Damn guys running out of hot ass dune gifs so I gift you a meme instead—adhd brain can't work without photo stimulation.

smh Feyd's jawline has better structure than my paragraphs brah

🩸

The middle of the night;
two thirty exactly.

And if Feyd Rautha listened hard enough, he could hear the change of the guard, the whine of overheated machinery spewing out filtrated chemicals in the industry zone beyond the keep, and a three mile wide stretch of super plaz roof open to accommodate the crawlers leaving on their transport ships into orbit.

A scary sound if you've never heard it before, like a wounded titan.

He'd slipped inside your shared bedroom like some phantom, silently, creepily silently, slipping heavy leather boots from his aching feet, fucking exhausted.

And it was a tiredness in one of those ways that made him feel giddy after he'd bid the guards ease and engaged all seventeen security latches behind him.

 leaning on the wall, existing within the shadow—

he didn't expect you to be awake.

Alas if you was not under five different layers of blankets by nine AS A GRANDMOTHER DID you'd become cranky.

But the sight made his fat lips tilt, that sickening giddiness amplified,

there was a strange woman in his bed, no one else's woman, just his, the heir apparent not too sure why the revelation both distressed and excited him, why couldn't you be his nice, normal woman who didn't need permission to be used, he shook his head, "ridiculous Atreides."

Avoiding anything that could fall over, Feyd—Rautha sunk his hands into the hot water basin under the stretching windows, cleansing soaps automatically bubbling up, his back arching at the little massage nodules and tiny scrubbing bristles working underneath his fingernails, flakes of dried blood and steel polish sucked away.

he peeped behind the hot towel he rubbed over his face, not charmed, the entire bed to yourself, draped in self heating silks of inky black and gold trim, and you just had to be slap in the middle of it, dead to to the world, the scent of spice in the air.

he partook in his own personal store of melange, like everyone with the means, still in comparison if Feyd Rautha ate a sun grape, you'd scarf down the entire vineyard, he was too sensitive to the stuff, the dreams awful. you died in a lot of them. And he could only secretly wince at the fat bumps any acquaintances did.

Turning his back, he rubbed the fluffy cloth around his neck, duties had kept you apart—since the incident.

You had fled soon as the bath house doors had closed behind you, hand clamped over your mouth, vanishing down some twisting corridor into the fortress maze, or so Hakim had said. 
And The Na Baron had searched for you, but like fog, you could disappear. What could he say anyway? Sorry his uncle was a raging pervert? As if you hadn't been told.

and uncle kissing was the tamest thing that happened here;

"Atreides," he whispered with a sharp snap of his fingers, "I know you're awake," ears pricked, making a note to chastise you for accepting sleeping tonics from De Vries, that man like—liked you, he picked a decorative sea shell from your vanity, aiming it perfectly, "can't pretend with me—," and launched it.

the thing pinged from your forehead, "eugh," arousing you enough to slap the location it hit, turning over in a tangle, accent thick even when you groused. "fhuk owf."

No, definitely asleep, this was not a revenge ambush. (GRANDMA)

for him anyway

he cocked his head, knowing full well you slept with a blade at the tip of your fingers,

he could cover your mouth, ride you from behind, balance on the balls of his feet while gripping your shoulders, bruise up that little cervix so you'd walk funny and people would know...then finally, a single batch of Harkonnen heir would be conceived. you might come multiple times if he held that pretty dagger of yours at your throat, too

or you may cry.

women not from this planet were complicated, here, oh he was worshipped, a holy being, billions would chant his name, men would gratefully gift their daughters to his bed, you sometimes spied on his ass, it wasn't the same. 

He chewed a hang nail, snapping it out with his front incisors, letting the skin tear, the brief pain calming as the Kane birds squawked.

After one last assessment of your flopped form ONCE AGAIN IN INAPPROPRIATE CLOTHING (he'd bid you dress better when alone in case of a threat he couldn't help you with, breasts would only motivate an intruder), he crept closer, like some long, pale mantis, in a fine enough mood, but not one well enough to play bed wars.

With a wrinkled lip, he stepped over the collection of holobooks discarded on floor, wrappers of some sort to keep pastries fresh sticking to his socks, "fucking woman," shoving the glow globe with a knuckle to find enough light to strip.

a slave would clean this tomorrow, not usually a messy one, this Feyd Rautha.

