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sandwormrp · 13 days ago

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If you haven't started this series yet, you absolutely should!

Crash and Conquer

A Feyd-Rautha Choose Your Own Adventure - part 1

Summary: Feyd-Rautha’s ship crash lands near you, and you feel responsible to care for him as he struggles to regain his memory and heal from his injuries. When his past starts to close in, you’re left to wonder just how far for you will go for this volatile man you’ve fallen for.

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha is his own trigger warning - more tags to follow

Thanks to: the Project Feyd-Rautha Fandom ( @houserautha @psycheetamore @seraphicsage @austinbutlerslovers @mystra-midnight )

You get to decide which way we are going for part 2. Poll (1 day) for part 2 below

The na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen did not care for most people, and reserved an especial hatred towards the fish-like Guild Navigator employed by his uncle. Feyd boarded the massive ship, weaving through the interlocking corridors with ease. He braced himself for the ghastly sight of the Navigator encaged in the glass — the water supporting his frail body resembled the color of phlegm. Feyd's upper lip pulled back in a snarl.

"What an honor, escorting the na-Baron," the fish-like man gurgled.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Feyd sneered.

He didn't even want to take this trip, but he was on business to deliver a message personally to a foreign ambassador. Feyd sat down in the atrium where the Guild Navigator dwelled, his fingers itching for something to do. He could go anywhere in the ship, but the lack of control in the journey bothered him, so he took to staying with the Navigator despite his searing hatred.

Admittedly, he was fascinated by the process of long-distance space travel. Feyd happened to be an exceptional pilot. Of thopters, that is. Only Guild Navigators — pumped full of spice — had the ability to bend space and time.

Feyd had another reason to linger near the Navigator. He spoke in a sharp tone, as to not invite any discourse. "We will make an additional stop."

The Navigator's bulbous eyes rolled in their sockets to address him. It was nearly impossible to discern what the creature was thinking.

"Under whose orders?"

"Mine."

The Navigator opened his fishy mouth to say something, then must've thought better. "Where would you like to go?"

"Lankiveil." Feyd lowered his chin and glowered, daring his uncle's employee to object.

"Hm." The Navigator regarded him curiously. "And when we return later than expected, shall I tell your uncle about this...visit?"

Feyd replied, "It doesn't concern him."

Both of them — both man and creature — held their gaze. After an uncomfortable period, the Navigator silently relented. Feyd didn't feel assured about the victory, however, and kept a careful watch out of the port window as the ship launched into hyperspace some time later. He might not have known how to navigate through space but he had studied maps, and he would know if the Navigator chose to ignore his request.

Lights blurred past the window, thousands and thousands of stars all bending to the power of the Navigator. It dizzied him, but he stared ahead. Feyd felt no other effects. He might as well have been back in his room on solid ground.

That's why, when the ship gave a sudden lurch, a surprised growl tore through his chest. Feyd shot to his feet, ready to lash out at the Navigator, the words sharp on his tongue, but found his companion flailing in his tank.

The creature scratched and clawed at the glass of the tank, mouth open in a silent scream. Feyd, trained to quickly assess any situation, quickly noted that a black liquid had started suffusing through the tank like poison, and the creature recoiled away as it spread. Seized with alarm, Feyd evaluated his choices as he strode across the room towards the tank — did he dare try to wrench the creature free? Would it even survive?

Feyd didn't care about the life of the Navigator, it was one of many, a grain of sand on a vast beach. Except his life was in danger, for surely if the pilot of the ship perished, then it would crash.

The Navigator wailed in his tank, streaks of bubbles leaking from its mouth and popping on the tumultuous surface. Feyd pounded a hand angrily on the glass. The black liquid nearly filled all of the tank and at last reached the creature.

Horror yawned in Feyd as the creature writhed and spasmed, any efforts of preservation whisked away by the liquid stealing into its lungs. As if in reply, the ship rocked and lurched again. If it wasn't for his white-knuckle grip on the tank, Feyd would've been thrown to the side — liquid sloshed over the edge, burning into the exposed skin of his wrist. Hissing, Feyd let go, stumbling as the ship listed to one side.

There was no wheel to grab, nothing to save them now that the Navigator had been sabotaged.

"na-Baron," a breathless guard flew into the room, eyes widened. "There's been an attack on the ship —"

"I'm aware," Feyd growled out at the same time the guard noticed the crumpled form of the Navigator at the bottom of the tank. Fear showed on the guard's face. Feyd shoved the guard. "Don't just stand there like a damn fool."

