Chapter Text
It would be a welcoming touch, the frost-laced winds of evenfallen Giedi Prime coming to surge your skin—if you weren't being presented before the Harkonnen heir like a sow fresh for the butcher.
You sit on your knees, just below the dais, chain-bound, nude, blind with a strap of leather and made disconsolate as you listen to the discussion at hand. Bitter anger rushes through you like a sudden white cap at sea, and you find yourself port-stranded, rocking back and forth, with nothing left to anchor you but pride.
It does little to bring comfort when you finally hear Feyd-Rautha's impatience rattle outside of him, his voice close enough to know he's looking right at you.
His fingers roll across, what you assume from the sound, a dagger churning blithely in his grip.
Chink-slink, chink-slink it goes as his uncle labors to draw another breath between delegating more territory of your homeworld to his beast of a brother's son and calling his favored nephew for a gift.
One succeeding his most recent nameday, and the blood-soaked celebration that had accompanied it. Something he's supposedly earned for his prowess.
You.
"Dearest uncle, I assumed you had a new weapon forged for me, or a world to conquer—perhaps some news of the Fremen's advancement towards one of the major cities on that barren shithole of a planet," Feyd-Rautha spits.
"Not this," his voice registers aside your ear, and you feel a cursory tug on the chain before he says, "plebeian war bitch too common for even the enlisted to fuck."
That elicits a half-suppressed murmur around the periphery of the room before Duke Harkonnen speaks in his hoarse garble—through a mouthful of Mervignon wine. You know its smell.
"She's a Zensunni in all but practice and a prospective for the Bene Gesserit. I'm certain you'll find a use for her, nephew."
In the next waking moment, their underlings having administered a drug to ease you unconscious, you find yourself being tunneled into the lower quarters—led by a flank of bullish Harkonnen servants. Your blindfold unexpectedly removed. Sterile, pitch-black walls enter your vision as the servants turn you on your feet in the last second, shoving your shoulder blades, wresting the chain latched onto the collar around your neck with certain cruelties. You can't begin to digest it all.
Aren't these people in the same position as you? Shouldn't they be empathetic towards your plight?
As though on cue, these questions are ripped away from your mind when one of the servants issues a stomach-churning, damning little laugh as you fall into a room nearly void of any furniture—save for an angular sofa raised too high off the ground for your liking.
Reluctantly, you survey the room for any signs of life, only for your eyes to reach a pale man-shaped thing lurching from its place in the darkness.
Your first instinct is that it's Glossu Rabban, the monstrous, adjunct ruler of your beloved Lankiveil, come to take his share of pilfering when his brother had flagrantly rejected you in front of the entire court.
The second instinct tells you that it's merely one soldier out of a dozen you're meant to service. That you've been sent to the barracks in order to strengthen the dampened morale. And the morale here's always in the gutter.
When the silhouette begins to form clearer and feature a pair of muscle-laden arms, legs as thick as tree trunks, and the hallmark of the Harkonnens in full, pouting lips, your grieving anticipation turns to relief.
Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.
And, all too suddenly, your relief turns to ash on your tongue as you utter a simple, "oh."
"You've hair everywhere, creature," he says, his chest bare, barring a robe that coasts off his right shoulder. You feel the tactile touch of velvet when he leans across your face, his fingers violently combing through your tresses, edging onto your scalp.
"It's filthy, degenerate," he says, locking cerulean-blue eyes against yours before adding, "primitive."
With some hesitation, you twist your head away, the metal cords of the chain following suit.
It takes a moment to adjust to this revelation, but then you strike where he'll listen. Unswerving resolve birching your fear. "Yes, it's as you say," swallowing a lump wedged inside your throat, you continue, "and you'll not lift a finger to cut it."
"Are you low-born?" he asks.
"House Rabban," you say, giving a half-answer. He can fill in the rest.
"House Rabban," he chuckles.
His lips curl to reveal a mean row of black teeth. If he's been fed any knowledge of the politics that orbit the Imperium, he'll know that House Rabban is a minor power with an excessive number of minor names. You may as well be low-born, your Zensunni heritage aside. "So, you're the blood of my blood. Is this the best my uncle could do?"
