#mrs feyd rautha Harkonnen now

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part 7

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child �� the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: depictions of killing/death, a blood oath, oral sex f receiving, fingering, edging, dirty talk, p in v, no protection, breeding/pregnancy kink, creampie kind of

A/N: I hear wedding bells🎉 This took me a hot second to write up and edit, but it's also a little bit longer than I usually post. I hope you enjoy💕

Sleep evades you. The day of your wedding slips in uninvited, a wash of sunlight to chase away the shadows from your room. The bed is empty. Feyd-Rautha hasn’t returned or, at least, hasn’t visited you since.

You convince yourself that you don’t care.

But still your thoughts stray traitorously to him — where he is, what he’s doing, what he’s thinking and if it’s of you.

You stare out at the Grand Arena. It’s more or less attached to the Harkonnen fortress and, to your understanding, typically reserved for political rallies. It’s the only place large enough to host a wedding where the entire planet is invited, though, plus the added benefits of its close proximity.

A platform has been erected and already citizens are filing into their stadium-style seats despite the early hour. They will wait all day to sit front row at the marriage between House Atreides and House Harkonnen. A historic event, you realize with detached clarity. To be remembered for generations to come.

This does nothing to quell your roiling stomach.

You turn at the sound of your bedroom doors opening, hope lifting stupidly in your chest. Because it is not Feyd-Rautha who enters, but Lady Jessica.

She looks more radiant than ever, though you suspect this partially has to do with the time apart that you’ve spent.

“Mother?”

Perhaps your lack of rest has warped your vision.

Jessica smiles softly, confirming both your deepest fear and most shameful want. “Daughter.”

For the first time in your life, you run to her. She embraces you, cradling your face into her neck. She smells like home and the memory of Caladan has you blinking back tears. “Why are you here?”

“Did you really think we would miss your wedding?” Jessica brushes your hair back. “They are treating you well? You haven’t responded to any of our correspondences.”

“They are treating me well,” you tell her. You can’t help but think of Feyd-Rautha’s lips on your skin, between your legs, but quickly dismiss it. “And I haven’t received any correspondences.”

“Mm, as I suspected. Your father thought that you might be too busy to write but I knew better.”

“He’s here, too?”

“Of course.” Your mother presses something cold and metallic into your palm, curls your fingers around it. “I wanted to give you this.”

You frown. After closer inspection, you realize that it’s a necklace. Simple, elegant, with a thin silver chain and delicate pendant. “What is this?”

“I wore it when I first met your father. Although we are not married, our relationship has obviously grown past that of an arranged partnership. I can only hope you find similar happiness.” She pauses then, examining you. “I know you are aware that your birth was…orchestrated. But that does not change our love for you. You are our greatest treasure, Y/N.”

Your mood falters, slipping from between your fingers and shattering on the ground like glass. “This is a fertility necklace.”

“Yes,” Jessica says, dipping her chin.

You have the overwhelming sense to grind the necklace under your heel. The tears in your eyes now belong there for an entirely different reason.

“I thought you came here today to support me but instead you’re just carrying out your Bene Gesserit schemes,” you hiss. A dry laugh rattles in your throat. “I’m such a fool! You don’t care for me. You only care about what I can provide. My whole life, everything has been for them. Everything.”

Jessica’s jaw clenches. “That’s not true.”

Aggravated, you spin on her, teeth bared. “Then tell me you came here today of your volition.”

Jessica holds your gaze but does not reply.

“I knew it,” you all but snarl at her.

“I thought these past few months would’ve opened your eyes to your potential, the importance of your duty,” Jessica snarls back, matching your viciousness. “But still you are blind to the truth. You blatantly refuse to accept a plan that has been in effect for centuries. Ten thousand years of deliberate planning and you act as if you are here as punishment. You are living proof of the Bene Gesserit’s power, Y/N.”

Chest heaving, you shutter your raging emotions. “Leave me.”

“That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“I speak to you not as a daughter,” you retort, “but as the na-Baroness of House Harkonnen. And seeing that you are nothing but a concubine to the Duke, I demand that you leave.”

You know that with The Voice, Jessica could force you to bend to her will, to do any inexplicable amount of things. But she does not. She stands there, wavering, before striding back from which she came from without another word.

You hide the fertility necklace in the pot of a synthetic plant, and no one is the wiser when they come to prepare you. For the servants this is a joyous occasion and you do not want to dampen their enthusiasm. You mask your growing unease, laughing and joking with the girls as they recreate you into the image of na-Baroness.

“You look stunning,” Asha tells you privately. There’s quite some time before the ceremony starts, and she’s pulled you into a quiet corner of the room. “The na-Baron isn’t going to know what to do with himself.”

Oh, you very much doubt that. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Your wedding dress is a subtle combination of both Atreides and Harkonnen culture, a blend of elegance and functionality.

The dress itself is made from a lightweight, flexible material that mimics the look of metallic plates. Featuring overlapping panels that creates a segmented, scale-like effect, the bodice gives the illusion of Harkonnen armor. But the skirt, full and flowing, is entirely Atreides — layers of fabric cascading to the floor. Small, metallic accents line the hem that shimmer with your every step.

And, completing the look, a headpiece that forms a sort of M over your forehead and down your cheeks, adorn with jewels.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. “Have you seen him today? The na-Baron.”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“No reason.”