It stood to show how terrified his guard was not to be daunted by his tone. "What-What do we do? The ship is going to crash!"

"Then prepare for impact."

With a cursory look over his shoulder, Feyd followed the guard back into the enemy of the ship. Emergency lights flashed on and off in a blinding display, accompanied by the loud shriek of a siren. "Do you know who's attacking?" Feyd asked, shouting to be heard.

Anger coiled inside him, an insatiable serpent.

Before the guard could reply, the ship gave one last jolt and then spiraled into what was decisively a downward trajectory. Pain exploded in Feyd's shoulder as he slammed into the wall, then fell to the floor, gravity pulling him down. They were nowhere near an escape pod or a protective bay. Fighting every instinct not to die lying down, Feyd curled into a ball, doing the best he could to pull his knees to his chest in his armor.

Heat blazed through the ship. It must've caught on fire. Sweat covered his brow, and yet Feyd stayed curled to himself, unaware if the guard was doing the same or where he had gone.

He couldn't die.

He refused to die.

It was the last thought in his mind before the ship exploded around him and everything went dark.

+++

Part 2 link

Overview post of Project Feyd-Rautha Fandom

#feyd rautha harkonnen #feral for feyd #austin butler #feyd rautha #dune part two #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x you #crash & conquer #feyd rautha fanfiction #feyd

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sandwormrp · 3 months ago

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What a fantastic read. I love how we both unilaterally agreed that forehead presses are his way of showing affectionate 😭❤❤ I'll be gnawing at the bars of my cage for the next chapter! Great writing. Leia is going nowhere 🥰

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter vi

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: heavy making-out. dry humping. female & male orgasm. tiny bit of breath play.

w/c: 3k.

a/n: i swear these two are horny teenagers that live in my head rent free, causing all kinds of chaos. feyd is very much inspired by how Rora at Sandworm: A Dune Roleplay, writes him. and so this chapter is very much dedicated to @sandwormrp. i hope you all enjoy! <3 <3

This had to be a mockery—there was no other explanation.

Feyd couldn't think of a single reason his uncle would insist on this dinner unless it were to taunt them. Vladimir Harkonnen was not a puzzle to be pieced together; every decision he made was calculated and intentional. And this—this extravagant, indulgent dinner—had a purpose behind it.

He only had to figure out what it was.

He sat across from his uncle, watching the grotesque display of gluttony with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. The Baron ate with obscene pleasure, each chunk of meat passing lips slick with grease, a sheen of fat glistening down the slope of his chin. His manner had no urgency—only the slow, calculated indulgence of a man who had never known hunger.

The table groaned under the weight of excess: roasted meats still steaming, loaves of bread warm and fresh from the oven, and wine the colour of fresh-spilled blood, pooling in crystal goblets like offerings to some deity of gluttony.

Leiana sat beside him, her tension palpable. From the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle flinch in her posture each time cutlery scraped against plates—a sound that needled at her nerves. It slithered beneath her skin like serpents, anxiety threading through her veins as though in search of something unnamed, something unseen.

The silence between them was dreadful, thick with the weight of words left unsaid, each one a blade waiting to be drawn. Leiana did not trust him—Feyd knew that as surely as he knew his name. He, in turn, harboured no faith in his uncle. And the Baron? The Baron trusted no one at all.

Leiana would not look at him.

It made him smirk—a devil's curve to his mouth.

He'd taken something from her, carved away a sliver of innocence when he had pinned her to the wall, his cock between her thighs, her arousal betraying her in silent pleasure. He knew it. Saw it. In the way she now avoided his gaze, and in those rare moments when she did look at him—how her eyes darkened, how colour bloomed high on her cheeks, shame and memory warring beneath her skin.

Leiana had scrubbed herself raw, desperate to wash away the memory of him—of his seed clinging to her like a brand. But it lingered, a haunting that was lovely in its intimacy and frightening in its intensity.

That had been two days ago; still, he had not returned Talitha to her.

Their arrangement was meant to be transactional—he had taken something, and in return, he owed her. It wasn't that he refused to pay his debt, only that he intended to do so on his own terms, in his own time, reminding her with every passing moment who truly held control.

Seconds bled into minutes. They ate in silence—at least, some did. Feyd watched from the corner of his eye as Leiana merely nudged the food on her plate. The Baron's grotesque indulgence had clearly soured her appetite. Feyd could almost hear the ticking in her head, the frantic pacing of her thoughts, and it amused him—until his uncle pushed aside his now-empty plate.

