not hesitate to demand to know where he was to be taken.

“You are not going to him.” Your father turned to you, speaking to you for the first time since you arrived.

“And why not, I have every right to congratulate my champion. Would you deny Irulan if her man had won?”

Your father huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. You knew he would not argue, because there was little point. You were stubborn, much like him.

His silence was taken as permission, and you quickly hurried after the guard. You were led down a series of steps before arriving at a room similar to where you had painted Feyd earlier. Except this time, there was a square bath and a bed in the corner. You assumed, then, this was where warriors were allowed to relax after the arena.

“My lord Feyd, the princess is here for you,” the guard called out before leaving you alone to wait.

But you did not have to wait long.

“Princess, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Feyd asked, smirking as he made his way over.

He had yet to remove his armour or clean the blood from his skin and it was a sight that sent a jolt of desire down your spine.

“I believe I owe you a reward, you did win after all.”

Feyd’s smirk widened, forgoing cleaning the blood from his hands and tossing the towel to the side. In a few steps, he closed the distance between you, stopping short just a hair’s breadth from your lips.

“You wore white.”

It was not a question, but it did not feel like a simple statement either. It was like he was thinking aloud.

“You asked me to,” you replied simply, and Feyd raised a brow at you in curiosity.

His hands trailed softly over the layers of pearl, fascinated by each string as it draped over you. You ignored the small red streaks he left behind, it was worth it to have him touch you.

“And I believe your reward is your choice?”

Feyd stopped his exploration at your waist, instead wrapping an arm around you and pulling you tight to him. The tension was back, lingering just below the surface. You had felt it when you first met him. The way he stared, the lingering kiss to your hand. Something had simmered even then and it was almost back at boiling point.

He considered his options for a moment, wondering just what you were willing to let him do.

“A princess deserves a throne, yes?”

You barely stifled the surprise giggle that left you, watching him as he walked over to the bed. Your head tilted as he laid down, stroking a thumb over his lips as he spoke.

“Claim your throne, my princess.”

You hesitated for just a moment and Feyd sat up with a smile. You wondered if he could possibly mean what you thought he meant.

“Don’t overthink it. I have chosen my reward. Sit on my face and let me taste that royal cunt.”

You felt desire fill you at just those words. Something about the directness of it had your skin flushing and heat pooling between your thighs.

“Well, I can’t deny my champion his prize.”

You moved to the bed, watching as Feyd laid back down and waited for you. Your dress wasn’t exactly designed for movement like this, so you made quick work of removing it. Feyd on the other hand, was still clad in his armour. Deep red blood remained on his hands and face. Yet you did not mind.

Now fully bare, you crawled up the bed, not missing the hungry stare Feyd gave you. His hands were quick to tug you to where he wanted you. Large hands found your waist and helped you hover yourself inches above his face. You could feel the heat of his breath on your skin and the anticipation was eating away at you as you waited.

Feyd took his time, holding your waist tight as he inhaled the scent of you. He could feel the heat of your core already and he had not even begun. With slow licks of his tongue, Feyd took his first taste. But just that feeling had your eyes rolling back. It was not the first time you had taken a lover, but it was the first time you had been in this position.

“Feyd..” you breathed out as he took another long swipe between your slick folds, teasing you.

You could feel him smirk against you, and you wordlessly willed him to keep going with your soft, breathy moans.

Feyd was in heaven, if he believed in it. The taste, the heat, everything about you was divine and he was slowly losing what little restraint he had left. With a sharp tug, he brought you flush to his face, burying himself deep within you with a growl. His tongue was relentless now, soon finding a rhythm that had you moaning his name over and over.

“You taste divine, princess, I would fight a hundred men if this was my reward…” he muttered against your skin, switching from long licks to wrapping his lips around your bud.

Your hands quickly found purchase on the bedframe while his wrapped around your thighs, spreading the wider as he began to alternate between lapping at you and suckling hard on your bundle of nerves. Every sensation was overwhelming, and you could do nothing more than moan and pant his name.

Feyd could not get enough. His own arousal strained against his trousers, but he did not care. His sole focus was you. Desperately working to have you come apart for him, to drench his face as you peaked.

Your nails scratched across his scalp as he growled deep into you, feeling the first pulses of your impending orgasm. And it only spurred him on. The wet sound of his tongue against your folds and the sounds of your moans filled the room as he pulled you down closer. As close as he could get you and it still did not feel like enough.

Feyd was quick to add his thumb to your pearl as he felt your thighs twitch either side of his head, telling him you were close.

“Feyd..oh..yes…keep going please…” you were near incoherent as he sped up, the bridge of his nose now pushing so deliciously against your bud that you near screamed as you came.

“That’s it, princess…” he cooed, slowing his motions but not removing his tongue from your depths.

He wanted to drink down every drop, commit your taste to memory. With a grunt, he pulled away, smirking at the mix of dried blood from battle and your slick as it stained your inner thighs.

He helped you roll to the side, wiping his face on the back of his hand before kissing you gently. You looked so beautiful, a look of blissful satisfaction on your face. The look in his own eyes was intense.

He knew he could not keep you at his side, but he had never quite felt like this about anyone else. Like he needed you near him. Like he would not be able to stay far from you.

What he did not know, was that you felt the same. It felt strange, being so desperate for someone you barely knew. But it was you who voiced what you both felt. Though no words could truly describe it.

“I fear I can’t stay away from you…”

@blissfulphilospher @tumblin-theworldaway @lady-phasma @anjelicawrites @aemondsbabe

@alexagirlie @avidreader @connorsui @kaelatargaryen @reemoony

@wo-ming-bai @mamawiggers1980

#feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd rautha #feyd rautha smut #feyd x you #x reader smut #x reader insert #dune fanfiction #feyd smut

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andy-15-07 · 6 months

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Forbidden Bonds

masterlist ! pairing Feyd-Rautha x reader

SUMMARY : Y/n is Princess Irulan sister and she falls in love with Feyd Rautha

Dune Masterlist

In the opulent halls of the Imperial Palace on Kaitain, Princess Y/N, sister to Princess Irulan, found herself drawn to a figure that stood at the center of intrigue and danger—Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic heir of House Harkonnen.

As the daughter of the Emperor, Y/N was accustomed to a life of privilege and duty, her every move dictated by the expectations of her royal lineage. But in the shadows of the palace corridors, she found herself yearning for something more—a taste of freedom, a glimpse of passion.

One fateful evening, as she attended a lavish gala in honor of her sister's betrothal to another nobleman, Y/N's eyes met Feyd-Rautha's across the crowded ballroom. There was an intensity in his gaze, a magnetism that drew her in like a moth to a flame.

Approaching him with cautious steps, Y/N found herself ensnared by the allure of his presence. "Feyd-Rautha," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "you are a mystery I am eager to unravel."

Feyd-Rautha, with his customary confidence, offered her a charming smile. "And you, Princess Y/N, are a vision of beauty that has captured my heart."

In the midst of the swirling dancers and whispered conversations, Y/N and Feyd-Rautha found themselves drawn into a dance unlike any other. Their movements were fluid, their gazes locked in a silent exchange that spoke volumes of the forbidden attraction that simmered between them.

As the music swelled and the world faded away, Y/N and Feyd-Rautha found themselves lost in each other's arms—a fleeting moment of freedom amidst the constraints of their respective worlds.

But their stolen moment of passion was not to last. As whispers of their clandestine encounter spread through the palace, Y/N's father, the Emperor, grew increasingly suspicious of her affections.

Confronted by her father's disapproval, Y/N was torn between duty and desire, between the expectations of her station and the longing of her heart. But in Feyd-Rautha's arms, she found a sanctuary—a refuge from the pressures of her royal lineage.

"I cannot deny the pull I feel toward you, Feyd-Rautha," Y/N confessed, her voice trembling with emotion. "But our love is forbidden, a flame that threatens to consume us both."

Feyd-Rautha's gaze held a mixture of determination and longing. "I would defy the entire galaxy for you, Y/N. Our love may be forbidden, but it is also undeniable."

As the palace walls closed in around them, Y/N and Feyd-Rautha made a pact to defy the constraints of their worlds—to carve out a future where their love could flourish, unburdened by the expectations of others.

But as they stole one last embrace beneath the moonlit sky, they knew that the path ahead would be fraught with challenges and sacrifices. For in a world where power and politics reigned supreme, their love was a delicate flower, threatened by the looming shadows of betrayal and deceit.

Yet, as they parted ways, their hearts intertwined in a bond that transcended the boundaries of their worlds. For in each other's arms, Y/N and Feyd-Rautha found a love that was worth fighting for—a love that would defy empires and endure for eternity.

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dreamlandcreations · 6 months

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Enemy of my enemy masterlist

Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Reader

Summary: You offer the Harkonnens an alliance...

• Feyd-Rautha masterlist • Main Masterlist • Moodboards masterlist •

Chapter 1 • Faded dreams Summary: You risk your life to find out what your dreams mean…

Chapter 2 • The enemy

Chapter 3 • Common cause

Chapter 4 • Unlikely friendship

Chapter 5 • Home away from home

Chapter 6 • First attempt at peace

Chapter 7 • Snake in our midst

Chapter 8 • The poison in our blood

Chapter 9 • As written

• Feyd-Rautha masterlist • Main Masterlist • Moodboards masterlist •

• Taglist •

#series masterlist #feyd #feyd rautha #feyd rautha x reader #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha x you #my stuff #my fics

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nocturn-warrior · 2 months

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Cw pregnancy, lactation, drugging. Kinda inspired in @austinbutlerslovers 's feyd fantasy

@harkonnen-darkness

I love the idea of Feyd Rautha drinking his baroness milk in Arrakis before and after he is goes to fight the fremen.

Imagine you stay all day long your chambers in Carthag because Feyd doesn't allow you to go outside (Feyd is creepy but the Baron is creepier) receiving comfort, sleep, good food and water which may or not be filled with lactating hormones.

You have just accepted your fate as Feyd's breeder and you don't complain at all. All you do is relax and allow yourself to be spoiled.

Then your beloved Feyd arrives exhausted all covered in dust, mind filled with thoughs about your pregnant body tantalizing in front of him and your sweet milk in his taste buds.

He takes a quick bath and snuggles in bed. Over heated body contrasting against the sheets and your own that reflects the cool temperature of his home planet. He feels weak, legs trembling from the insolation, his skin burns. This is no long a craving, but a need.

You recognize that pithless way your husband lays his head on your bosom. He tucks the elastic cleavage of your nightgown under your painfully full breasts before giving them a good squeeze to see if they are actually full. And when a soft moan echoes through your throat, a languid smile leaves Feyd's plump lips before he attaches them onto your nipple, sucking on them and drinking every drop of your milk.