Asha’s mouth quirks teasingly. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” you say, too quickly, “well, yes. But not because of him, because of the ceremony. This will be my first time in front of Giedi Prime.”

“They will adore you,” Asha says. She waves a hand flippantly. “And if not, then your husband will have their heads.”

You grin. “I suppose that’s comforting.”

“Of course it is.” She squeezes your hand.

Your moment with Asha passes as you’re both pulled back into the revelries — spice-laden champagne, food that looks suspiciously like harvested organs, and the pounding, ear-splitting music that’s popular among the Harkonnens. By the time you’re called for the ceremony, your mood has lifted significantly, almost enough to make you forget that you’re the reason for celebration. It’s a sobering reminder.

Your heart threatens to burst from your chest. From inside the walls of the fortress, the roar of the crowd crests and falls like a tidal wave sent to sweep you away. The corridor is alive with mumbled conversation. A procession will precede you to the altar — noblemen and the likes, your parents, who you avoid — along with your betrothed, who is nowhere in sight. The gathered members of your bridal party shift and part, panic seizing you with white-knuckled fingers as the Baron maneuvers toward you.

He greets you with a saying repeated to you many times that day, one that after several iterations you’ve come to understand means, “May your death be swift in battle”.

How it relates to marriage, you are too nervous to inquire about.

“What a wonderful day,” he muses in a rasping lilt. “It would be a pity for someone to ruin it.”

“Indeed,” you reply, eyes narrowing.

“You understand the importance of the ceremony, don’t you?” You don’t respond, sensing that he will tell you nevertheless. “This is just one more step for Feyd-Rautha toward taking my place as Baron. How the ceremony goes will influence his standing with his people.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Of course this was just another political move. What did he think you would do, riot in the middle of the ceremony? You retort, “I understand.”

“Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

The chill that brushes down your spine, seeping into your bones, is deterred by the sudden clash of a gong. War drums erupt in tumultuous exalt. The very sound of them resonates deep within you, invoking a primal response of adrenaline, as if your body is preparing you for battle.

Which, you suppose is fitting.

And who else to be summoned by the promise of war then Feyd-Rautha.

He enters the room as he always does, commanding the attention of everyone in it. The effect is only amplified today, though, in his polished ceremonial armor and resolute intensity, a heady combination of brutality and valiancy.

Gazing at him us purifying fire, searing you from the inside out, and you take your time charting the unholy beauty of his face, gazing back at you with terrifying reverence.

In that moment, you possess no past or future — there is only him. An eternal now.

And then he steps past you and into the black sun, exultant, thrusting the knife above his head.

A championing cheer follows, impossibly louder than the thunder of the drums. Feyd-Rautha lingers and something in your chest expands at the sight of him dwelling in their approval, their admiration, somehow transcendent of any humanity he manages to have.

He truly is a god.

From your secretive position, you peer at him as he strides down the aisle to the platform where the officiant is waiting for him. At the top of the stairs, he turns and faces his people. In an act that surprises you, everyone who isn’t already on their feet rises, and in sync pound their fists to their chests. One two three.

Their utter devotion to him is staggering.

Feyd-Rautha raises his chin, simultaneously moved and expectant of this. He then takes his place at the altar.

Which means it’s your turn.

You loathe having to follow such a devastating display of power and love. There’s no telling how Giedi Prime will react to you, after all, considering that you are technically the enemy. Asha’s words come to you, emboldening you, and you lift your gaze. You will not falter.

A shushed quiet falls over the arena as you stride out, then enormous applause. You can only imagine what you look like to them, your people, but the only one who matters looks upon you with such unwavering devoutness that it nearly brings you to your knees. As you climb the steps to the altar, Feyd-Rautha’s hands clench into fists, a gesture you interpret as a sign of restraint.

Oh, if only he could touch you with those hands.

The officiant, a representative of the Imperium, begins to recite the traditional Harkonnen wedding script. A translator repeats the words to you, but you let the harsh language wash over you as you focus instead on the row of guests at the base of the altar. Your parents — looking fiercely protective, Leto smiling somewhat reluctantly; Jessica maintaining her cool demeanor — the Baron, emotionless, and beside him Rabban.

Did he wish it was him on the stage?

He catches you staring and flashes you a sickening smile. You look pointedly away, a fist forming in your stomach.

The beginning of the ceremony is tediously long and drenched in tradition, most of which you don’t understand even with the translator’s help. Marriage is not generally a romantic affair for Harkonnens, and the proof can be found in their strangely clinical rites. Again it’s impressed upon you that you are preparing for battle, one in which you would reside besides the most fearsome of its participants.

A pause on the officiant’s part draws you back to the present. You know what comes next, and the thought repulses you — Harkonnens of the Imperial House do not get married with the weight of enemies on their shoulders, pursuing a clean slate of sorts. You watch as a row of prisoners are led before the altar, hooded and bound and forced to their knees by a Harkonnen guard. You shiver despite the insurmountable heat.

You are familiar with war, with combat, the knife-thin edge upon which each fight balances. Life or death. But you can hardly stomach the idea of executing a helpless opponent, even if they are an enemy of your House.

Your throat thickens as Feyd-Rautha is bestowed a ceremonial blade.

Each hood of the prisoner is removed except for one, a man at the end who wavers to stay upright. Feyd-Rautha ignores this man, starting at the opposite end. His grin is apparent as he slashes through the throats of the prisoners, the blade his brush and the bodies his canvas, painting them both with ink-colored blood.