He wiped the remnants of his meal from his lips, and the back of his hand came away greasy. "It's time we discuss the wedding," he declared. Leiana bristled, the scrape of her knife against the plate sharp enough to make Feyd's jaw tighten.

He took a slow sip of his wine, eyes fixed on her as she set her cutlery down with deliberate grace, folding her hands in her lap—poised, composed, the perfect image of nobility. "Very well," she said, her voice smooth, as if she'd been waiting for this moment all along.

Feyd was impressed by her. She allowed only the faintest flicker of emotion to surface before masking it, her expression settling once more into practised poise. There was no denying it—she was her father's daughter, through and through.

"The wedding will be in a ten-day," the Baron said.

Feyd's gaze darkened. Ten days, and he would be a married man. It was a future he had never envisioned for himself—a life bound by vows, by ceremony. He could not picture himself as a dutiful husband any more than he could imagine Leiana in the role of a submissive wife.

And yet, if pressed, he could not deny that he saw her in his future—perhaps not clearly, not comfortably, but there all the same. And that, he thought, was a curious thing indeed.

It felt fated, as if the universe had conspired to place her in his path, to tether their lives in ways he couldn't unravel. And the more he dwelled on the pull he felt toward her—the depth of it, the urgency—the more it unsettled him, made him question whether it was desire alone. . . or something more insidious.

But then he looked at her—truly looked—and saw her for what she was: stubborn, proud, even now. Especially now. It only made him want her more, his cock twitching within his trousers. She said nothing in response, offered no protest, only lifted her chin and held the Baron's spider-like gaze with defiant stillness. As though she'd been taught—by her mother, no doubt—not to flinch before monsters, not even the kind who made a sport of breaking women and witches alike.

The Baron continued, unconcerned by their opinions and seeking neither. "The ceremony will be first—where you will swear loyalty to each other and then to me." Those words hung heavily in the air—not House Harkonnen, to him, specifically. "There will be a feast where I expect civility from you, nephew."

All eyes turned to Feyd. Leiana's gaze lifted to meet his, green eyes locking with his darker ones, and for a moment—just a moment—he saw it: a flicker of fear, of vulnerability, as if she believed their secret had been exposed. Perhaps it had. His uncle's spies reached across the stars; nothing truly escaped the Baron's notice. But Feyd didn't care. She was to be his wife, and among House Harkonnen, there was no shame in claiming what was already his.

"Of course, Uncle," Feyd replied smoothly. He held his gaze, eyes locked in a silent challenge—one his uncle chose to disregard. For now.

"And the evening," the Baron continued, "will conclude with the bedding ceremony."

"Bedding ceremony?" Leiana spoke, at last, her voice edged with something cold, the corners of her mouth curling downward in displeasure. She had heard of such archaic traditions—barbaric, in her eyes. The bride stripped naked, paraded like a prize, and delivered to the marital bed where men might watch her husband claim her, fuck his seed—and hopefully an heir—into her womb.

"No."

There it was again—that word, flung like a curse.

Feyd tensed, as if her defiance had been aimed at him rather than his uncle. But it was not the word itself that unsettled him. He saw the shift in his uncle's eyes, how they narrowed and darkened, the subtle twitch of his jowls. His uncle was not a man accustomed to refusal. Feyd was unsettled by his own response—how his chest tightened, how his thoughts instinctively turned toward shielding her.

"It is tradition," the Baron said, as though the weight of custom alone could bend her will.

But Leiana didn't flinch. She held his gaze. Her body was taut, every muscle coiled—as though daring him to try. There was steel in her stillness, a quiet refusal that could not be shattered. He could strike her, try to break her, but she would not yield. Her defiance was clear: her body would not become a spectacle for the beasts that marched beneath the Harkonnen banner.

"Not on Caladan," she shot back, her chin lifted in quiet defiance. Leiana was every inch the noble daughter—poised, regal, untouchable. There was pride in her, the kind that dared consequence, that begged to be broken, and Feyd couldn't look away. Something familiar coiled in his blood, heat stirring low as he watched her hold her ground against his uncle.

"A pity for you, then, that we are not on Caladan, Lady Atreides."

"A pity indeed," she replied. "But the fact remains—there will be no bedding ceremony."

"This is not a negotiation."

"Everything is a negotiation, Baron Harkonnen. We need only settle on the price."

It wouldn't matter whether he agreed or not—not truly. His loyalists could force themselves on her, tear away silk and dignity alike, bruise her flesh, and claim her not as a bride but as an example. Or rather, they could try.