With your hand behind his neck, you start to caress the folds formed on his nape as his hand slips down to caress the underside of your bump. You tell about your day, chat about random things you've read in the books left in your chambers and how you would like to name your child.

Soon, the pumping on your nipple stops, the caress of his fingers against your skin fades away, and your letal yet beautiful Feyd Rautha is sleeping in your arms.

You make him slip onto the pillow under your body with dificulty and whisper against his ear:

"Sleep well, Feyd Rautha"

And before the dawn, your husband is gone for another long day of fight.

#cw lactation #tw lactation #feyd rautha x reader #feyd x reader #feyd rautha imagine

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harkonnen-darkness · 3 months

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◈ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 ◈

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen X f! Reader

Warnings: Blood -> period/menstruation-kink, manipulation, twisted thoughts - Feyd beeing Feyd! Maybe his kind of aftercare…? ;)

His blue eyes had been on your dagger, gleaming in the candlelight, for several minutes now. Feyd had admired your weapons from the start, had been amazed, but also astonished that a female could handle them well. More like just fine. His eyes kept switching back and forth between you and the sharp blade. He desired both - you, his queen, his property. And he coveted material things that could cause serious injury. Could end in death. Feyd remembered the dreams he sometimes had. Rarely, but they remained fixed in his memory. How he slowly cut into your flesh, not even deeply. He just wanted to see your dark red liquid, which tasted sweet to him. How it would cover you and decorate you like the pretty jewelry. You were beautiful either way - but covered in your own blood? Priceless. Precious.

You slept peacefully on his chest. His calm breathing had lulled you to sleep. He even thought he saw a faint smile on your face as he looked at you again. Both bodies naked from the previous lovemaking. Still tasting your blood on his tongue, mixed with your nectar. He was happy to give you a little relief when you were in pain during your menstruation. It didn't disgust him a bit, quite the opposite.

The Na-Baron's hands gripped your body even tighter and he pulled you a little higher, so that he could smell your perfume on your neck. A scent that only a queen could have. His eyes darted back to your weapon as if of their own accord, his fingers began to tremble. He hated it when he lost control of his body. All because of you! He hated you for triggering feelings in him that he had always loathed and considered weak. Another reason why he wanted to hurt you. Not only because you would look beautiful (and his feelings for you would probably rise to unimagined heights), but also because he wanted to make himself suffer. Pure punishment. He had loved his harpies, but in a completely different way to the way he loved you now.

His warm fingers gripped the cold weapon. The handle was elegantly decorated, slightly smaller, well suited to women's hands. Feyd examined the dagger in his hand a little more closely before running the flat of it over your back. He was surprised that the cold steel didn't wake you up. You continued to sleep peacefully. His other arm wrapped around your body. He would never let go. He would hold you just as tightly in his hands, if your body turned cold and rotted. He knew it wouldn't change the way he felt about you.

But when you moved a little and the Harkonnen heard a soft sigh from you, reality caught up with him. If he would do it (now), he would lose you. You would either die or leave him. Could he force you to stay? But then you wouldn't feel comfortable, right? But that was exactly what he wanted - for you to feel comfortable and safe at his side. Feyd thoughtfully put the dagger back on your bedside table, blinking a few times, stroking his hand up and down your back. He licked over an fresh love bite, trying to be satisfied with the little metallic taste.

At that moment, you moved again, your tired eyes opened and looked up at him. He could see confusion in them, which made him grin superiorly. ❝You can't forbid me this. Sleep again.❞, he growled and pressed a kiss on your forehead. You only heard his words muffled, your eyes falling shut again as he continued his hand movements on your back. Happy that you trusted him.

Feyd laid down on the side with you, facing away from the knife. He watched you for a while longer, smiling, knowing that you were his and would be his forever.

• I don't want to sound mean, but I would appreciate a comment. There's nothing here and the fun of writing is slowly fading… 💔

#•ཐི♡ཋྀ•#feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha dune #dune part two #dune part 2 #feyd rautha #dark aesthetic #feyd x reader #feyd x you #house harkonnen #feyd rautha imagine #feyd rautha x oc #dark romance #tw blood #SoundCloud

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kteezy997 · 4 months

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The Heart of a Bene Gesserit-Part Three//Paul Atreides

Warnings: cursing, spice slavery, prostitution innuendo

You didn't really want to see Paul. You still felt so raw after last night. It wasn't even his fault; it was your feelings that got hurt when you realized that you'd never have a real chance with Paul. He’d never see you in a romantic light.

Once you got ready for the day, you decided to go out for a walk around the grounds, to clear your head and get some air. You didn’t opt for a still suit, as you didn’t plan on traveling far or long.

The morning was warm and bright, but not uncomfortably so, as it was still early in the day. The sun was not yet too high. You had made your way around to the spice silo crates where some workers were emptying the crops. You watched the grouping of men, and something caught your eye. The closer you looked, you noticed that it was a bald head. Harkonnen.

It had to be a Harkonnen. No one on Arrakis had such pale, smooth skin like that. You saw the man's eyes and you knew exactly who it was. A near final Kwizatz Haderach: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Why was he a slave working for Paul?

"Miss," a servant approached you, and you turned to them.

"Yes?"

"You really should not be out in the sun this time of day."

You looked over at the silos, nodding toward the working men, "It is still early. And besides, the slaves are out here."

"As a special companion of the Emperor, he would wish that you'd stay safely indoors." the servant pointed out, trying to urge you back into the House.

"I think the Emperor should put his worries elsewhere."

"Very well, ma'am. But if you wish to stay out longer, I'd recommend changing into a stillsuit, to keep your body cool and hydrated." the servant gave you a polite nod, then left.

You looked on, remembering your singular visit to Giedi Prime years ago, seeing Feyd-Rautha dominate his opponents in the Harkonnen Arena. The Bene Gesserit found him to be quite impressive, not only in his strength and fighting skills, but also in his superior intelligence. Feyd was almost everything that Paul was. A very valuable and useful tool in human form. Why was he now reduced to a simple slave?

......

After the midday meal, you approached a rather tired looking Paul. You said his name as you walked up to him. You needed to ask him about Feyd. Paul looked at you, and his tired eyes faded into a brighter expression that lit up his handsome face. You tried to not think too much about the effect you had had on him. You felt no need to read into it.

"I want to ask you about one of the slave workers you have in your possession, my lord." you said.

Paul frowned at you, as if he could never guess the things you were about to say, "Very well. Let us retire to the council room to talk about this.”

He led the way to the meeting room in which you had spent some time with him and his men, listening to them invent work for themselves. Really, you thought he needed more women on his council, to actually help resolve issues of the Imperium.

"Sit down, y/n. What would you like to know about the slaves?" he asked, sitting down and gesturing for you to do the same next to him at the table.

"Well, I became intrigued by one of them in particular. And I'm not going to play around about this, Paul. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is alive and he is among your slaves, isn't he?"

Paul sat back in his seat, a strange quiver of a smile on his mouth, "Nothing gets passed you Bene Gesserit, does it?"

You gave him a serious look.

He let out a small sigh, "Yes, Feyd-Rautha is where any lasting Harkonnen should be."

"He had nothing to do with what happened to your father."

"But he is a Harkonnen! He deserves to be where he is. He's lucky he's not dead and buried in the sand with the Baron."

You scoffed, "Feyd is a psychopath, that is true. But he is far too valuable a human being to just be your slave."

“He is not just my slave. He works for the Empire, you yourself expressed that you only want what is best for the Empire.”

“Yes, but Feyd deserves a more honorable position. He’s an intelligent man, a good leader. He was able to bring spice production back to full capacity after his idiot brother fumbled the job. You could use someone like Feyd-Rautha in your corner. Hell, he should be on your council, advising you, helping you.”

“I would never take advice from a man whose family had my father killed! He would have never attained control of Arrakis if it weren’t for me.” Paul shouted, his voice littered with an angry growl.

You sat still in your chair, gripping the armrest, you knew he was right. Rabban could not stand up to Muad’Dib and the Fremen, nonetheless, this issue was not about Rabban, but his younger brother. “Someone of Feyd-Rautha’s superior breeding deserves to have a more productive job.”

“Are you suggesting spice production is unimportant? It is only the most vital substance in the universe, without it, you wouldn’t have been able to come to Arrakis, y/n.”

You shook your head, becoming aggravated with him and his condescending tone, “Do not patronize me, Paul Atreides. You know what I mean. You should use Feyd-Rautha to your advantage, that is all I am saying. Think about it.”

“Perhaps you would like to use him to your advantage.”

Now you were mad, “Whatever do you mean?”

“You were sent here to secure the Kwizatz Haderach bloodline. But you’ve been unsuccessful thus far, so why not try out a runner up: my cousin, the final Harkonnen.”

You sighed, your anger subsided and you were left with the disappointment that he still had no trust in you. “That is not my intention. You should know by now that I am here for you, I am trying to fulfill my duties as your councilwoman.”

Paul raised his brows, rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair, held his chin in palm and looked at you in the eyes, “Oh? So you’ve decided to take my job offer? You’ll stay here, on Arrakis?”

“I hope to. As long as you stop being an ass.” You stood up, pushed your chair back under the table. “Good day, my lord.” you said, turning on your feet and exiting the council room, without bowing before the Emperor.

…….

Paul sat for a moment more after y/n left, then he called a servant to retrieve Gurney Halleck.

“Gurney.” he greeted his old master, who now served as one of his right hand men.

“My lord.” Gurney answered, nodding.

“Appoint one of the servants to keep a close watch on y/n. I’d like to know what she is doing, and whom she may be speaking to.”

……

That evening, after dinner was over and the sun was set, you quietly made your way to the slave quarters. You were met with the slave master, who looked you up and down, like he couldn’t place you.

“Haven’t seen you down in these parts, woman.” he said, holding his strong stance.

“My name is y/n, friend and councilwoman of Muad’Dib. I’ve come to ask if I can speak with one of the slaves here.” you kept your poise and confidence in check. I must not fear.

The tall man before you gave a simple nod, “Hmm. Do you know the slave’s name?”

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.”

You were then led to a sort of outside recreational area for the prisoners. There were tables and chairs under a roof to provide some shade.

“Wait here. And don’t worry, he’ll like the looks you. He won’t have any desire to kill you.” the slave master said, giving you a small dose of assurance.

But you were Bene Gesserit, you did not need to be assured. You could take care of yourself. It did not matter how intimidating or dangerous an opponent may be, you could always come out on top with the proper training.