When Feyd-Rautha makes it to the still-hooded man, he pauses, shoulders heaving with the exertion of his wicked precision. Rivulets of blood stream down his armor. He says something unintelligible to the man, then removes his hood.

Your blood runs cold as you recognize him.

Ze’ev.

Now that you know who it is, you inspect him closer. There’s hardly any traces of the man you briefly knew. He is emaciated, bones lining his scarred flesh, clearly beaten within an inch of his life. After your encounter with Feyd-Rautha, you know that Harkonnens heal quickly, and the scars on his body indicate to you that he had been torn open again and again.

Feyd-Rautha turns. When he approaches you, his face is full of such naked adoration that it causes you to take a step back. He offers you the bloodied blade.

“For you,” he rasps.

You whisper fiercely, “What are you doing?”

“He is a gift, for you. On the day of our wedding.”

Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to refuse him. But to do so would be to decline your husband, shame him in front of his people — bile rises in your throat as you accept the blade, your fingers wrapping around the handle.

You breeze past him, refusing to meet his eye.

Ze’ev trembles as you advance on him. Though from his delicate condition or fear, you can’t be sure. His lips form a sneer. “You won’t do it.”

“It’s nice to see you, too,” you say dryly. “I thought you were dead.”

“I should be. Your husband certainly brought me to the brink of it and back, telling me that he was saving me. For you.” Ze’ev spits at your feet then, a dark and bloody glob.

On Arrakis, this would’ve been a sign of respect.

But this wasn’t Arrakis.

You raise your arm in an upward swing, then across your body with exuberance, his blood hissing as it splatters the ground. Splatters you.

The crowd applauds your demonstration, and the sound of their approval echoes in your ears as you take the stage once more, the prisoners’ bodies carted away quickly. You feel numb. Bewildered.

But also deliciously righteous.

You face the man who put you in this position, who put the blade in your hand as a gift without considering the consequences. And he smiles because he knows — he knows that you are delighted, that the freckles of drying blood elicit an indisputable, terrifying delirium in you.

He coaxed this from you, what was better left in the dark.

And you don’t know if you should thank him.

The officiant switches to the common tongue. “The time has come to bind these lives together in the sight of their people. As na-Baron and na-Baroness, they pledge their loyalty and protection to one another, their flesh and blood now shared in duty and alliance.”

A second blade is brought out on a satin cushion.

“na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, do you swear to protect and defend na-Baroness Y/N, to uphold her honor and safeguard her well-being, as your duty demands?”

“I swear.”

“na-Baroness Y/N, do you swear to protect and defend na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, to uphold his honor and safeguard his well-being, as your duty demands?”

You dip your chin. “I swear.”

“Then, as symbol of your shared duty and alliance, I ask you to exchange your blood.”

Feyd-Rautha takes the blade and, with surprising gentleness, turns your palm over and kisses it before gliding the tip of the blade over it. Your blood wells, bright red.

You take his own hand — large, scarred and calloused — and repeat the action.

Before he can heal, the officiant wraps a white cloth around your now joined hands, red blood mingling with black.

“You are my body, an extension of myself,” Feyd-Rautha rasps.

You tense. This isn’t part of the ceremony.

Feyd-Rautha, one hand still clasped in yours, uses the other to beat his chest. One two three. You watch as the crowd responds in kind: the same gesture, reverberating throughout Giedi Prime.

It’s incredibly intoxicating, to be the focus of such a powerful gesture. You let it wash over your skin and infiltrate your bloodstream, alter something inside you, rearranging your very cells into what it takes to be a fearless ruler. You would do anything to garner such a response again.

The officiant waits until the last thump can be heard before he declares, “May your bond be as unbreakable as the strongest fortress. United by duty and alliance, I present to you — the na-Baron and na-Baroness!”

Having spent so much time dreading the ceremony, you never stopped to think about what would happen after it. Currently you sit atop the dais in the throne room, accepting an endless line of Harkonnens who want to congratulate you on your feat of an arranged marriage. Your palm that the blade cut stings with every hand you shake.

After what seems like a small eternity, it’s time for you to join the nobles at the reception. Memories of the last time you sat at the table trickle in through your exhaustion — which you promptly shove away.

The feast passes in a blur. You don’t have the appetite for any of it, but hopefully do a convincing job of moving your food around on your plate.

And then: it’s time for your first dance.

Reluctantly you let Feyd-Rautha sweep you into the center of the room, the usual security you feel in his presence succumbing to your own fears. He holds you tight against him. His tone is clipped, political, plush lips on the shell of your ear, “You had never killed before.”

Ah, your first words as husband and wife.

“No I had never killed before,” you snap at him. “Not everyone goes around just slaughtering whoever they feel like.”

Feyd-Rautha is a surprisingly agile dancer, though you figure that it isn’t all that removed from fighting. “I didn’t intend to upset you.”

“Perhaps, but you did.” Your throat thickens. “What I did is irreversible.”

“You told me you wanted him to pay for what he did.”

“I-I did. I just didn’t think —”

“If you let someone who crosses you live, then others will try,” Feyd-Rautha says, incensed. “You must strangle the serpent while it’s a hatchling, for once it grows, it will seek you out while you lay in your bed and slip around your neck.”

You can’t suppress your shudder. What a lovely metaphor. Apparently Giedi Prime has loads of fun phrases alluding to death.