Leiana was no helpless girl fumbling with half-learned tricks. With a single command, she could make them fall upon their own blades, tear out their tongues, or offer their manhood to the desert vultures before a single hand touched her skin.

She would not break. She would make them bleed for the attempt.

A heavy silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating. Even the walls were holding their breath. "Six men," he offered gruffly, as though paring down the number somehow made it more palatable—a lesser cruelty than a hall of leering witnesses. Again, the pause stretched. The room remained frozen, suspended in the delicate moment.

"One," she said firmly.

"Six," he repeated. "And they won't touch you at the feast."

"One. And none of them will lay a hand on me."

"Six," he insisted. "And they'll wait inside the bedchamber."

"One, Baron Harkonnen," she said, her voice cold steel. "One man of your choosing to witness the consummation. Feyd will be the only one permitted to touch me—or I swear, every child he fucks into my womb will wither and die, as though my body were a grave. You'll have no heir. Neither of you will."

Her words cut deep, striking at a dangerous subject long whispered through the halls of the Imperium. The Baron had never taken a wife or a lover, and he had never sired a successor. The rumours were legion, vile, and persistent, painting him not merely as a tyrant but as something far more monstrous.

Feyd caught the faint twitch at the corner of his uncle's mouth—as subtle as it was ominous. The Baron's emotions bled through him like poison in water: fury, humiliation, a hunger for vengeance. There was no admiration for her defiance, no trace of amusement in her audacity, only the cold, calculated urge to silence her, to crush what dared to rise.

But Feyd? He felt something entirely different stir within him. Heat. Hunger. Arousal.

He was used to submission. To fear. People shrank beneath the shadow of his uncle—and his own. But not her. Leiana stood there, bartering the terms of her body as though this marriage had been her choice, as though she hadn't been cornered into it.

And fuck, if that wasn't arousing.

He had known strength all his life—sharp, brutal, unforgiving. Blood and bone, iron and flame. But she. . . she had tasted pain only briefly, and yet she wore it like armour when it mattered, without letting it strip the softness from her heart. And that—that fascinated him.

"You should retire for the evening," the Baron said, and it was not a suggestion.

Feyd watched her rise, her movements steeped in the quiet grace of victory. She wore it well. Feyd watched her with a predator's focus, something possessive curling in his gut as she turned and swept from the room like a queen leaving court.

He let the silence stretch, just long enough for the weight of his uncle's gaze to shift and settle—inevitably—on him.

"You would do well to tame her, nephew. And quickly." The words were mild, but the meaning beneath them was unmistakable—break her, and do it swiftly. Brutally, if need be. And yet. . . wasn't that exactly what she expected of them?

"Of course, uncle."

He had already risen, striding from the room. Her anger carried her swiftly, but he caught her with ease, seizing her by the upper arm—his grip rough enough to promise bruises. Leiana twisted, trying to tear herself free, but he dragged her through a nearby doorway and into a side corridor.

With a shove, he forced her into an alcove, her back hitting the wall hard enough to send a shiver of pain up her spine. The last light of the setting sun spilled through the high windows, casting long shadows across them as silence surged in to replace their footsteps.

Before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, swallowing the protest from her lips before it ever found life. His hunger surged, insatiable—molten and aching, sweet as honey yet burning just the same. The taste of her only stoked the fire in his blood. Feyd braced for resistance, for her hands to push him away—only to find none.

And that, more than anything, caught him off guard.

She pulled him closer, fingers clutching at him with urgency until not even air could slip between them. He let out a low breath of amusement, the memory of their first kiss flickering through his mind—the fire of it, the tension. He remembered how she had tried to pull away, how instinct had warred with desire—only for her body to betray her, how she'd pressed her body into his as if she'd been made for him.

As if submission had been woven into her bones, waiting for him to claim it.

He chased her mouth with his teeth, enjoying the breathy gasp she gave in response. His hands slid down to the curve of her backside, fingers digging in possessively, hard enough to leave marks.

"You'll never speak to him like that again—not unless I'm present," he growled between heated kisses, swallowing the soft, broken sighs that slipped from her mouth like morning dew.

She made a sound—half protest, half defiance—but he silenced it with his tongue, deepening the kiss until thought itself blurred. His hands fisted the fabric of her dress, dragging it up around her hips before sliding to the back of her thighs, lifting her easily, curling her legs around his waist. He rutted against her, cock hard and straining beneath the layers between them, a shudder running down his spine at the maddening heat of her pressed against him.