"Distantly, perhaps," you say, "from Poritrin to Lankiveil and now, Giedi Prime."
As Feyd-Rautha leans towards you, his robe slips artfully across his broad shoulder and onto the floor. Your eyelids flitter shut when his palm squeezes against your jaw, bridled annoyance, before you feel a stroke of wetness breach your skin.
He licks a stripe from one end of your chin all the way to your cheek before giving you a shallow-ended nibble there. Not enough to scar. He wouldn't want that.
Instinctively, your hand shoots up and clasps over his—the one holding your jaw in place. As though he's clutching a rabbit's neck that he could snap in the blink of an eye. You shudder, unwillingly pinning yourself against his pelvis, and you realize you're both stark-naked when you look down and see the v-line that presses hotly against your gut.
"I thought you didn't like me," you say.
"A poor observation," he replies, so matter-of-fact. "But I forgive you. As you were blinded."
You find your now-feeble voice again. "And I'm not interested in the affairs of greater men. I'm here because the pleasure district was wiped clean from the slate, am I correct? There will always be more women?"
"You make it sound as if you're simply a visitor exploring the capitol—in chains."
"Because I am. You're to return me by the end of tomorrow morn' into the arms of your brother. He's the Count of Lankiveil, after all."
"That doesn't seem to entice you," he shrugs, and you can see ribbons of muscle undulate on his back.
"Little more than being captured does," you say.
Feyd-Rautha appears pensive for a moment, drawing furtive glances across your face in search of—well, truly—something unbeknownst to you.
"Haven't you heard the rumors, girl?" he asks, and his true line of questioning registers as dread grips you. "You do frighten. Good."
"Where are your concubines?"
"Hm, concubines?" he repeats, his tongue just about salivating. "They're playthings, my darlings. I'll not honor them with such a title, even if I am due to be emperor."
You suppose he's right to do that. If only because his uncle would make way with assassinating whomever he shows deliberate favoritism should he underperform. His first concubine would have to be a socio-political, shrewd match—enough to demonstrate an image, at least.
If he were to triumph over Arrakis; naturally, he should take a Freman woman. Preferably a chief's daughter. He's that uninvolved when it comes to choice.
"Treason leaves your lips so sweetly," you say.
"And are you to deliver the message?"
His laughter echoes off the constraining walls as you imagine them closing in on you like a band of guerrilla soldiers.
"I'll wed that fair-head of a princess, I'm sure. The one who fashions herself with chains like this," agilely, his fingertips whisk across your neck and the string of metal, "'though I take no pleasure in it. There's no conquest in something that's been delivered to your feet. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Release me."
"Again?" he asks.
"Release me," you say, little more than a threadbare whisper now, and your eyes fill with pinpricks of tears from the disaster.
Incredulousness dips into his tone when he realizes exactly what you're doing.
"Are you—attempting to use the Voice on me? You foul-blooded ... "
He must be too chock-full of adrenaline to swat you. Ironically. "Aren't you a Zensunni? Don't you have, what they call—the Arabs on Ancient Earth—don't you have their blood? How can you know the Voice? If your origins are from Poritrin?"
"I'm half."
"What," he says, more of an utterance forced from him than doubt aligning the word. It's as though he needed the verbal confirmation, the visual not being enough.
Then, after the tension drains into a swallow, his laughter comes uninhibited. "A halfling, a little mongrel. That must be why you're so enticing. You've not a drop of Harkonnen in you, yet you have our features."
"Perhaps uncle did not know what a gift you are," he says, thoughtful, before he dismisses the notion entirely. "Perhaps he did," he says, "after what happened."
It's the only trait you have in you that alludes to the Bene Gesserits' interference, that somewhere, down the ancestral line, there had been a crone watching—parallel to human desire and the natural order of the universe. Feyd-Rautha's eyes glimmer, and even under Giedi Prime's infrared sun, as much as it sups all the color from the world, you can't remember his eyes being anything than the blue that bores into you.
"I've heard that false prophet on Arrakis has a pet from the dunes. Doubtlessly, she will be his first wife should he take control of the trade and travel to the Southern ends. He's more honor than sense."