“You could’ve told me,” you mutter in lieu of a response.

“It was a gift.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Was that all it was? Another part of your game?

“Most people give jewelry as gifts,” you retort.

Feyd-Rautha’s lips twitch. “I am not most people.”

“I know.” To prove your point, you coast your fingers over his side where the dagger went in.

He pulls you tighter against him. “I would have you right here in front of everyone if you’d let me.”

You can’t help but smirk. “I know.”

He opens his mouth to continue but he’s interrupted — by Rabban, nonetheless. “na-Baron, I request a dance with my sister in-law.”

Feyd-Rautha’s grip on you tightens. “No.”

“Yes,” you say, loosening his fingers from around your waist. “It won’t be long.”

Feyd-Rautha stares after you unhappily as his brother leads you away. Other couples have now taken to the floor in an elaborate dance that you don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, seeing that Rabban just drags you after him for each step.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he says finally.

“You suppose?”

“If it was up to me, Feyd-Rautha would be the one extending his congratulations.” Rabban’s small, dark eyes examine you. “Though the Bene Gesserits have chosen well for a Harkonnen bride. You are a formidable force.”

“Thank you,” you reply, sensing more.

“There are…things…in order that will happen because you will not submit to me,” Rabban says.

Your jaw sets. “Like what?”

“You’ve made your choice.” There’s a twinge of pity in his voice. Not for him. For you? “I thought I should forewarn you.”

“Rabban, what are you talking about? You never said anything about —”

“The day of the Crucible. I told you my wishes and you denied me them.”

“You said nothing that would warrant a warning. I thought you just envious of your brother for obtaining something else that you can’t have.”

“Envious? No. More deserving? Perhaps.”

Behind Rabban, a soldier materializes from the crowd. Sardaukar. You stiffen — it hadn’t come to your attention that anyone from the Imperium had attended your wedding.

“Excuse my interruption,” the soldier says. “I wanted to congratulate you on your union on behalf of the Emperor. He extends his deepest apologies that he isn’t t able to be here himself.”

You nod curtly.

The soldier’s gaze slides to Rabban. “May I have a word with you?”

Begrudgingly, Rabban releases you with a final look. You watch his retreating form, mind reeling with confusion. What did the Sardaukar want with Rabban? And why did the soldier look so familiar to you? Idly, you wonder if the violent nature of the Sardaukar soldiers remind you of the Harkonnens.

No, that isn’t it. That soldier had been here before, at the dinner a few weeks before. He had been the one to call the Baron away, you recall. But he had been dressed as a Harkonnen soldier then, not a soldier of the Imperial army.

The revelation creeps over you uneasily.

Before you can give it much thought, however, someone whisks you away into the next dance. A protest forms on your tongue before you realize it’s Asha — cheeks pink and beaming at you.

“Asha!” You can’t help but laugh, partly out of relief. “I thought you were another terrible admirer.”

“I am an admirer,” she says, “though I would hardly consider myself terrible.”

“Terrible for taking so long to get to me.”

“My apologies, but the na-Baroness is in high demand.” You settle into a comfortable rhythm as the music plays and Asha leads you in the unfamiliar dance. After some time, she grows uncharacteristically serious. “I know your feelings for the na-Baron are…complicated…but your ceremony was beautiful.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

“The way he saluted you…” Asha trails off, waving her hand as if to ward off tears. This reaction spurns your curiosity.

Trying not to sound too interested, you ask, “What does it even mean?”

A slightly dreamy expression crosses Asha’s face. “Generally it’s reserved for military generals as a sign of respect, something that soldiers do to show their loyalty.”

“So when he did it to me…?”

“He was signaling that he sees you as someone superior to himself, someone to respect. That he is your willing soldier.” Asha grins. “Everyone has been talking about it.”

“Oh.” It’s all you can think to say. “Should I have done it back?”

Asha shakes her head. “Definitely not. It would’ve been an insult to him. His judgement. You did the right thing.”

You’re not sure what the right thing was, but you let the subject go. It lingers in your mind, however, to the point that you over-analyze the moment during the ceremony, replaying Feyd-Rautha’s expression as he saluted you.

You want to confront him about it, but apparently your first dance is all you will see of your new husband on the eve of your wedding. Even trying to catch his eye is impossible as you are both continuously pulled in different directions.

“Is this a bad time?”

At first you bristle, afraid that you’ve been caught sneaking away from the festivities. You have no idea of the time but it has to be well into the morning now, and you just wanted a moment to collect your thoughts. The spot you’ve chosen in a darken alcove gave you a perfect vantage point of Feyd-Rautha, infuriatingly charming as he speaks to a pair of nobles out of earshot.

You tear your gaze from him.

“Father!” You run into the arms of Leto, Duke of Arrakis, who ambles down the hall to you. It’s reflective of your greeting with Jessica this morning, but he inspires only warmth and fond memories. The brush of his beard across your cheek fills you with longing. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

“I apologize for not going this morning to visit you. Your mother insisted she go alone.” A frown tugs on his handsome features but disappears as quick as it appeared. “You look breathtaking.”

“Thank you,” you sigh. It’s as if you are a child again, the light of your father’s attention basking you in a sunny glow.

“I…” Leto pauses, deliberates. Your father is usually not someone to be lost for words. “I wish I had done something to prevent this.”

You touch his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

“I blame myself, it’s true. What kind of father willingly hands his daughter over to that…monster?”