After only a couple of minutes, you heard his voice first: hoarse in his throat, but with chilling low tones. “A visitor, for little ol’ me?”

You looked straight ahead, seeing his tall, muscular figure making its way toward you. He was just as you remembered, his face and head free of hair, but still as strikingly handsome as his Atreides cousin.

“Well, you are beautiful. You’d be a nice gift, but there’s no way you are a working woman. Also, no sign of the Ibad blue eyes, so you’re not the Atreides’ Fremen woman.” Feyd was speaking as he looked you over, getting his senses about you.

You felt a slight thorn in your side as he insinuated that you could be Chani.

He then looked in your eyes, squinting, “You’re Bene Gesserit?”

“You are sharp, Feyd-Rautha.” you replied.

He smirked, but did not show his black teeth. He gazed at you as if he wanted to devour you, then and there. “Hm. Now, why were you looking for me, my darling?"

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @lixzey @bitchyunknownuser @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen @yukideadinside @elloise0 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @mel-vaz @sammy-halpert @iwishchalamet @that-one-fangirl69 @jindongdongie @briefkittenearthquake

#timothée chalamet #timmy chalamet #timothée imagine #timothee fanfic #paul muad'dib #dune part 2 #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides imagine #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd x reader

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alavestineneas · 5 months

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and if you are there, why do i feel alone in this room?

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, mentions of sa (!), blood and other parts of body, very non-healthy relationships chapter 1 - chapter 2 !this work is part 2 to the i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest! word count: 7,3k

author's notes: hi beautiful people! today, I have finally finished this chapter! be aware that this piece of literature is explicit and touches on some very heavy themes, including sa and child abuse. Please be mindful of it! As always, your opinions, suggestions, and critiques are welcome in the comments. Love you, and have a tasty read!

There are a lot of books stored in her memory, locked in the neurocytes safely. They are tucked into the cortex with love and tenderness that YN otherwise taught herself to suppress as a sign of her weaker self. But papers were non-living, so she felt like it was less dangerous for her to show warmth towards them; after all, if the objects can not acknowledge your love, does it really count as real? She read everything, mostly in an attempt to prepare herself for something she did not know the face of; she read to build the shield around herself, in desperate hope to be able to help at least her future self. YN read even now, although her foolish childhood desires were long gone, just to get a glimpse of the girl she was before the monsters escaped the pages.

The book she re-read the most was nothing special, nothing suiting the image she moulded herself into—a giant, relatively old encyclopaedia of animals inhabiting the furthest corners of Known Imperium. The letters inside, although faded a little, were left almost untouched by eyes—maybe it was what drew her in in the first place—to cherish something seen as unneeded. YN learned the small paragraphs almost by heart; she liked the idea of someone taking enough time to observe something as small as a roden to know its habits. She liked the idea of it happening to her one day. As it always is, it did not.

She chose her favourite animal without that much thought. Although even the notion of having something beloved was foolish, YN was made to choose; she and her sisters played the game of forest most often. The game was simple: pretend to be a creature you are not, forgetting the countless rules they had to follow. Pretending they have claws and teeth; pretending they can protect themselves not through intrigues and hidden motives but through open, bold force. Irulan was always a Katanga Lioness; she liked it because of the proximity to their house's symbol. YN did not; the grey pages of her beloved book described them as "observed to also scavenge on carrion of animals that were killed by other predators or died from natural causes''. What king of the animals steals the work of others simply to feed themselves? She did not tell Irulan that, of course—why would she?

YN chose a mountain lion for herself. Sure, she may have made a mistake thinking it was just another type of lion, but the game went too far to change anything, so she stuck with that. She even grew to love it—the drawing of the mountain lion on her character sheet, the way it prowled through the forest in her mind's eye. It had many names and many homes. Adaptive. Captivating.

She does not know why it came into her mind suddenly—maybe it was the dim light of the closed arena. The air circulated here freely, cooling through the complex systems of vents, even though it seemed to be deprived of any life—just a mechanical circle of the same molecules moving around her seated figure and returning to the hidden openings again and again. YN looked straight ahead; the two men were still sparring.

From her bench, they looked like one—two bodies moved so swiftly that one was unable to differentiate where the lines of their limbs ended. YN squinted her eyes; she was alone in the seating area, and still, she dared not move closer. The taller, thinner figure possessed skin so white it looked almost translucent underneath the cold light—YN wondered if she would be able to see the structures in his body through his clothed stomach. He moved well, almost too well for her not to press her lower row of teeth to the top one, hiding the tongue in a cave of pearl bones—she had hoped he was worse with his bare hands. YN had counted four hundred and five seconds before he made a mistake in his steps; it was a lot more than her own results, but for a man, he was good.

Feyd-Rautha had style; she had to give him that. He fought like a serpent would: calculated, precise. His fists knew the most effective targets, and his legs knew how to escape the blows of his opponent. If YN was to guess, he relied on muscle memory less than a usual fighter would, preferring to dwell in the moment instead. It made for a good show, sure, but it was not practical. She smiled to herself; of course, the na-Baron could not know what the real battle was like. How unfortunate for him—how delightful for her. YN still can't believe he let her watch his training every morning—was he really that stupid not to realise her motive? Was he too confident to consider having weaknesses?

Regardless, she saw what she needed to do - for three hours every day, she set unmovingly on the third bench in a small fighting ground, imprinting his every move in her mind. There are so many moves you can use and so many tricks you can do before she learns them all. YN did not care for the cold gaze thrown in her direction when Feyd-Rautha collapsed on the ground, taking a moment to rest before lurching onto his opponent again. She can wait.

Mountain lions are stealthy predators.

The days she spent here changed into months, their slow steps morphing into each other until time became a blur, a concept she did not grasp. Feyd-Rautha was a hard one to warm, but before she would mould him into something she wanted, YN needed to heat his DNA to a certain magnitude; otherwise, he would simply break. She would've gladly accepted this turn of fate too, but right now, keeping na-Baron alive is far more convenient for the Bene Gessarit. For her.

A concubine. A slap in the face: it seemed like life was determined to dissolve the small bits of her dignity in its endless pool of secrets. She was not a wife to Harkonnen na-Baron; no, she was to be his whore. If she was not too tired, she would've felt a pang of fear on her rising with oxygen lungs; a concubine's position is even lower here compared to one of a lawful wife's. YN remembers the words of her teacher as she prepared her for the union: Harkonnen concubines are killed after their first night in a position; if one is lucky enough to escape the fate by being with a child, she bears him until it's time for the baby to be born. One of the greatest honours for a Harkonnen is to take the life of his mother as soon as he enters the world.

She was to join na-Baron for breakfast today—a proposal YN waited long to receive, but part of her wishes she never did. It was worded like an invitation; YN knows it was not. Harkonnens rarely spoke when they did not give orders—a creature of habit, she supposed. So, she did what she had to: follow the slave to the chambers designated for the meal. The hem of her dress shone with a colour so foreign to the fort around her; YN needed to make herself stand out. Men are much like children, she learned—the more colourful the toy, the more likely they will want to play with it.

The walls were heavy here. They didn't bend in the shapes she was used to, preferring to stand tall. They didn't have to hide their strength underneath a complicated facade—quite the opposite. They paraded it, wearing it like the honour it is. Staying unremorsefully unbending. Maybe it's the air or a different measure of gravity; maybe it's her habit of soaking up the surroundings and letting them poison her insides, growing rotten in between the folds of her stomach tissue, but her legs are metal, stone-cold, pulling YN deeper and deeper into the floor. She tries so hard to ignore the three creatures in the corner.

They are hairless, much like the man in front of her, and dressed in matching black. YN would've mistaken them for Harkonnen royalty if it were not for the iron collars on their necks and the glowing black eyes that seemed to follow her every move. She would've been happy to have some company and not be forced into solitude with na-Baron if it were not for a still convulsing body on the floor. A body she did not recognise, but it could've easily been her own.

The creatures seemed to enjoy the involuntary moves of the soon-to-be corpse; they closed their eyes in delight and bared the sharp, black-coloured teeth in sheer pleasure as they lurched into the white flesh. They ripped it apart with only their hands, not bothering to use the prepared knives for more than a big incision from head to stomach. The sounds of chewing and gnawing filled the room, echoing off the walls and sending electric impulses down her body. YN was used to the metallic smell and the bright colour of arterial blood, but this was not a simple death. It was a show, and she was the long-awaited watcher.

Feyd-Rautha seemed unbothered by the sight near him. His hands, covered in thick streaks of blood, were deep to his elbows in the body. He dissected the corpse with precision, his eyes focused and his grip steady. He looked calm, even peaceful. Na-Baron was in good humour today. ''I must say, your arrival has graced us with much more than just the dowery; nothing could've made this union more auspicious—such a rare bird you are, daughter of our generous Emperor. A princess, yet treated no better than a common slave.''

Here it was: the thing she was thinking about all the way to this strange, garbage planet in the dress that pokes bleeding holes in her abdomen with each glass she downs. From his lips, it sounds even more bitter; even savages found the way the Emperor sold one of his daughters so easily strange. "Both of our houses have traditions far beyond our understanding," YN shrugs, scaring her thoughts away like annoying flies. Here, in a room so far from the comfort of her home, they moved too fast, bringing nausea to her throat.

She is here to secure the bloodline of House Harkonnen, to ensure the balance needed in the Imperium. YN does not notice how suddenly her gaze darkens or how tightly the hands that rested on the chair are now holding the pleated velvet of her ruby-red gown. Oh, the baby. The tiny creature inside her womb, the future head for the Baron's crown to be placed upon. The yet unconcieved child she could not feel love for. She was given no other choice but to risk its life before even giving it a chance to obtain its gift.

''Then you will find my present to be quite fitting.''

YN watches in silence as na-Baron reaches inside the rib cage of the corpse. He reaps out an organ with one swift motion, almost like plucking a harmful sprout from the garden. The organ is broun and rosewood, a weird mixture of shades that make it harder for her to focus on anything but the thing in his large hand. The gift he meant to give was a human heart.

She feels his walk long before she sees a figure departing from its place at the table; she guesses the end point of his manoeuvres too easily. It's almost funny—a cruel, senseless joke; how obvious the slight tremor in her hands is; how heavy her eyes become at the sight of Harkonnen black. The body positions itself near; if she squints, she can hear the hot breathing somewhere between her shoulder blades. His hand snakes around her neck quickly, positioning the organ right in front of her mouth. YN can detect the smell hitting her nostrils before she closes the receptors in them. She wants to scream, but the notes die in her throat. Who would she scream for? She hears the creatures hiss and whisper—the heart is a good part, from what she can make out. It did not need to be wasted on people like her.