The politics have never intrigued him, you see. Only the pride of measuring up to House Atreides's gifted son, and the horror. He enjoys the horror.
With a clap against his naked thigh, he calls to you, dangerous and treacly-sweet. "Come here, little one."
He sits himself on the sofa, dragging you by the harness hooked on the collar before rewarding you with a soft kiss when you finally do reach him. The sounds of the chain become tender with a dulcet and hollow riff.
His tongue swarms your mouth like a flailing worm, the stain of his teeth blotting your lips a dark claret-red as you go swivel-eyed, wildly glancing towards the round corners of the room to find a mirror. The only sources of light accompanying the otherwise complete darkness are the dimly lit lamps reflected on the mirror's immaculate surface.
It's obscenely intimate. Feyd-Rautha lounging in the mellow lighting, eyes dancing with ways in which he can mark you.
"Good girl. You're being so obedient. Want to use your Voice again? I won't gag you," with a simper and a delayed, musing snarl, he adds, "just with my cock."
He kisses you and kisses you, throat-deep, ravenous and delighted all the same, before you sense a delicate hand weave underneath your cunt with all the grace of a warrior cutting his sword through fatty flesh.
"I see they've prepared you for me. Down below."
You break contact, a rope of spit bridging the space between your mouths. He hums in response, heated by the challenge as his fingers find your nether-lips before his other hand masterfully grabs a fistful of hair, crunching it, like a set of reins.
"There we go," he purrs, strumming his fingers against your clit. "I should dress you in Harkonnen colors and parade you around for that runt to see."
The thought churns something deliciously feral within him. "Fine symbolism. Fucking a desert rat's mouth with a Harkonnen's coloring."
At that, he forcibly cranes your neck down, down, further down, until you're leveled with his abdomen and can see his hardening cock twitch with unadulterated excitement. You're past using the Voice—you'd rather scream.
That's meant to go inside you? This one-eyed monster of a cock?
It's alabaster-white, matching the rest of his depigmented skin, and as huge as one can possibly get, you're sure.
What's more, it's sprouting with veins. His cock's angrily sticking straight up, head pointing past his naval and towards his grinning mouth.
"Now, I don't expect you to take all of it, but I do expect some effort."
He points his cockhead towards the crack of your lips, and with an exhilarated, little sigh, pushes the convulsing creature inside of you.
Your wet, swarming tongue pools warmth against it, and you can already feel the head quiver, pulsing. Willing and ready for more tightness to constrict him as though he's coming out of the womb all over again. He forces your head to take more of him along the shaft until you can feel yourself choking on the knobby texture of his fat cock.
"Fuck," he snaps. "You're taking it so well."
It's not without its pain, of course, effortless in its delivery, only so much of it can go into the hugging cavern of your throat before your eyes are blotted with more tears. He doesn't even begin to care. He's raking his pleasures over you struggling to breathe, over how he glimpses the side of his cock curving into you through the mirror behind him, over how you're continuing to drip onto his fingers with each passing second. As though he's milking your essence.
In a knee-jerk reaction, one of your hands jolt out and settle on his thigh. He allows it, fleetingly, for a few more pumps into your snug mouth. He fastens his grip around your hair and brusquely tugs you on and off, on and off, all the way until your lips effectively brush his balls. He's face-fucking you with furious satisfaction, groaning, chanting, envisioning a blow for a blow through every squelch from your gullet.
Brutally, the assault continues for what feels like an eternity before he regains his control.
"Did I say you could touch me?" he asks, hissing. "Stand up," he barks.
Fear strangles you, the so-called mind killer, making your head go absolutely numb-struck—cold and forcibly deserted—right before Feyd-Rautha's diving onto his knees and slurping up the folds of your pussy with rogue abandonment. You knew he was beautiful before you'd even laid eyes on him. You knew he was well-received by the ladies of the court.
He may have bedded dozens—no, hundreds of women by now.
You didn't know what that demanded, and how Feyd-Rautha's callousness hadn't overshadowed his need for approval.