“You had no choice. Neither of us did.”

“Listen, Y/N, your mother regrets how your conversation went this morning. She has only wanted the best for you,” he adds softly.

His words prick at you, and suddenly the warmth of his light diminishes. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Her intentions can be…muddled by her Bene Gesserit training. But that doesn’t change the love she feels for you.”

“Her love.” You chuckle bitterly. “All that she loves is what others can do to forward the Bene Gesserit agenda. You. Me. Don’t you realize?”

Leto’s expression softens. “Just come with me. She’s waiting for us. She wants to try again.”

Anger seizes you with white-knuckles and stifling heat, blooming in your chest. “I’ve given her too many opportunities to make things right. You just told me that you wish you could’ve prevented this. She could’ve prevented this. I do not wish to speak another word to someone who has orchestrated my entire life since conception.”

Perhaps you can blame the time that you’ve spent apart, the exhaustive events the day has presented you, but there is a side to Leto that you have forgotten — his frightening, unwavering loyalty to Jessica. A loyalty that not even you, his daughter, can temper.

His voice is that of a diplomat, detached and commanding as he says, “You will not speak of your mother in such a way.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but jumping to the defense of your mother cuts you deeper than any knife can. You swallow your disappointment.

“You’re fooled by her just like everyone else.”

Leto’s mouth tightens into an angry slash. “You are not the daughter I remember.”

“No.” You tilt your chin. “She is gone.”

“Then I have no business with you.”

Your tongue rolls in your cheek, over your teeth, carefully selecting your next words. “So be it. I won’t inconvenience you with my company.”

You can’t stand to witness his expression, or let him see the grimace of pain that graces yours, so you turn from him before either happens. You go, not back towards the party, but away — you can’t be here any longer. It feels as if your bones are trying to flee from your skeleton, your skin suddenly stretched too tightly.

Truthfully you have no destination in mind but your feet carry you to the one place that you know will guarantee silence.

Feyd-Rautha’s strategy room.

In the dark your fingers find the seam of the door and you ease it open, slinking inside. For the first time since this morning, you’re alone, and there’s no auditory assault of voices or music.

Back against the wall, you slide down to the ground and pull your knees to your chest. You will tears to your eyes but there are none to summon, lost to the icy numbness claiming you. Any other feeling is cast adrift.

Could it have only been three months ago that you were on Arrakis, sparring with Gurney?

You no longer recognize yourself.

The closest identifying factor is when the door open and Feyd-Rautha appears. There’s a resemblance there, a call of darkness in him that something within you answers. Your mouth twists in distaste. How did he find you?

“Go away.”

“No.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“I don’t care. This is my strategy room, and I can come and go as I please.” Cast in shadows, you can barely make out his face, but the scorch of his gaze is telling of his scrutiny. “Get up off the floor.”

“No.”

“Get up or I’ll make you.”

You weigh his words. Then you reluctantly rise to your feet, unable to look at him.

“This…attitude is unbecoming of you.”

“You’re a prick,” you fire back.

“A na-Baroness, brooding alone — and on the floor, nonetheless, like a common stray. I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.”

“Or what?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. “I will have to remind you who you are.”

Heat flickers in your belly, a weak flame. “And what is that? A whore, a womb? I am nothing but what others have made me to be.”

Feyd-Rautha laughs.

He actually laughs.

The sound of which is so unnatural, so unnerving, that your muscles tense like they’re anticipating a fight. You flush with shame — anger — and raise your hand to strike him but Feyd-Rautha catches your wrist. His words lilt with ill-timed amusement.

“Surely you don’t believe that.”

You struggle to wrest yourself from his grasp, but the effort is futile. “Let go of me.”

“No. Never.”

Feyd-Rautha’s lips crash into yours. He steers your back to the wall, colliding with your spine. He swallows your cry of pain with his mouth, slanting it over yours, hands bracketing either side of your face. His fingers delve into your hair, pads of his thumbs pressing against your cheeks. The weak flame inside you ignites into a raging inferno.

He kisses you with a fierce, concentrated energy, as if his sole purpose is to bruise your mouth with his own. His tongue flickers across your bottom lip, behind your teeth. You moan at the same time Feyd-Rautha chooses to coast his hands down your sides and your head lolls back, neck bared.

He grabs onto you as his mouth flies to your exposed throat, hands greedily clutching at your waist. Feyd-Rautha presses a series of kisses that turn swiftly into nibbles, bites. He sucks and licks at your neck, no doubt creating a necklace of love marks, eagerly staking his claim on the sensitive skin. Each bite and lick winds you closer and closer to an orgasm, the idea of his lips marking you wickedly delightful.

Feyd-Rautha moves his hands to your ass, to the underside of your thighs, and hikes you up. Without thinking, you lock your legs around him. The action brings his hardened length nudging against your center and you whimper, grinding into him, desperate for friction.

“I want you so fucking bad,” you pant. “Please.”

He hums against your neck. “What did you say you were — a whore?” His hips roll with yours, the memory of him inside you inciting a moan from your lips. “The na-Baron doesn’t bother fucking whores.”

“Please,” you say again.

In response, Feyd-Rautha bites down on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You wince even as pleasure floods over you. “Beg all you want but I won’t fuck a whore.”

You fail to conjure a response as he pins you to the wall with his hips, your arms thrown around his neck, and effectively loosens his hands in order to hoist your dress up. Your flesh pimples as it’s exposed to the cool air of the strategy room.