He ached to have her naked beneath him, to feel the slick heat of her without layers in the way—her softness, wet and wanting, pressed flush against him, wrapped around him. She parted her lips to speak, but he caught her mouth in a deeper kiss, fierce and consuming, a wordless command: don't speak.

"Feyd—" his name escaped her in a breathless whisper, "stop— someone might— they'll hear—"

Each word was broken by a kiss—desperate, laced with hunger, hers, his, it didn't matter—wet, breathless kisses that left strands of spit glistening between them every time he pulled away. He pressed her harder into the wall, enticed by the way her hips rolled against him, meeting his rhythm with shameless urgency. The friction of her body against his, even through their clothes, made his cock throb.

"You will behave. Do you hear me?" he snarled, black teeth flashing before he dipped his head to her neck and sank them into the sensitive spot where her shoulder met her throat. The feel of her against him was exquisite—restless, writhing, as if the press of his body was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

She was wet—he could smell it. Her arousal was thick in the air, flooding for him. He pictured it, her cunt slick and eager, too unaccustomed to the sharp edge of pleasure—how pain only made the sweetness burn hotter.

He sank his teeth deeper into her neck, savouring the way it forced a cry from her lips—just loud enough to humiliate, to thrill. When he pulled back, he admired the bloom of colour beneath her skin, the faint rise of a bruise already forming in the shape of his teeth.

Then she grabbed him, fingers clutching his jaw as she dragged his mouth back to hers, kissing him. He answered with a growl, devouring her lips like a challenge, grinding against her until her panties were ruined, her arousal soaked through, leaving a glisten across the dark fabric of his trousers.

"He'll have you killed—unless I'm there to protect you." It sounded absurd, even to his own ears. Her sharp tongue alone wasn't the only reason people would want her dead. She was a storm wrapped in silk, and storms made enemies.

"You. Are. Mine."

Each word was punctuated by a hard thrust of his hips, the coarse fabric of his trousers dragging against her soaked cunt, pulling a sharp breath from her lips as pleasure and frustration tangled inside her.

Heat surged up his spine, like flames licking along each rib, threatening to consume him.

"Do this for me, wife," he murmured darkly, "and I'll let you cum."

She let out a soft whine, the sound slipping past her lips before she could catch it—mortified by the need in it. Then his hand was at her throat, pressing her back against the wall, his grip firm enough to make her dizzy. Her fingers scrambled for his wrist, nails digging into his skin, eyes wide—caught between submission and resistance.

"Fey—"

"You offered me your submission," he interrupted, pulling just out of reach, denying her the kiss she so clearly craved. His voice was low, dangerous. "So give it to me—now. Or I'll leave you here, alone to finish what you started. And I won't touch you again until our wedding night."

His words cut like a double-edged blade—punishment in one breath, promise in the next. He was giving her a way out. He would leave her untouched if she chose it, her innocence preserved. But somehow, he doubted that was what she truly wanted.

She was grinding against him with desperate need, like a slut in heat. She'd already tasted pleasure at his hands—his mouth, his cock, his release slick on her soft, aching cunt. And he knew. Could tell by the way she clung to him, moved against him, that she wanted more.

"Please," she whispered, face burning.

"Please, what?" he taunted, voice low and curling with dark amusement. "Are you going to be a good girl now—behave for your husband?"

A beat of silence. He felt the soft swallow beneath his fingers, then the faintest nod. Her answer came in a breathless whisper: "Yes."

He rewarded her with a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, claiming every sound she made as though it belonged to him alone. His hands slid to her hips, gripping them firmly as he pressed her harder into the wall, grinding against her with slow, deliberate need. The coarse fabric of his Harkonnen-cut trousers dragged over her slick heat, each movement drawing a tremble from her body, feeding the fire between them.

She tried to turn her face, to shy away from him as an orgasm overtook her—but he didn't let her. His hand locked around her throat again, pinning her to the wall, forcing her to meet his eyes as her body writhed against his, legs tight around his waist.

He wanted to see it—all of it. The flush of her cheeks, the haze in her eyes, the way she unravelled just for him. She looked drugged on pleasure, helpless beneath it, and it thrilled him.

He kissed her through it, devouring the breathless gasps of his name, drinking down every tremble like it was his due. She clutched at him, desperate—and he held her there, claimed her with every drag of his lips, every grind of his hips until there was no space left between them.

And when her thoughts began to return—when the first flicker of shame crossed her face—he smiled. Not in mockery, but in triumph. That look, that panic, that delicious vulnerability. . . it belonged to him now. Just like the rest of her.

"So fucking pretty when you cum," he murmured, his forehead pressed gently to hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet that followed.