Buttery, smooth kisses trail your cunt, and his tongue, oh, God, his deft, clever tongue laps up your juices greedily as his fingers cling desperately to your hips.
He knows the angle's insufficient to properly tongue-fuck you, so you can sense his frustration rise within him, and you're not as surprised when he lobs you onto the sofa without so much as breaking a sweat. The shaved ridge of his brow making it difficult to pinpoint any obvious emotion.
"You're short," he buries his head into the crook of your neck. "Tiny, insignificant thing. Three holes for me to fuck. Breedable meat."
"I do like your body," he says, full of tacit lechery.
Quietly, he gathers up your hands in his own before folding your fingers together. You swear, he almost places a chaste kiss upon the back of yours. "It looks like it hasn't seen a day's work. Your hands are as soft as charlotte russe. Your flesh as pliant as molten glass. Gentle as the broken solar beam from our black, black star. You don't look like a slaver's bitch. Well-fed."
"But not overindulged," he clarifies. "You have temperance in you. Have you even had a man?"
"No?" he tilts his head, greed his master. "You can speak, pet."
"I—I have. Just never like this—"
"Never like what? Such as how I'm about to pound your hairless, little cunt? For hours?" he mocks. "I'll take you on your knees first. Then we'll see if you're worth anything more."
Promptly, he starts to turn you over when nervous laughter spumes from your lips. With that bit of encouragement, he lines his cock against your cunt, your entrance eagerly sucking the na-Baron's cock inside of you—and this is where you're meant to be.
On barbarous Giedi Prime with its barbarous heir stuffing you to the brim.
He pushes, just the head, when you let out a guttural moan from the deepest cavity of your chest. You're facing halfway towards him, halfway towards the mirror when he begins to stir, and your mouth purses into that perfect, darling, "oh" that drives him absolutely insane.
He thrusts, full-bodied, fervent, before somehow the sum of his cock bursts into you with all of his unchecked passions in close pursuit.
Feyd-Rautha fucks like a primordial god, that much is true.
He slams into you, slanted in a way that has you taking the entirety of all ten inches of his, and loving every instant.
"Yes, louder," he growls, his hand intensely holding onto one of your breasts, squeezing with tyrannical rule. "Such a good fuck," he whistles through his nostrils.
"Feyd-Ra—ah, ah, ah, God, please," you whine.
You can't believe that he's bringing you this much pleasure. The nephew of the fucking warmonger who's single-handedly ruining your home. You're letting his own flesh and blood drill a hole into you in his private quarters, and you're about to come over the reflection of it alone when your eyes flutter open and you see Feyd-Rautha's white fingers barge down onto your skull—collecting a mop of hair for him to lever.
"Look at your ass, fucking wonderful," he says, almost breathless.
You know his darlings, although he'd never openly admit it, his favorites—all have willowy bodies. Clean-shaven heads. Eyes where you can no longer see the whites—sworling, starless galaxies supplanting them because Feyd-Rautha allegedly takes to it. You don't look anything like them.
It's difficult to believe he'd want anyone but you with the way he's ramming full-force, jerking your skull back so that he can whisper searing obscenities in your ear. Clearly in rapture of how useful of an instrument your hair can be when he tugs on it to screw you even harder.
Eventually, he squirms under the pressure, sweat lathering his brow and dripping onto your spine when he glazes his eyes over the mirror.
"Take it, take my fucking seed," he says.
He spills into you, the heat charging your cunt with ropes of white-hot, sweltering cum. You find his hands bolting you down in place, ensuring that you're taking every manageable trace, every particle of him into your womb when you try to writhe away like game caught in a trap.
You can't fathom that he's already reached his peak, but just as astonishingly, Feyd-Rautha's cum begins to cluster into a dribbling bead at the head of his cock.
It's finished.
When you expect a curt withdrawal and a less-than-civil discussion pertaining to what occurs next, a serendipitous feeling, instead, washes over both of you. He whispers something unintelligible into your ear as Feyd-Rautha's arms swathe you like a cocoon.
"Sleep, witch. You've devoured all my energy."
He says not a word more before shutting his eyes, severed from all time and space with you as the only one to bear witness.