Feyd-Rautha’s hands skim over you, brush over your center. You whimper, “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me who you are,” he rasps.

Feyd-Rautha teases your clit through your panties, drawing lazy circles with his fingers. You buck your hips in an effort to gain reprieve but he denies you this.

Your voice pitches nearly into a whine. “I-I don’t know.”

And you don’t — not after the sequence of your day, not with Feyd-Rautha unraveling you with his his hands and his mouth. You are infinitesimal, insignificant, clay waiting to be shaped in his capable touch.

“Then I will remind you,” Feyd-Rautha says. He pushes your panties to the side, ghosting his digits over your entrance so that you writhe in desperation. “You are my wife, the na-Baroness of the House Harkonnen. You will raze cities to the ground and bring men to their knees. I will fuck you often and fill you with my seed, keep you pregnant so that you bear my children. You are not nothing, you are magnificent.”

His words are punctuated by his short, breathy pants, fingers pressing to your cunt without giving you any of the pleasure that you seek.

“Now — tell me who you are.”

“I-I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife.”

A wail looses from you as Feyd-Rautha plunges his fingers inside you, relieved from your aching by his careful ministrations. Each pump of his hand brings his palm to your sex, quick and authoritative. A hand that had killed six men today, saluted you, bled with you, and the severity of the situation has your walls clenching around him — he is Feyd-Rautha, and he is fucking you with his fingers, littering your body with bites and kisses and mumbled, appreciative praises.

It’s not surprising that this drives you to orgasm with record speed, to alleviating the pressure building between your legs —

Feyd-Rautha removes his fingers, depriving you of your release. You almost howl in frustration.

“Close,” he says. “But I’m not convinced.”

“No, please —”

“You can cum once you’ve convinced me that you remember who you are. Until then — your pleasure will be withheld.”

Again, he punishes you with his fingers, splitting you open as he inserts them. Your back bows.

“Now,” he pants, “tell. Me. Again.”

“I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife,” you repeat, mustering as much conviction as you can. You would tell him anything if it meant cumming on his fingers.

Harder, faster, wrist snapping: “And?”

“And…I am magnificent.”

Feyd-Rautha’s satisfaction is evident even in the dark, judging only by the pulse of his fingers, the breathy laugh fanning into your neck. He removes his fingers again, though, to your chagrin, trading positions for one that allows him to see your face. “Oh, you are,” he purrs. “And I bet you taste even better.”

You hitch your legs around his shoulders at his prompting. Feyd-Rautha sinking to his knees while applying enough weight to keep you trapped against the wall. You suppress another whimper. Your thighs are nearly flush with your chest as Feyd-Rautha dips his head to greet your cunt, driving you higher up the wall and forcing you to grab onto his armor for support.

You can’t see him with the skirt of your dress in the way, but you feel his mouth hovering your entrance.

Feyd-Rautha presses a kiss to you. He flicks his tongue over your clit, then licks a stripe up your center back to it, lapping eagerly between your thighs. His mouth works in tandem with his tongue, his teeth, treating you to the same nipping and sucking that he administered to your neck. Your hips buck to meet his every stroke.

And then, there it is again, your orgasm fighting for completion, raking claws of molten lava through your belly, your pelvis.

From between your legs, Feyd-Rautha rasps, “Convince me and I’ll let you cum.”

You swallow down a cry of protest. If you don’t get your release, you might actually implode. You do your best to summon his words from before, “I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife. And I am magnificent.”

“And how will I fuck you?”

Your teeth grind as you recall, “Often.”

“Why?”

“To-To keep me pregnant,” you stammer out. You rarely allow yourself to imagine your body in such a state, afraid of what it will invoke, but you do now: belly swollen with Feyd-Rautha’s child, breasts full, a physical manifestation of the vigorous fucking he regularly bestows.

And just like that, like the snapping of a rubberband, he returns his mouth to your cunt and laps at you until you finally, finally, reach your orgasm. Feyd-Rautha holds you steady as the prolonged release cleaves you in half, shuddering against his mouth, your vision swimming with stars. Tears wet your cheeks with your relief.

You sag into him, and he effortlessly lifts you back to your feet, still trapping you to the wall, one hand lazily skimming your hip.

“Do not, ever again, think so lowly of yourself. Do you understand?”

Your head bobbles stupidly. “I understand.”

“Good.” He brushes hair back from your face, runs his finger along the scattering of angry welts he’s left on your neck. “Now, my jewel, how do you want me to fuck you?”

You commit him to memory, this renegade angel, a contrast of darkness and your own personal deliverance. “I’ll let you choose.”

Without missing a beat, Feyd-Rautha carries you to the strategy table and lays you flat on your back, maneuvering to grab your ankles, one in each hand and spreading you wide. He takes his straining cock from his pants and strokes it as he admires you. “Mm, my beautiful wife, so eager for me to fuck her.”

He traces your entrance with his fingers, then notches his cock there, sliding the tip of it between your slick folds. You ache to take him but with your ankles in his grip, he keeps you firmly in place. Like a silly, wanton thing, you try desperately to grind against him as he drags himself, up and down, teasing you.

“Please, Feyd,” you beg, “please fuck me.”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck me, Feyd. Please.”