''Will you not accept it?'' Feyd-Rautha's words are mocking, but his dark blue eyes stay virgin to the laughter. They drill small spots on her neck from behind with such force that YN can almost feel the burnt smell of her sweat-covered skin.

She takes a breath. Her own heart shrinks, its vessels beating with intensity twice as much as needed. Still alive, she notes absently. Still breathing. The feeling is natural and easy; the forced calmness in her body tingles the muscles, braiding her nerves into a pattern similar to the netting. Then, she opens her mouth.

"If I shall lick the blood of your hands, Feyd-Rautha, dare to make it your own."

That's it.

Maybe the Emperor was right to spare her none of the Sardaukars and a quarter of her dresses. She did not need more; she was not expected to survive long enough to use half of her clothes. YN chucked under her breath. Dead over diet preferences—how profound.

After a moment, the pale face behind her also twists, allowing the blackened teeth to escape the grip of thin lips. Like this, na-Baron looks less human and more like the evil he was said to be. He throws the heart to the creatures—they catch it greedily—and places a bloodied hand on her shoulder, the droplets of crimson going unnoticed on the brightly coloured cloth. ''Very well, then. Let us eat.''

YN nods. She looks around almost instinctively; nothing could make her eat a thing after the sight she just witnessed, but she refuses the na-Baron once; she is not about to do it again. The food is a lot, but her plate is almost empty: only a small amount of salad is here, sadly staring into the hunger in her eyes and a now featherless creature in an unnatural pose, suggesting its non-poetical death. The bird is small, almost delicate; its wings are pitifully glued to the body. YN does not want to let her mind draw the comparison, and does not allow her brain to admit a direct analogy; she dissects the bird with a dull knife and puts a piece in her dry mouth. The creature tastes good—almost too good to be expected in this brightly lit hall.

Most often deer is the mountain lion’s staple diet. However, they can survive preying on small animals as well.

The night covers Giedi Prime rather quickly; it never lingers, politely waiting for its masters to finish their daily affairs; it hits like a coward, from behind, trapping those not careful enough to hide before its arrival. The harsh, toxic waves of lazy winds hit the walls of the halls coldly lighted with a few sphears; they look like deep forest clearings, forming a system of endless options, ultimately leading to one, inevitable, end. His work chambers aren't big; he does not visit them often for them to be. The solitary metal desk before him is filled with letters, drafts of laws, and official documents, all waiting for his approval. It exhausts Feyd-Rautha to no end, the sheer stupidity of most of the advisers here; almost half of the documents were riddled with errors and inconsistencies. The forever present in his head dull migraine grows stronger when he opens the shortest letter; he almost busts his skull open when the pain heavies.

He ponders too much—the type of thoughts you can feel running on your tongue but never escaping. He is not used to being in the mist; all of his life is so painfully contrasted that no doubt of its nature can survive the sharp edge of his mind. There are things he can escape—forget, even—but some linger in his ribcage too long for them to vanish. Soon, they grow into his lungs with small, unbreakable threads, becoming him. He used to try to get them away from his heart, as if it held some value. Now, he is smarter, older, and more indifferent, he lets them pierce yet another piece of human flesh with no sorrow.

Of course, he remembered her face. The same face that haunted his sleep ever since she dared to appear before his eyes. Feyd-Rautha, naturally, found her little frolic that day. He spent an entire evening studying her work, analysing every move she could've made with her blade to achieve such outcomes. Sure, some things he would've done differently, but the sheer brutality of an animal he would not have guessed the girl possessed charmed him. Feyd-Rautha was a proud man, but he, too, held a love for beautiful things. For that, he hadn't told the Baron of the sight he discovered in the reading room. For that, he is now willing to pretend to believe her eyes when the fear fleshes in them.

Feyd-Rautha curses; she sickens. Like a bone stuck somewhere down his throat, not letting him live without a pang of mocking. She lurks, and whispers—Feyd-Rautha wants to smash her pretty head against the wall just to reveal the secrets she hides from him so he can finally understand the hold she retains. He is no stranger to the desire to own, or devour, but the fear in the back wall of his stomach is an alien in his body. He tries to hide it—to paint over it with anger or violence—but it remains a constant presence, gnawing at him from within. It's no use; the woman is a shark, designed to sense the fright. Maybe that's what brought him in in the first place—the steel eyes so similar to his own in a narrow hall all those years before. Maybe he was so used to the danger that he craved it subconsciously, looking for it to make him feel like himself again. A reoccurring childhood nightmare he can't escape; he doesn't want to escape.

Feyd-Rautha finds the chair to put his weight on and waits until the tingling, spinning sensation spreads from his temples down his neck, finding its way into his bloodstream and passing his organs one by one, until none are left uncorrupted. Of course, he expects it. The woman slipped into his brain and now chews her way into it like a parasite downs the rotten body. He knows he should be terrified, but instead, he feels a strange sense of relief. Feyd-Rautha can hear the whispers of his own mind fighting to remain the only owners of the secrets and desires buried within. He feels his eyelids heavy; a second later, the whites of his eyes are staring at the ceiling, the blue eye lenses dissolving in light.

Water. The first thing he feels is ice-cold water dripping onto his face, filling his lungs, and sending a shock through his arms. This body does not feel like his; it's too small, too narrow. His eyes are trying to adjust as fast as they can, jumping from one blurred spot to another until finally catching a glimpse of the surroundings. His brain does not have time to process the picture; his nose is filled with fluid again, and his open mouth is gasping for air but only taking in more liquid. He tries waving his hands around, but the stronger grip is firm on his nape, pulling him further down into the depths. The hand yanked him out just as he was about to fall into darkness again, the sound of water changing to loud screeching.

''How dare you hit me, devil child? Let the water wash away your dirt. Repent; beg for forgiveness for all of your rotten nature.''

The voice is unknown to him; it is harsh and filled with fury. The woman's face is twisted in anger; splashes of water on it match his. He can't tell if they are from his antics or tears. The woman's grip tightens, her nails digging into his skin. The black clothes on her figure make her status known - a Bene Gessarit witch. Feyd-Rautha tries to lurch forward and hit her back, but her strength is overwhelming. He feels panic coursing through his veins instead of oxygen—a sensation he did not think he could experience anymore. He wants to bark a response to show her that he is not afraid, but his voice catches in his throat.

Feyd-Rautha has no time to wonder what the woman wants; she brings his face to the bathtub again, and he opens his mouth involuntarily, frantically begging not to do it anymore. He says everything she wants to hear; he cries out and promises to wash his sins away. The voice does not sound like his at all. He is desperate to end this nightmare now, but some force holds him here. The woman is not satisfied; her ears are deaf to his pleas.

His face ends up on the water surface a moment later, his nose hitting the wall of the bathtub as the woman holds him down. He feels his body go limp with utter horror; this time, the shouting woman won't stop. Her voice grows quieter, replaced by the sound of small waves hitting the brim and spilling; from right to left, the water turns red, and his tongue tastes the iron he knows from sliding blades into his mouth.

''Echidna, what the fuck are you doing? Let her go; she is going to choke!''

''Get that spawn to me, for I will not let her ruin my life anymore! I must finish what I have started!''

Feyd-Rautha's head is filled with oxygen once again; his lungs take a desperate breath in, sending too much air to his blood system. He falls on his back, the world spinning. He does not care for the weeping woman in black or the chaos unfolding around him. His only thought is that everything is finally done and that the white floors are a magnificent place for drops of liquid to fall from his normally bald head's waterfall of hair.

He wakes up suddenly, the sensation long gone. His steps are heavy again; the body he inhibits no longer feels like a cage. The voices have left him for now, and the only thing on his forehead left is small drops of sweat and a pathetic, frightened, beating heart. The cold breeze from the darkened sands surrounding the city wishes to prove otherwise—it heavies and plants its spikes into his reddened cheeks. The horizon gleams at him, almost taunting; not a single star is to be seen under the imposing clouds. He will kill her; maybe he will even enjoy it. Feyd-Rautha can handle a lot, but not the shame of being seen. Not the guilt of being caught wanting.

There are only three ways to hunt a mountain lion: tracking, waiting in ambush, and with dogs.

The gliding motions of heavy fabrics across the wooden floors created a strange pattern of a song now centuries old. Here, in a room so long that the wind travelled through the hollows, her careful steps seemed to almost fall silent. Nothing was there for the preying eyes to see. YN closes her eyes; with that, even for a moment, the world stays still. She knows where the hollow staircase will lead her; she feels it in her stomach with every step she takes. YN knows nothing about the future, but the past lives deep in her memories, haunting her every move. She knows she shouldn't have done it. Travelling through one's mind is a sin she can't escape; she will pay the price for it in her blood, but the Bene Gesarit did not send her here to survive, so it's of no use to be afraid now. It makes no difference for the dead if you weep at their grave or not.

The burning sphere of light in the hall stops spinning; the doors open without any noise, although if the pounding eardrums had not stunned her hearing, she could've noticed the faint thuds. YN waits; there are no flashes of her happiest memories or the faces of her loved ones in her drained mind. No, in what seems to be her last moments, she thinks of what she could've been if the world had not given her a sword to turn into.

Feyd-Rautha appears in the hall; his steps aren't rushed, and his expression is stone-cold. She eyes him shamelessly: nothing. She sees nothing; she senses it deep in her crying bones. He drags her by the hair like a mother would with her misbehaving child; roughly, he pulls her towards the exit, his grip tightening with each step until the door behind them closes and her knees meet the cold ground with a nasty thud. The bruises will stain them soon, not that it matters now.

''You should've known better than to cross me,'' he hisses, his voice gruff. It's cold, chilling—the way his lips part to reveal a sinister smile. ''Now, you can think yourself vanished, little witch.''

YN does not answer—what fool would beg the deaf? The blade against her chin is sharp; she knows how attentive he is when it comes to inflicting pain. It pokes right into the Omehyoid muscle, a dull pain shooting through her body. If she has got to die, it may as well be from his skilled arms. How beautiful he is in the twisted pleasure he finds in her suffering. Unearthly, almost too perfect to be made of simple flesh and bone. Something was unnerving, unforgettable in the net of veins under his pearly skin; it was as if he were a work of art, meticulously crafted to bring physical pain and optical pleasure in equal measure. A silver glint under the defined cheekbones, a redness of lips filled with blood vessels. For a second, YN wonders what it would be like to bite into it, like an apple that lay too long under the golden sun; would the blood slip as generously as the sweet nectar? Handsome as poison, as a black sun on his forsaken planet, as death.

''Go on. Kill me, then; let me escape you once and for all.''