And he tried to focus on other things, namely the little family trip to Kaitain in three standard days, the Fremen in the holding cells below—but eerie blues slung back to you.

Alia.
It meant the exhaled one, he mouthed it. "Mmm, quite."

God Complex, disobedient, reckless, a bluffer, eventually you would be stabbed, but as he let his shirt drop and pulled at his belt, black teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

you'd be the only one he'd ever breed with.

And the thought of some sleeping little fatty child equally an asshole made him snort while throwing his belt over a chair. A fatty child taking over his pillow, drooling on his sheets, generally another all around nuisance. would it have hair? And if any spawn from both your loins looked like your brother...

PaUl

 he would throw it from the window.

Nude now, (as usual) except for long thermal shorts, he gently pinched the top of the duvet, eyes set on your face as he pulled it back, no movement, he thought, wincing at the dried blood all crusty on your nose from the rebreather, your bare feet covered in blisters as they poked out for coolness.

He lay down like a master assassin, bed barely dipping, freezing when he bumped your hidden knee with his own, GODS DAMN IT, because if you woke up it'd be a party and you'd only try and fight him. After three weeks of no sleep, multiple space folds, exercise of three famished darlings and a five hour wet work session with the slave challengers, he wasn't sure who'd win.

Definitely him, but it'd be too close and your ego would grow and suffocate them all. With a sigh, he threw his head back, rubbing at his eyes, not bothering to cover his bare chest while pushing his arms under his head.

An Hour Passed.

sleep didn't come easy.

The Na Barons gut flipped, angry at himself, batting you off once in a fight for a pillow hadn't been too successful, he turned on his side to face you, smirk curling when he watched your hand hunt across the linen, oh here we go,

your fingers poked into his ribs, flat palm slipping up and across his stomach to hook around his waist before you used his weight for leverage and curled into his front. 

And if it wasn't enough you'd just splat on him like a disrespectful, damp washcloth the little noise of content made him roll his eyes—yes yes cuddle Atreides, putting down the hand he raised to stop himself petting your mussy hair. Easy to start to like you too much if this kind of behaviour occurred.

Although—it wouldn't be wrong to experiment, would it? No one was watching, you wouldn't even know, and he could lie to himself later on.

Feyd Rautha pushed his heel into the bed, lying on his back, spreading his strong thigh for some extra space for you to tuck in, letting his toe skim the cool floor, he wondered if you'd ever paid attention to his feet, kinda small for the overall size of him, a sore point, and once the old war master had commented he had slightly feminine hands.

He pouted. lies, his body was exceptional.

You coughed wetly, sniffing into his nipple that pebbled at the burst of air.

Those Bene Gesserit bitches sent you to fix him no? Try and smooth down the roughness? Tame him down like some soft, willing puppet for your tricky sisters.

It wouldn't work.

you rubbed a cheek into his slow breathing pectoral, fingers flexing. He'd never shared a bed with a pleasure slave, Ophelia only once or twice, and if they did a good enough job The Na Baron would let them recover before bidding them leave, not a complete monster.

But a terrified slave so automatic in response that flinched every time he adjusted his back against the mattress and the golden haired wonder that could inflict so many shades of the most delirious, delicious pain with a white—toothed smile and red handled blade just didn't—.

Take the edge off anymore. 

"Witch," grit teeth opened into some black, amused o, the tenseness in his shoulders relaxing, he pushed you both into the silver sliver of twin moons, scoffing when you frowned in sleep at the sudden rough movement.

Pretty thing, he thought, not a great beauty, maybe a flaw in the breeding, you Bene cunts were usually tall, slender, snake—like creations, like your mother, but you was cute enough you could use the token if needed. A noble, sad looking thing that smiled shyly from the side of your mouth. he liked that.

and after chancing running the back of his bare knuckle down your cheek, Feyd Rautha pulled a thick pinch of hair to his nose, the smell of it hitting him right between the thighs.

he was a gentleman, as he was raised to be, witty, charming, but he did own you, much as you pretended no such papers existed, and if you was awake he would've teased you into lunging for him, twisted it so he had you flat on your back, sling his thighs around your hips and hold your hands still, then indulge in some slow, deep rutting as you sweat and suffered and begged and came again and again, and—

he squirmed, reaching out to down a full glass of exported water that dribbled from the corners of his mouth to splash down his collarbones,

you could pretend you didn't like it, that you didn't want to submit completely and throw your thick thighs under his ass to keep him root deep in that wet little cunt that couldn't really fit him from lack of experience,

pretend that you hated him, and didn't come so much quicker at the feel of damp, heavy balls pushed against your ass, that you didn't want to be flipped, have your head held down and mouth stuffed with fingers and he fucked you like a bitch in heat as his well kept nails tortured—