The ridges and crests of the strategy table bite into your back as he drives into you. The ecstasy of finally having him inside you is almost too much to bear — hips snapping, groans rumbling through his chest. He is inspired like this, immersed in the feel of your walls clamping down on his cock, pupils blown, plush lips parted with each panting breath.

If you only you could bottle up this moment, savor the way you both rise to meet the other like waves upon the shores of Caladan.

He pounds into you in a borderline frenzy, each near-violent thrust surging your orgasm higher.

Then Feyd-Rautha releases your ankles, your legs returning around his waist, and he captures your wrists instead, holding them over your head. The angle allows him to press himself to you, spearing you deeper, winding your desire tighter and tighter.

“My wife,” he rasps, “my jewel. Look at me.”

You meet his gaze. Feyd-Rautha smirks, pleased with himself, with you, and thrusts into you with swift finality. Your orgasm peaks and suddenly you’re shuddering and convulsing beneath him, pleasure wrought from every fiber of your being.

Distantly, you feel your cunt draw out Feyd-Rautha’s own orgasm, hips rolling against you as he spills himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, both of you panting, greedily drinking in lungfuls of air. Ostensibly, he recovers first and peels himself from you, tucking his cock back into his pants.

He helps you to your feet and you thank him breathlessly, thighs quivering as you stand, the wrinkled skirt of your dress cascading back to the ground.

“I suppose no one will question whether or not we’ve consummated our marriage,” he says.

Your cheeks burn. “Does it matter?”

“It’s typical for someone to watch to confirm,” he tells you, lifting a shoulder. “I said that it would be obvious enough.”

You gasp and swat his chest. “You didn’t.”

“The alternative was some noble peeking in on our fucking. Would you have preferred that? I do know you like to watch.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t,” you admit.

“Precisely.”

Feyd-Rautha’s eyes flicker over your face, and you can only guess what he sees there — you’re coated in a thin sheen of sweat and, undoubtedly, love marks, hair tangled and headpiece askew.

You shy away from him. “Do we have to go back to the reception?”

“No,” he nearly snorts, affronted that you would even suggest such a thing. “I fully intend on taking you to my bed and fucking you until you’re a mewling, quivering mess.”

Your cunt, still full with his cum, dripping with it down your thighs, clenches in anticipation.

“Then what are we still doing here?”

Part 8

Taglist:

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[tragady]

                     CHARLES  WOOD         BEATING  SOUL  AND  BREATHING  BLOOD.

basics.

given  name.     charles  wood. nickname.     charlie,   chuck,   give  him  some.     call  him  anything  but  charles. age.     thirty-three   (   november  10,   1990   ). place  of  birth.     long  beach,   california. song.     mr  sandman  by  the  chordettes. orientation.     bisexual,   slight  preference  for  women.     probably  left  many  a  situationship  at  home  but  would’ve  still  called  himself  single. occupation.     the  wretched  butcher  for  a  glum  town. education.     passed  high  school:   held  no  love  for  his  studies. religion.     possibly  been  baptised  but,   otherwise,   holds  no  emotion  towards  any  branch  of  faith.     occupied  his  younger  brothers’  weekends  by  sending  them  to  sunday  school.

physical  characteristics.

height.     one-hundred  seventy-eight  centimetres,   five  foot  ten. eyes.     shy  of  a  deep  brown,   livened  in  the  light  when  he  flashes  his  teeth. hair.     jet  black.     can’t  gel  his  hair  properly  anymore;   absolutely  slicks  it  back  with  his  sweat  now. gender  identity.     cis  man   (   he   +   him   ). build.     broad  shoulders  and  long-legged. distinguishing  marks.     a  white  grin  dripping  red  from  his  bloodied  lip.     ever  the  charmer.

personality   &   behaviour.

hobbies.     the  demanding  kind,   especially  pertaining  to  his  hands:   fiddling  with  a  car  engine,   sculpting  wood,   scaling  stone  walls  and  chainlink  fences.     with  all  the  time  in  the  world,   these  hobbies  probably  bore  a  craftsman’s  hands.     a  big  gamer,   and  winner  against  his  brothers.     recently  began  hunting  before  arriving  in  the  town. likes.     shuffling  a  pack  of  cards,   watching  the  moon,   now,   and  the  path  it  lights  for  him  to  follow,   when  a  vein  pops,   a  crowded  bonfire,   cracking  full  beer  bottles  against  skinny  trees   –   for  target  practice,   of  course. dislikes.     the  songs  crickets  sing,   dry  mornings  peppered  by  an  animal’s  lightfoot,   true  silence,   a  bedroom  of  his  own,   freshly  cleaned  hands. quirks.     bites  his  bottom  lip  so  often   –   therein  will  lie  a  moment  of  genuine  emotion:   his  deep  sneer  and  lowered  chin   –   that  it  often  looks  swollen. strengths.     when  he’s  talkative  in  a  way  that  reads  as  friendly. weaknesses.     when  he’s  glib  like  a  hungry,   pink  cat. moral  alignment.     chaotic  evil. character  inspiration.     lalo  salamanca   (   better  call  saul   ),   feyd-rautha  harkonnen   (   dune   ),   billy  butcher   (   the  boys   ),   wade  wilson   /   deadpool   (   marvel   ),   spike  spiegel   (   cowboy  bebop   ),   tyler  durden   (   fight  club   ),   vaas  montenegro   (   far  cry  series   ),   mr  blonde   (   reservoir  dogs   ),   handsome  jack   (   borderlands  series   ).

background.