Under the deep sea of his eyes, something moved; his eyes dipped into her, part by part. Like the slow, deliberate dance of a predator stalking its prey, his gaze lingered on her, calculating and intense. YN lowered her head to push the knife a little deeper into the flesh. A strange thought lingered in her brain; she found herself on her knees in front of him, almost willingly. She has worshipped God all her life; who, if not her, can recognise his creation? The Devil. Lucifer. Satan. The man with horns so big they once touched the skies; a corrupt angel, fallen from grace so long ago he couldn't remember way back if he tried. They have warned her about him, but is it her fault that God has disowned her earlier than she could? Did it really matter to her, before whom to kneel, as long as she felt a sense of power and control in her submission?

All that mattered now was that he wanted to hurt her. He wanted her.

She sees the recognition flicker on his face. Caught. The blade slides quickly across her exposed neck, the blood sprouting out in a weak, painfully quick stream. Feyd-Rautha kissed her, biting her bottom lip till the stream of boldly coloured blood trickled down his chin. He did so like an animal would, baring his teeth and dragging them across the pulsating vein on her neck. YN's laughing cry echoes in the empty room; she is forced to admit that he felt good.

Never approach a mountain lion; most mountain lions prefer to avoid confrontations, so never approach them and make them feel cornered.

The woman—a siren, some kind of sea beast lurking in deep, salted waters—sits near him with the ottoman under her feet that still seemed to deny her the comfort of rest, her eyes glinting with mischief when she notices his stare. Taunts, even, forge obliviousness to the spells she casts. Strange, otherworldly—redundant. Everything about her, down to the light gown and a headdress that showed little of her face, Feyd-Rautha was not used to seeing. The beautiful substance of her hair caught the light from the sun like a mirage in the desert, reflecting in his eyes with painful hits. The jewels, too, have found their way onto her clothes, but they were hidden beneath the layers of fabric. They shined brightly, impertinently, framing her figure in a glow that seemed to come from within.

To his surprise, the skills woman possessed spread out to politics as well, with her witch training proving useful in court. Feyd-Rautha did not miss how his advisors grew more uneasy when she entered the room, her careful eyes scanning their faces for even a hint of betrayal or deceit. Like a proud discoverer, he ached to share his new-found wonder with the blind audience, but something in him protested in a mare thought of showing the precious jewel of his eye to the cluster of unworthy. So, Feyd-Rautha did the only thing he knew how— all of his secret observations were done from afar, masterfully hidden behind the facade of casual indifference.

As he drags yet another blade across the surface of the whetstone, he thinks about her delicate hands on his neck, her ringed fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. It doesn't matter; YN is nothing of the sort. A concubine, a possession, a tool for pleasure and procreation—the Harkonnen way was simple.

''Are you done eye-fucking me now, or do you need more time with your blade?'' she sneers, her voice mocking. Only she could get away with such bold defiance in his presence, but she does not seem to care for the unusualness of it.

YN motions for him to come closer, her eyes studying the way his legs move. Feyd-Rautha has no control over them; the steps make themselves. She plays the game very well; the chase fuels something primal within him. Thirst. Hunger. It was the Harkonnen training talking to him—the wild, ancient sensation taking over his insides and imprisoning his mind in a cage of helpless desire. It spread its tentacles down to his fingertips, nesting in his abdomen. He positions himself in front of her, his body betraying him as he leans in closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Feyd-Rautha's hands repeat the ritual almost instinctively, rolling the hem of her deep purple dress up to her waist.

''Stop for a second,'' she whispers against his ear, her breath warm and inviting. ''Can I give you a piece of advice?''

Feyd-Rautha can feel the anger creeping into his body; he does not like to be refused. ''No,'' he grumbles, turning her around forcefully. "I don't need your advice," he snaps, his grip tightening on her arm.

YN does not seem to care for it. ''Don't do it. It will only lead to trouble.''

''What?'' He stops, his eyes narrowing as he absorbs the woman's words. The doubts that had lingered in the back of his mind suddenly grew louder, echoing through his mind. He releases her arm, his expression stoic. ''You are insane, woman. What are you talking about?''

''You know what I mean.''

The unease boils in his stomach. How could she know? He was careful not to slip anything; she wasn't able to cast her spells anymore either. But her knowing gaze tells him otherwise. ''You can not know the future,'' he pronounces.

''I don't need to know the future to see the truth, Feyd-Rautha. Your judgement is clouded by rage, and your mind is not as sharp as it usually is. You are not as invincible as you think you are.''

She is bluffing, he thinks. He hopes she is. Feyd-Rautha almost wished there was no cloth covering her face, nothing to hide her expressions as she lay beneath him. He catches her flamed eyes and the way they circle his face in one swift motion before settling on the ceiling above. It unnerves him, but he refuses to show it. She is no master here; she is simply a servant. That is not what power looks like, if he ever recognised one, and Feyd-Rautha knew power.

''Get out, now.''

Nothing was portrayed on her face as she curtseyed; nothing was there when she turned and walked to her rooms, leaving nothing but the ghost of the human body's warmth.

Mountain lions are more at home in brushy areas than in open prairies.

And then, he disappeared. Like the sound of the morning birds falling silent in the cacophony of voices of the city on her home planet, there was no trace of na-Baron in the entire Harkonnen fortress. YN thought she was slowly but surely going mad; no one but her noticed the usual place by the window empty, and no one but her seemed to care enough to know where he went. She caught strange looks from a few, and frankly, she thought they were right. She looked like a mad woman, her hair quickly plated and her dress hurriedly laced, her eyes darting around the room in search of any sign of Feyd-Rautha's massive figure. Noon was dragged into the evening, and then night, for three, long days until she heard the long-awaited news: na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had tried to usurp his uncle and had failed.

She has told him so. A fucking brainless ram, with stubbornness bigger than his cock—why did he think he could outsmart the Baron? He will pay for his dumbness with his blood, perhaps even his limb—the thought brought nausea to YN's throat. She was lucky the Baron did not consider her important enough to be knowledgeable of such schemes; she lowered her head in the desert, hiding from the sand storms of Harkonnen politics; she waited for two long weeks until the announcement was made; Feyd-Rautha was forgiven. The celebration in honour of this news is to be today; she is to attend it. Not like his concubine, YN supposed, but more like the princess she still was.

Now, she took her time. YN chose a gown she wanted long enough to make even a tireless slave yawn, savouring each moment before their meeting. She was a victor now, in their small game of cat and mouse. He was a cat, but the mouse could still outwit him with grace and style. YN smiled at the wondering attendants; she looked good, and she was going to meet him.

The walk from her chambers to the Grand Hall wasn't too long; she would've walked a thousand more stairs if it was needed. The doors opened without a sound, revealing nothing but a mere celebration of yet another year under the reign of Harkonnens. The lines of slaves changed one another, the uneven circles of people dancing appearing and fleeing to the cheerful tone of strings. She was set somewhere between two Harkonnen lords she had no chance of knowing; she felt a sense of unease creeping up her spine as she tried to maintain a polite smile. Their gazes didn't look right; something sinister lurked inside them—hiding a secret she had no chance of knowing.

One of them turned to her, a chilling smile spreading across his face. "How are you finding the evening, lady YN? Or, what should I call you?,'' he mastered a fake confusion. ''Perhaps, darling? Concubine has a cheap wing to it; quite unworthy of a face so lovely as yours, don't you think?"

Dirt. The thing that crawled under her skin at his words was like dirt, making her feel unclean and exposed. She forced a laugh, trying to brush off his comments, the crown of her hair moving with muscles underneath her skin. "I am a princess, my Lord. Address me as such."

It would be enough every other noon, but today. The man's face twists, as if he just remembered something; he turns, the wine in his goblet splashing on the tablecloth. ''I think na-Baron wouldn't be too angry if I stole a princess for the night," he sneered, his eyes darkening with malice.

''Does it matter to you either way?''

YN watches as the smirk, so similar to Feyd-Rautha's, appears on the men's lips, although it doesn't feel the same. She fights back disgust as the man nods, biting into a hefty chunk of prey. His eyes, once focused on her, drifted away. YN chose to follow them; the string of fat streaming down the man's mouth onto the silver tablecloth made her nauseous. She looked from one unfamiliar face to another, until the cold feeling in her abdomen crept its way onto her chest.

There he was. His figure is unusually crouching as he sits on the podium reserved for members of the dynasty. The dark blue eyes are red now; the thin blood vessels in them are torn and emptied. His body seemed to suck the light out of the hall inside, casting a shadow over the room. There are no scars on his smooth face, but the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes spoke of a suffering that went beyond physical wounds. YN almost wished she saw him dead; whatever this was, it was surely much worse. He raised his eyes slowly to meet hers; something flickered in them before turning back to their empty state. Feyd-Rautha parts his dry lips to say something to her—she can't understand a word he draws with his breath.

From the place nearby, the Baron's voice booms, his low, almost whisper-like vowels mending into one. His face, covered with layers of skin and dead cells, twists into what was meant to be a welcoming smile—the corners of his paper-thin lips dance, lowering themselves only to jump higher, and his eyes travel from one corner to another, unable to be still even for a moment. He speaks of things YN knows nothing about court intrigue, power struggles, and alliances that shape the fate of their world, heavy with hidden meanings and unspoken threats. She does not listen until he gestures towards her, a scent of spice and decomposing flesh lingering.

''Sergeant Voss has served me well, and his loyalty at the right time is not to be forgotten. Here, I bestow upon him the highest honour of all; what was once mine, is now his. Do not let go of her if she screams, Sergeant; the girl is a fine one.''

No. YN almost does not recognise the hand as her own as the man drags her to the bed that appeared out of nowhere, freezing with horror as the people around her continue to watch in silence, their eyes devoid of any emotion or empathy. The tradition, she notes, is the one she learned so much about bedding in front of the entire court as a symbol of unity. She choked on her own tears as the man smiled at her pleas for help; they seemed to make him even more pleased.

YN looks, frantically, to the place she saw Feyd-Rautha sitting just a moment before. He would help; surely, he would not let them do it to her—his servant, his concubine, his. But the seat is empty. The scream echoing through the hall does not register as hers right away; he has sold her. For his own freedom, for a chance to be free from the consequences of his own stupid actions. Surely, the Harkonnens could not get rid of her openly—it would mean war—but she was not immune to the man who now owned her. His hands travelled her body with such audacity that YN wanted to cut them off—to cut her chest just so she could not feel the fingers digging into her skin. A sole reminder she was a woman first and a human second.

Mountain lions are solitary hunters.

The man undressed himself quickly; all of the soldiers were trained to do so. She should run; she should fight back, but the pair of unmoving hands pinning her wrists down was a stark reminder of her helplessness. The man lowers himself closer, his hot breath against her neck making her shudder in fear. She can feel him against her skirts; she can feel the weight of his body pressing down on her. The adrenaline is pumping through her veins; she will survive. Whatever it fucking takes, even if her body is bruised and broken, she will survive.

They prefer to ambush their prey from behind by swiftly and cleanly breaking the neck.

She bites—her teeth launch towards his cheek, feeling the warm flesh give way beneath her. She sinks them deeper, making holes big enough to draw blood. It's hot, and sickening on her tongue, but she does not have time for these thoughts; her next blow is in his stomach, with his knee jammed into his gut. She can feel his body convulse in pain, giving her a chance to throw him on the bed, his broad back facing her.

If they haven’t broken the neck, they will suffocate the animal.

There is nothing around that could serve as a knife; her captors made sure of that, and the sheets are too thin to wrap around his neck. She looks around the room, desperate for something to use, but the space around her is empty. YN curses as the man regains his composure and begins to struggle against her hold. Her elbow meets his nose with a sickening crunch, causing blood to spurt out. She takes a breath in; her hand wraps around his neck, forming a tight hold as she goes into the headlock. She chokes him, so desperately trying to live. And the man trashes against her grip, his white face turning a deep shade of purple before finally going limp in her arms.

Shame.

A thing that followed her after every life she took is now absent. Maybe the Giedi Prime's cruelty did have its effect on her; YN feels nothing but a sense of emptiness as she stands over the lifeless body.

''Do you have any more men to gift me to, Baron Vladimir? The night is still young.''

Her voice has changed. It holds a certain hiss now, a rasp that wasn't present before; it has matured and bloomed into half an octave deeper tone. It bites through the noise easily, cutting sharply.

The Baron laughs. His eyes gleam with amusement as he gestures towards the door. "Plenty more where that came from, my dear, but it's enough for today. Here,'' he throws something in her, a smirk ghosting on his lips. ''You've earned it.''

YN catches it and inspects the object in her hand. A small, golden broche catches the light, glinting in the dimly lit room. A head of the Bighorn ram stares back at her, the symbol of House Harkonnen. The taste of victory mingled with the metallic tang, leaving a bittersweet sensation in her mouth. Joy courses her veins—she isn't afraid. Finally, she is not afraid. Finally, she can look at her blood-stained hands without humiliation. Is it her fault she was born a better knife than a person?

Bighorn sheep are not a primary food source in most areas. However, when a lion does kill a sheep, they typically will continue to do so over and over again, until the herd is depleted.

tag list:

@oh-you-mean-me @juliskopf @moonsoulk @mamawiggers1980 @ashy-kit

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kasagia · 6 months

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Okay… how long does it take until the infatuation with a fictional character fades away? Or a safe period of time after which you can officially start writing for this character?

Because I spent the entire weekend (since I went to watch Dune 2) reading all the fanfics that were written about this bald man, and I either need a therapist or I'm entering new, uncharted waters of having a crush on a psychopathic, murderous fictional men...

Or I guess it is just my type... Nevermind.

Yes, I am still alive, yes I plan to write something for my (our) boys. No, I still don't have time for that. Does this stop my imagination? Also no. That's it. Thank you. 🩵🖤🩵🖤🩵🖤🩵

#oneshot #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha #billy russo #klaus mikaelson #aleksander morovoza #coriolanus snow

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ooihcnoiwlerh · 2 months

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Good evening, my Darlings! I'm sorry about the lapse between updates, but I have a new chapter up on AO3 with the full fic and full content warnings and will have the newest chapter chapter down below.

Chapter Summary: The Reader tries to understand the Harkonnens and gain favor with her husband the old-fashioned way (Part Two.)

Tagged: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @blazeflays @wo-ming-bai @cavillandevanssandwhich If anyone else would like to be tagged, please let me know!

Content Warning: 18+; problematic smut; arranged marriage; dubious consent; implied/referenced child abuse; under negotiated kink; problematic BDSM; internalized shame; mild degradation; oral sex (m+f receiving) throat training, come eating, collars and lashes, nipple clamps/nipple play; Feyd-Rautha; impact play/slapping; semi-public sex; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; knife play; switching; riding; Feyd's strange and fucked up methods of showing affection

Chapter Nine: Quick to Learn, Eager to Please

Your training continues. You wouldn’t call your progress astonishing, but after a week, and then two, you find yourself first sliding into the familiarity of your old training and then picking up on new techniques. You can’t help but smile to yourself when you get in an offensive, notice an opening that you can take that you wouldn’t have just a week earlier. When Feyd-Rautha says, as he watches you spar with Korvo, “You remembered what I told you about your footwork.”

His own regimen is far more extensive, of course. There’s one morning when he strips off his sweaty training shirt and you notice striations in the muscle fibers in his chest that you don’t remember seeing before. Perhaps it’s the brighter lighting compared to your bedrooms.

The soreness becomes normal, stiffness you stretch out every morning before you leave for the Training Halls and soothe in the afternoons a couple of times a week in the Relaxation Chambers before resuming your self-imposed Harkonnen language lessons. The routine is its own comfort that tides you over as you receive letters from back home that all sound relieved that you’re still in one piece. And, somehow, you are. These elements–the training, the moments spent in the library and studying the Harkonnen battle language–make you feel a little more like this Fortress is a home that you can live in. You’re not confident enough to try and impress Feyd yet with what you’ve learned but have found that Idrisa’s an easy tutor. The first time you tried speaking, unprompted, in battle language to her she did an almost comical double-take before politely offering advice on how to improve your pronunciation.

“The Na-Baron will be delighted to know that you’re making an effort to learn more about his culture,” she added to soften any potential blow to your ego. Since then, every day, you exchange basic greetings and sentences in Harkonnen with her, and each day you try to add a little more. Idrisa’s gentle, but honest once she realizes that you won’t be offended by her critique.

The matter of your pregnancy is still in question–it’s still too early to tell, not for lack of trying. The collar and leash make a reappearance–on a night he also placed metal clamps on your nipples and took your mouth again until between the shock of the clamps barely fading with time and the suffocating pressure of his cock venturing further and further within the wet cavern of your mouth had tears streaming down your face and silent pleas for him to finally fuck you–but strangely enough the flogger, as he calls it, hasn’t. When he strikes your backside he seems to prefer his own hands, maybe because for every time his hand descends it stings his palm as well. Sometimes he brings out ropes, one night ties your arms behind your back and takes you from behind, one hand in your hair until he comes hard and pulls out only to bury his face against your backside and lick your cunt, tasting his own spend as it leaks out of you until you shudder and climax around the flicker of his tongue. You’re past the point of being shocked by the idea of your husband tasting his own semen; it’s funny to think that such a thing would’ve horrified you a few weeks ago. Most of this probably would.

The night that he introduces the clamps you use his bathroom afterwards, see your splotchy face and worn body, and wonder how much of your enjoyment is genuine and how much is simply a tool to acclimate to it. Does it really make a difference? The pain from the clamps had gone from sharp pain to an insistent ache that left you trembling. The way he’d held your head in place as he’d guided his cock into your mouth and kept it there, pulling out only long enough to let you breathe and pushing back in for longer increments until you felt almost light-headed. Does it really matter how or why it made you sufficiently wet to take him inside of you? Is it not just easier to accept it than to dwell on the accompanying shame of it?

So far, you’ve realized, he hasn’t asked you to hurt him beyond scratching his back and arms when he’s inside of you, or biting down on the meat of his shoulder until you break skin. Hasn’t asked you to subjugate him with the silver collar and chain he keeps, always noticeable but never mentioned after that night. Perhaps he’s waiting for the right time, the right sign that you’d be able to hurt him as deliciously as he does you.

You think of the silver collar and how it would look against his pale skin as he waits patiently for instruction, like a fierce but loyal guard dog.

The image of it makes something you can’t quite name unfurl like black smoke in the pit of your stomach.

Between training you to fight and training you to take his cock in a variety of positions, Feyd gives ample reason for you to enjoy the soothing attention you get in the Relaxation Chambers.

Once, when you enter the chambers, you see another woman walking by you; she’s well-dressed, clearly the wife of a high-ranking member of Harkonnen militia, and you speak before you can stop yourself.

“Hello,” you tell her, and she stops, blinking in confusion. You’re starting to get better at gauging peoples’ ages around here without hair or eyebrows, and you guess her to be in her early thirties, with a round face and hazel eyes.

She stands, awkwardly, clearly wondering why you’ve just spoken to her, before inclining her head. “Good afternoon, Na-Baroness.”

“My apologies. I don’t think I’ve learned your name yet,” you tell her, extending your hand.

She takes it in a gentle shake. “Indeed you have not, Na-Baroness. It’s Liana Druganin, wife of Piter Druganin,” she says, managing to keep a polite tone before she drops your hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Druganin,” you tell her with a small smile.

She reciprocates and it looks as manufactured as the fake wood paneling.

You’ve seen this before, but until now have been spared actually experiencing it: that moment when an attempt at friendship is made and the recipient can only think, Why are you talking to me? Go away . She won’t say it, not in a thousand years, because you outrank her. But the look on her face, almost bordering on panic at the idea that you’ll keep trying to talk to her, says it all.

You clench your jaw, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. “Well,” you say, “Have a lovely afternoon, Lady Druganin.” You both know that it’s not true, and that it’s also not true when she replies with a feeble echo of your sentiments.

She turns to go with a polite bow of her head and a stiffness in her shoulders that hadn’t been there before you spoke to her. You watch after her and for a moment, she starts to turn around before thinking better of it.

You try to stay resolute. No matter , you tell yourself. They will start by respecting me. They don’t have to like me yet . My children will play with their children and I will be their Baroness. They’ll learn.

Still, the sting of it is enough that you have to look over a letter a friend sent you to remind you that you’re perfectly capable of making them.

You write another. There’s a growing pile of letters that you keep in a desk drawer and in moments like these pull them out and re-read them and remember that even if they’re not here, there are still people who love you.

Feyd’s birthday is almost here–in a week the Bene Gesserit will visit and Feyd will execute prisoners in the arena under the guise of sport. There will be hours of celebrating afterwards with more flash than the solemnity of a Harkonnen wedding. You want to ask if there will be dancing, because there wasn’t at your wedding. You’re not sure what Harkonnen dancing would even look like. Or music, beyond ceremonial war chants. The party afterwards will also be the first time you’re properly presented to the Fortress as the Na-Baron.