before  your  mother,   there  is  your  sister,   biting  your  shoulder  after  you   –   wide  and  itching;   greedy  down  to  your  fingertips   –   stole  another  fry  from  her  plate.     your  mother  isn’t  there,   in  your  mind’s  eye,   but  she  must  be,   ignoring  your  sister’s  indignant  cries.     but  not  your  reddening  cheek,   nor  the  deep  teeth-marks  now  dampening  your  washed  shirt.     the  cupboard  hinge  creaks,   the  sink  continues  to  drip,   and  your  mother  watches  a  salt-lipped  smile  cling  like  a  loose  scab.     there’s  a  pinched  cheek,   and  a  wet  temple.     a  gaunt  laugh.     this   is  how  she  pockmarks  your  memory.     how  you  mark  your  territory.     yes,   your  mother  was  there.     it  wasn’t  your  aunt,   or  their  mother,   or  a  neighbour.     or  a  kind  stranger  at  the  supermarket.     she  was  there.

after  you  and  your  sister,   there’s  a  flock  of  younger  brothers.     stretched  years  between  you  and  them;   your  hands  must  warm  their  blankets.     offer  their  toothless  mouths  your  food,   this  time.     your  mother  is  less  than  a  memory  now,   barely  a  footnote.     your  sister  knew  this  before  you  did.     she  accepts  a  dream  for  what  it  is,   and  then  provides  anew.     chips  the  colour  away  with  her  nail  until  their  beds  remember  what  mother  means  in  this  house.     how  it,   too,   yearns  for  that  woman’s  touch.     weeps  its  paint  off  the  old,   plaster  walls.     it  admits  something  that  you  never  will.     not  even  when  you  surrender  to  the  same  fate.

there  is  a  man  in  the  house.     out  on  the  patio.     in  the  garden,   amid  the  wilted  soil  and  yellow  grass,   leaning  against  the  old  tree.     just  as  crooked,   bending  into  the  neighbour’s  garden.     the  silhouette  of  a  man,   which  is  all  any  of  you  could  know,   without  you  in  the  house.     you  learn  to  provide   –   under  the  quiet,   harsh  press  of  your  sister’s  thumb   –   with  quick  work  cutting  meat  at  the  book-end  of  a  grocery  store.     uniformed,   yet  rowdy.     you’re  messy  when  you  skin  an  animal.     your  teeth  are  still  white,   like  the  milky  edges  of  your  eyes.     you  are  the  man,   and  now  you  are  the  silhouette  too.     your  mother’s  son,   your  father’s  legacy.     your  own  rotten  dream.

where  was  charles  when  he  saw  the  tree  and  the  murder  of  crows?     where  was  he  going?     was  he  travelling  alone?     how  did  he  feel?

he  was  returning  to  the  family  cabin  after  a  morning  hunt.     alone,   of  course,   like  any  older  brother  would  be.     and  the  empty  pit  in  his  chest  that  comes  with  it.     if  anything,   he  thinks  of  the  cold,   and  how  he  needs  a  new  jacket.

describe  charles’  first  day  in  town.     did  he  arrive  in  the  daytime?     was  he  warned  by  the  residents?     did  he  have  to  be  restrained?

roved  through  the  red-sunned  woods  for  a  while.     despite  knowing  the  trek  is  longer  than  it  should  be,   he  levels  his  hunting  rifle  at  the  first  person  that  crosses  his  path.     you’re  trespassing,   he  would  say,   this  is  my  land.     but  there,   he  learns  that  there  is  no  land.     or  how  all  that  remains  is  land.     the  news  doesn’t  disturb  him   –   not  in  the  way  the  villagers  might  expect   –   he  just  laughs  and  laughs.     forgets  that  there’s  a  rifle  in  his  hands.     sun-blistered  face,   again,   under  a  new  set  of  stars.

what  did  he  leave  behind?     what  was  his  life  like  on  the  outside?

he  leaves  a  family  that  was  rich  with  warmth.     the  sister  that  will  look  into  the  mirror  in  his  room,   and  see  her  mother’s  face.     the  butcher  will  only  notice  that  his  hand  shakes  more,   now  that  he  cuts  more  meat.     charles’  empty  heart  joins  him.

[poppy-in-the-woods]

So, we haven't seen Dune yet, but I want to speculate a bit, so bear with me.

Well, maybe not speculate, but talk a bit about what I would cast as Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and Princess Irulan.

As Feyd I would cast someone that can be charismatic, can play the part of a vain, narcissistic individual with the muscles of a gladiator and fairly cunning. Also, the actor would have to be close in age to Timotheé. So, with that in mind, I would cast Cody Christian.

Look at him and tell me he can't play the part. I can see the arena scene perfectly in my head with him as Feyd.

Now getting to Irulan... that is a tricky choice, but for me, the obvious one is Saoirse Ronan. She looks good with any hair colour, she is a very good actress and she has worked before with Timotheé and they get along, which is a plus, imo. I have seen some people say she's not pretty enough, and I have to disagree. Also, did you see her dress at the 2018 MET gala? Totally space princess.

If not Saoirse, my second choice would be Anya Taylor-Joy, who also looks great in any hair colour, is a good actress and I am sure she can play the part.

I think it could be very interesting to see any of these actresses play Irulan against Zendaya's Chani.

This is my personal fancast, of course, but I would love to hear what do you think and who would you chose if you were mr. Villeneuve.