Not that you’ll be expected to make any speeches or hold anyone’s attention, but a dress is being made for you to commemorate the occasion and you’ll represent not a person but an idea, a symbol. This is the part of marriage you’ve been preparing for most of your life. When you were younger your mother was honest about what marriage would look like for you; that your husband would probably be someone you didn’t know very well or perhaps not at all until the wedding, and that it would be your duty to represent the best qualities of your House and, if your groom was from a different House, his as well. That for you, marriage would be about politics first and that love would come eventually as you got acclimated to your new husband and the role you’d be playing, and even then that it might not be a passionate or easy kind of love.

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen isn’t a creature compatible with something like love. You were almost surprised that there’s a word for it in his language. You’re not sure if you could ever grow to love him, or he you. You’re not sure if it’s an emotion he’s capable of feeling or if the strangely companionable routine you’ve developed with him is the best you’re going to get.

Your children, though, you’re certain you’ll love, even if they’re raised to be cold, even as they’ll never quite look like you, and you’ll teach them how to express it. You’ll make sure that no matter how strict and unforgiving their father will bring them up that they’ll always have you.

In a letter addressed only to your mother you ask her what you can barely form in your own mind and couldn’t possibly ask anyone else here. You ask her how early she was able to tell, because you can’t. You must be, or else something’s very wrong, but you haven’t had a moment after he’s finished inside of you that you felt life growing there. You don’t feel different yet, and certainly don’t look different. When do you feel a tithe to them? You look at your stomach in the mirror as if expecting it to swell already and wonder if the rush of maternal love will come once you can confirm it or if it happens once you have the baby. There’s no shortage of information on the physical aspects of pregnancy but nothing on that. The closer it gets to the Bene Gesserit’s visit the more real all this becomes: you’re going to be a mother, on a brutal and unforgiving planet that you’re constantly torn between assimilating into and rejecting to maintain your own sense of self. You’re going to need all the help you can get.

There’s another shift, four days before Feyd-Rautha’s birthday.

It starts out as a normal training session, with Feyd putting you through close range maneuver drills.

While the rest of the Fortress is busy preparing for his birthday celebrations, he seems somewhat detached. You’d assumed he’d be more excited at the chance to kill more prisoners in front of an adoring crowd; he’d seemed like he was having a decent enough time killing drugged men for Geidi Prime’s entertainment before the wedding. This, however, he treats like an obligation that he discusses only in the most pragmatic terms and as part of his responsibilities as Na-Baron. You’re not entirely sure why, or what if any moral quandary he might have now that he didn’t nearly a month ago. But you decide that your grasp of Harkonnen pronunciation has improved enough that you can give him an early birthday present and surprise him with your efforts so far.

It’s while you separate long enough to take a minute-long break that you decide that now is as good a time as any. You take a breath and remember how Idrisa taught you to say the words before offering him a friendly smile and throwing out the words in imperfect but improved Harkonnen.

“ Do you know what you want for your birthday, Husband? ”

He blinks, taken aback for the sweetest of moments before tilting his head and giving you a small smile as if to say, Huh. How about that. Like you’re a dog that’s performed an amusing trick. It would feel embarrassing were it not for that he could have had a much worse reaction.

He responds in kind, with what you can only partially interpret as “ Yes, wife, and I ….” something garbled or a phrase you haven’t learned yet, “ what is mine .”

Well. Tone and implications count for a lot. You might not understand the wording exactly, but you think you get the general picture he’s painting for you as you feel yourself blush. He circles around you and adds, speaking faster than the instructions you’re used to hearing and a few words are indecipherable, “ I’ll eghl as my wife, lawswh you off to all of Geidi Prime .”

Before you have time to respond he locks you into position, his front to your back and his blade against your throat. “ To zxncoh to my people that you took my seed and you’re sadghl my heir .”

Other people can hear, you think, scandalized. Maybe not all that well, he’s not speaking loudly, and other people are focused on their own training but still…

His cock is hard and flushed against the small of your back. Your head is spinning. He inhales sharply, as if he can smell the growing wetness between your legs. He withdraws his blade, holsters it in his scabbard, and turns off his shield. On instinct, you turn off yours. There’s a couple of seconds you’re both still, and he opens his mouth, nuzzles your hair. And then…

“Everyone out!” he calls out, the gravel of his rasp not suited for yelling, but he manages all the same. A servant opens the door and everyone files out without a word in less than a minute, and then the door slams shut.

He turns you around in his arms and kisses you hard.

He’d talked about doing this the first day he trained you. It’s really a testament to his self-restraint that he’s waited this long to do it, you think as he backs you into the wall and braces one forearm beside your head. His other hand sneaks into the waist of your pants and beneath your undergarment.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and gasp into it as he brings his fingertips over your bud and circles lightly, at first anyway. One fingertip slides along the slit of you, feeling for your growing wetness as he rests his lips against your hairline. You feel him break into a self-satisfied grin as he says, “I think you can handle two, don’t you, pet?” and slips his middle and index fingers in without waiting for you to respond. You try to tamp down on your whimpers, the way the echoes of the room amplify every sound, including the slick wet noises of his fingers twisting and pumping inside of you, finally crooking forward the way you like. It’s hardly fair of him to use that against you.

Oh, Great Mother, they’ve probably got their ears pressed up against the door, listening in, hearing everything—

–And then he slides in a third finger and crooks them again.

You buck your hips, the wind knocked out of you in a silent scream.

“You like that?” Feyd asks, his voice in your ear.

You know I do. For fuck’s sake, Feyd, just do it again. You let out a desperate whine, biting your lip as you nod and he rubs you down again, feeling you shake around him. You feel searingly hot, knowing your face is flushed, knowing that everyone outside knows what the two of you are doing.

You made this choice weeks ago. You made this choice over a month ago when the Reverend Mother told you who you were to marry.

You still his hand, giving a small nod as if to say, I’m ready, and he withdraws, tilting his head and waiting. You hardly take a breath before you turn and descend to your knees, pulling your pants and smallclothes down your thighs and spreading your legs as far as you reasonably can before bracing your hands against the wall. Your breath is already ragged. You rest your forehead in between your hands.

“ Fuck me, husband ,” you manage in Harkonnen.

Feyd huffs a laugh and settles down behind you. The sound of him unfastening the front of his pants is shockingly loud within the cavernous expanse of the room, and even as you’d wanted to hold back on your noises he punctures them out of you with each thrust.

You’ll forgive yourself this indignity. You’re doing it for a greater purpose , you tell yourself.

And then Feyd thrusts at just the right angle that has you letting out a strangled moan, shaking around him, barely able to hold onto the wall in front of you before he brings a hand between your legs.

“That’s it, pet,” he murmurs in your ear. “Don’t hold back. Make all the pretty noises you can,” he says and brings his fingers back to your bud. You cry out, tears pricking up at the corners of your eyes and you’re not entirely sure from what, clenching hard as he uses the pressure around him to power through, pulling you onto him as he growls and snarls and fills you to the brim.

You tremble through it all, shutting your eyes. A few months ago you would never have pictured yourself doing this, letting a man fuck you from behind while over a dozen people in a hallway mere meters away could hear, and certainly would never have pictured coming from it. A few months ago you would never have pictured marrying a Harkonnen.

Afterwards, he holds himself to your back, giving one last soft thrust before pulling out. You yank your smallclothes and pants up as fast as possible to avoid any kind of spill, wincing at the mess of fluids smeared between you and the gusset.

“Is it always messy like this?” you ask as Feyd tucks himself back in and rises to stand.

“If you’re doing it right,” he says, offering a hand to guide you up.

Once he has you he cups your chin with his hand that had fondled you under your smallclothes. You know immediately what he’s about to do and open your mouth, allowing him access as he slips his fingers inside.

“Clever thing, aren’t you?” Feyd says, watching his fingers go in, watching your eyes as he pushes them until they reach your soft palate and you just barely manage not to gag at the taste and scent of your own juices on his fingertips, the brush of his fingertips pressed too far in for comfort. He withdraws them as he says, “Quick to learn, eager to please.”

You shut your eyes, exhaling shakily as you lower your head. You can’t name the twisted combination of shame and pride at his condescending praise.

He cradles your face again. “None of that, now. Look at me, pet,” he says. And when you do, swallowing around nothing, jaw clenched, he looks at your face, studying the look in your eyes as if he can understand what you’re feeling better than you can.

He kisses you again, bruising, searing, burying his other hand in your hair. He gives you a moment to catch your breath when he releases you, and then looks at the door. His eyes flicker between you and it for a moment before he strides towards it to let everyone back inside.

“I would never have done what we just did for anyone other than you,” you call after him before he can get there, before you can stop yourself. “ Never .”

He stops and looks at you. “I believe you believe that, Y/N,” he says. “You were the first virgin I think I’ve ever been with.”

You furrow your brow. “Really?” you ask, his response briefly taking you out of the embarrassed pit you’d started digging for yourself. You’d sort of assumed that he’d had a history of deflowering frightened young women. Sort of assumed that it was one of his Na-Baronly duties.

He gives a mono-syllabic grunt in the affirmative before opening the door.

You don’t envy everyone shuffling in, avoiding looking at either of you directly as they offer quick honorifics and resume their training.

You’re too shaken to be of much use for the rest of your session, not to Feyd’s surprise.

“Let’s call it a morning, Y/N. Go to your quarters, take a shower. I’ll see you at breakfast,” he says, and you’re biting down on a sarcastic, why thank you, Na-Baron. The squelch of your come leaking out of me is a bit distracting. I appreciate you noticing , when he leans in and gives you a brief kiss on the mouth.

You blink in surprise. He seldom kisses you when there are other people around, and certainly not in front of his soldiers while he’s training. You hesitate before returning it.

“ Thank you, husband ,” you tell him in Harkonnen as you pull away. The curve of his mouth twitches in what you hope is a smile.

You’re certain after that you’ve gotten a good amount of leverage, as much as you’re probably going to get until you become a mother, but what then?

You can learn to live with Feyd as the father of your children, with him being the formative authority figure in their lives. You’ll never try to convince yourself that deep down he’s a kind and decent man, but you’ve noticed that he has his own, albeit twisted, set of moral standards. It’s the idea of the Baron being in their lives at all that worries you. You can’t imagine any way in which his presence could be a good thing, especially for any sons you’ll have–and surely Feyd must know this?

A thought forms and grows even as you try to shut it out. It’s impossible, you tell yourself, and still you can’t help but wonder.

At dinnertime the following evening your grip tightens on your fork as at the head of the table the Baron eats roasted bird down to the bone and you wonder how fragile his own must be after what must be years now of not being able to move on his own.

There’s not a chance that you’d be able to get rid of him personally. You’d be killed long before such an attempt could come to fruition. But you’ve read a bit about Harkonnen history, and Barons have been usurped before, ones in declining health replaced by those who’d go on to prove more capable and more ruthless than their predecessors. Feyd knows his own history far better than you do, he’s read about this.

He tried to kill his uncle once. What’s stopping him now that he’s entering the very prime of his life? When he has a wife and, soon, children to think about? When the Baron’s over seventy and hasn’t been able to walk on his own in years?

Can he be convinced?

You keep your head down, glad that no one here can read your mind, glad that the Baron only seems to pay attention to you if he seems to be wondering if it’s too early for you to start showing.

I’ll spare you the suspense: it is, you’d tell him if you had the nerve.

That night Feyd comes to your room and takes you and there’s a moment between when he finishes and when he decides to sleep in his own quarters that you think about suggesting it to him.

The people respect and fear you . It’s your time. You’re ready.

You have a duty to Geidi Prime and the Bene Gesserit and me to keep our children safe and there’s no guarantee of that unless you get rid of the Baron.

In the end you can’t bring yourself to say it. Not yet.

You wake up to the feeling of a body behind you and cold steel against your throat, and it takes you less than a second to realize that you’re not dreaming, and the person shifting in behind you and bringing both arms around you is very much real.

You let out one scream, to alert any guards nearby, but nothing else to waste your precious breath as you reach for the forearm leading to the hand that’s holding the knife and jerk one shoulder up as hard as you can, trying to dislodge him.

This is so much easier standing up than laying on your side, you realize with immediate clarity, having never felt more awake in your life as you try to duck your head in the scant gap that you’ve made, grabbing his wrist and struggling as he refuses to give you enough space to properly move.

You still manage to keep your hand on his forearm, ducking just enough to squirm out of his arms and plunge his knife into his ribs and then…

The knife hums but doesn’t pierce his skin.

He has his shield activated , you realize, panic setting in, eyes trying to adjust to the dark. If I can evade him just long enough to get his shield off then maybe–

You bite down on the man’s other arm, hard, breaking the skin and drawing a moan out of the man behind you that you don’t have time to recognize sounds familiar– you just need to get on top of him, get the upper hand –and duck under his arm long enough to turn and swing one leg over the man’s waist and pin him on his back to your bed, finally wrenching the knife out of his hand as you point it as his chest and…

You stare, panting and stunned. It hadn’t occurred to you to question how someone could get into your chambers, hadn’t registered that your assailant was wearing pants but no shirt. All you could think about was the knife at your throat.

Pinned underneath you is your husband. He fixes you with a smile, looking utterly pleased with himself.

“You’re improving; that’s good,” he says.

You nearly drop your knife, barely having the mind to set it on the bed next to Feyd’s shoulder, realizing that you’re sitting directly on top of his stiffening groin. Feyd turns off his shield device before propping himself up on his forearms.

“I had to make sure that you were prepared. If you’re ever ambushed it won’t be in a training room with a warning,” he says. He ignores your ragged breaths and stunned expression quickly turning to anger.

You slap him as hard as you can. The cracking sound could deafen you; pain shoots down your wrist from the impact.

What the fuck?! I was terrified! you almost say before he sits all the way up and pulls you into a ferocious kiss. You give back as good as you receive, almost snarling into it, gripping the back of his neck, before pulling away for breath.

“I’m fucking furious with you,” you tell him.

“Good,” he says, and pulls you into another kiss. He gives a quiet moan at the taste of his blood in your mouth, staining your teeth, and licks it off of you. He draws an arm across your naked back and buries his other hand in your hair. Anger turns to adrenaline turns to arousal that has you panting against his mouth before something occurs to you.

“Wait, what happened to–” there are always a couple of armed guards at each end of the expansive hallway. They would’ve been able to hear your screaming.

“I told the guards that I was conducting a drill and that if they interfered that I’d feed them alive and screaming to my Darlings,” he says.

You’re deranged , you think, and reach for his pants with only one goal in mind, and for a moment you picture him flipping the two of you over, fucking you into the mattress like he does every night and sometimes in the mornings, reducing you to mewls and whimpers.

No.

This time he can be the one who gets fucked, that follows the rhythm of your hips. You’ve only come close to that kind of leverage once before but if he wants to be inside of you tonight this is what he’s going to get.

You grab the dagger left on the sheets and press it to his collarbone.

“You nearly killed me,” you tell him. “I’ll take what I want from you.”

He grins at you with his black teeth and gums. “I was only trying to make you think I would kill you, but you did well, so you can take whatever you want.”

You exhale through your nostrils. Think I’m bluffing? you want to ask as the tip of the blade just barely pierces his alabaster skin. An image flashes like lightning in your mind and grows like the clap of thunder–him prone underneath you, laying back and taking everything you give him. Your mouth falls open at the idea and shuts again as you push at his chest, watching as he goes down.

Something flashes in those blue eyes of his as he has just enough reach to turn on the light and you relax the blade just enough to let him do it, let him give you a good look at him.

“Go on,” he says. “Take your reward.”

You huff an-almost laugh, stunned, delighted. You think of him collared but quickly dismiss the notion. Next time. You’re too impatient to leave the room. You look down at Feyd, pliant and waiting beneath you, and press the tip of the knife just barely against his skin. “Help me get your pants off,” you tell him as you raise your hips enough to give him access.

His eyes blaze as he does as he’s told, raising his hips to push them down his legs, kicking a little to get them further down. Do they come all the way off? Probably not. You don’t care. His cock stands at attention, and you relinquish the knife in order to brace a hand on his stomach, your other hand positioning him at your entrance. Feyd’s hands in turn cup your hips. It takes some finessing, moving on top of him; it’s not a position you’ve explored much before but you’re slick enough that it’s effortless to line him up against you and slide down onto him.

“You wanna ride me?” he says as you rock your hips for the first time and a moan spills from your lips. He feels so good, you think, almost dazed, mouth falling open.

“Is that what this is called?” you ask, resting your hands on his chest, taking the opportunity to squeeze and grope whatever you can find.

Feyd lets out a breathless laugh, sliding his own hands over your hips, bringing one up further to squeeze one of your breasts in turn. “Among other things,” he says.

You almost laugh as well; this way it’s almost like his body’s a fun toy you can use to amuse and please yourself. You have better access to the rest of him this way, and he you. He’s never really let you touch him like this, and you wonder–he doesn’t have breasts, but would he still like it if you touched his nipples? You rock your hips, still getting a feel for the rise and fall, the drag of it, as you circle your thumb around one of them before pinching the bud between it and your forefinger. For a moment you expect him to snap at you, grab your wrist and growl a warning at you, but he twitches and gasps and you repeat the gesture.

Your breath hitches and you can’t help but smile for a moment, delighted at the new information you have on this man, the vulnerability of him under you. Would he, under the right circumstances, allow the clamps he’s used only once on you? You bring one hand to his bare thigh as you try out different movements and speeds, oscillating between a rolling grind, bouncing up and down, a combination of both as the friction from this position is a unique thrill that builds the heat within you just as fast as the drag of him inside of you.

He brings one hand to your neck, thumb to your pulse point, and gives a light squeeze. You just bear down and ride him harder as if to say, You think that scares me? I know you, husband. You’ve hurt a lot of people and you’re going to hurt more, but not me. Not in a way that I can’t handle and come back from.

The clarity of it is almost shocking, but you know in your heart that it’s true; even tonight is his own perverse kind of fondness.

What a strange fucking husband, what a strange fucking marriage you have, that minutes after you thought you were about to be killed you feel safer than you have with him so far.

Your orgasm rips through you faster than you’ve ever managed with him inside of you, has you crying out as you shut your eyes and throw your head back, stomach and thighs clenching and every nerve on fire. For a moment everything’s red and everything’s hot and you feel like you’ve just incinerated yourself, and then you come to, mouth open and hips still jerking in short thrusts on top of him and all you can see are Feyd’s pupils blown wide as he stares up at you.

There’s a moment you realize that you could deprive him of an orgasm. One of the first nights you were together, the moment it seemed like you were about to come, he’d smugly withheld it from you. Now that you’ve gotten yours, you could stop, climb off of him, and tell him he can finish himself off. Right now he seems dazed, mouth open, his grip on your throat more of a loose hold. For a moment you picture the lost look on his face if you do it.

That moment breezes by, and you start rocking onto him again, panting and moaning as you scratch down his chest, your nails catching onto his nipples, making him buck his hips and moan, the movements jostling your insides. He’s close–and somehow, you’re building again with your frayed nerves, but you’re going to need his help to bring you over with him.

Well, maybe not need. But you’re going to tell him anyway.

It takes you a few tries, mouth open, trying to form the words, before you say, “Touch me,” and you’re pretty proud of how it comes across as an instruction rather than a plea.

In turn it takes him a moment to register your orders before sliding his hand to your neck down to one of your breasts, squeezing and fondling one and then the other, and finally, mercifully sliding his other hand from your hip and resting it high up on your thigh, rubbing his thumb along your apex.

“That’s it,” you manage, closing your eyes, gritting your teeth at how frustratingly close you are while still so sensitive, so determined to make it over the edge before he does. He’s panting underneath you, his heart pounding, sweat dampening his chest and his thigh and he shifts his legs and–oh. Oh . That’s it. You don’t register your own moans and cries as you shut your eyes against it, feeling him coming inside of you, hearing a guttural moan ripped out of his chest as he arches his hips up into you and for a moment you feel like everything’s shattering, everything bursting into air. After a moment you still your hips, taking in shuddering breaths, waiting to come back to yourself.

You open your eyes again and look down at Feyd, who looks at you like he’s never looked at you before and you realize this is what it’s like for someone to be in awe of you. It’s a powerful feeling, especially from him.

You kept this away from me for nearly a month? you want to ask. You let out a laugh. You’re soaring. You’re delirious. You want to go again even as you tremble.

Feyd ends up talking first. “Now what, pet?” he says, running his hands over your shaking thighs. “Anything you want.”

You catch your breath. He’s still under you, still subdued and tamed–for now. You lean forward, bracing your forearms on either side of him, enjoying the shift of the angle of him inside of you even when softened. He gives a slight hiss as you roll your hips once for good measure.

“I want to keep you inside of me until you get hard again, and then I want to ride you again until I can’t anymore,” you tell him.

You haven’t seen him drunk but you can imagine that it looks a little like this, the way his head rolls to the side and he grins, still looking dazed and bedazzled. You can hardly blame him; you feel almost out of your own body as well.

I have you. I have you. I have you.

#feyd rautha #feyd rauth harkonnen #feyd x reader #feyd smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd x you #dune part two #dune part 2 #feyd rautha imagine

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