"ahh," with a huff he squeezed his cock, surprised at the amount of clear fluid that'd whet the fabric of his shorts, should poke you awake and let you lick the outline, hm

and you could still act like you were the superior one with the purer blood, a true born name carrier of a Great House lead by such a patient, poised daddy who doted on his precious little doe eyed daughter and gave The Emperor himself envy of him,

Feyd—Rautha pressed his lips open to yours, soft as a whisper, cock caressed as he hooked a pinkie around the shorts to peek out the head of his pulsing dick and press it against the little patch of hair between your hips...hair would hold the scent of it,

letting you breathe to the back of his throat, restraining himself from latching down and waking you with blood on your teeth, running a tongue across your thinner, sleep-dry and cinnamon laced lips as he thumbed his oozing head smearing your stomach...

No, you was a little snob, not an adopted nephew from a whaling father too ashamed to live with the Harkonnen name, you, not not some war beast or a finely honed flesh machine full of throat slitting machinations that killed his own mother.

The Na Baron, without much care for your unconsciousness, palmed the swell of your tits, feeling your nipples harden, and he let his nose drag down your face as he pushed up a breast in his palm and mouthed the stiff peak through the fabric, maybe you'd let him feed from you, and if your core tasted that sweet,  he'd be fatter than his uncle after a year of your milk.

your head tossed, really, really like that, wife? And he laughed under his breath. Cock pumped in his hand, Feyd Rautha's spine arching, shouldn't be this close to spilling his seed so soon, he thought, and he needed to feel the heat of you, his free paw bullying under the cover to press a finger to your core, caressing his balls with a rough tug as he felt your clit flutter against it.

there already, he bit his own arm, hard, enough he felt the sharp trickle of blood well on his tongue, hips clumsily chasing the high, letting his almost shivering cock head rut against your soft Caladanian skin as his dick got even stiffer,

Feyd Rautha shivered, head to toe, the waves of pleasure rolling through his statue still body as the familiar feeling of his come squirting out hot and fast plastered you.

"Fuck." Appetite slaked, some dream—like smile on his flushed face, he settled down with a huff, swiping the hair clinging to your cheek, you could sleep on him tonight, he decided, only tonight, he would watch you a little longer, and steal some hours before sunrise.

🩸

 hours earlier—(Back to The Barons bath house)

The Baron watched with his fleshy, deep set eyes as you bumped into his nephews chest.

for once, you broke protocol, showed weakness, that witch conditioning shattered, a tremble starting in your thighs as your adorable little head popped like an over—fried egg.

Beautiful—such a pretty site to see you unravel, the Baron mused, your eyes, the same sad eyes as that prettier brother flooded with the concerning thought of just how far away from your fathers hand you had come.

How delightful to have rattled you, to have frightened you, and Vladimir watched carefully with a savouring glee as you first tried to fawn, to use that precocious sexuality, utilising that under-dressed body to schmooze him, that won't work, girl, women disgust me.

And at no change in the patriarchs expression, at the tightening of his creaking fists and the puff of his chest, finally all out of ideas with Feyd's steadying hand on your back, you gave in, sublime, swiping the back of your hand across your sore, swollen, spitty little lips—.

"What do you say, Na Baroness?" The Siridar asked. "They say Harkonnens are animals, that may be so, but we do appreciate manners."

That's it girl, with a ragged breath, you politely lowered your head, "thank you my Lord for such a blessing."

With a grunt of amusement, The Baron dismissed you, "go, play, my sweet Alia," ah didn't like it when he said your name, "and remember you only exist as I allow it."

They both watched you leave, only speaking as the doors closed behind you. And the Siridar would be disappointed if his nephew had done anything else.

With a shift on powerful legs, Feyd Rautha took three predatory steps closer, beautiful boy, The Barons eyes slitting as he relaxed. Look at him go, challenging him like some hyper—possessive animal with its mate threatened.

"You overstep," the younger man was wrathful, vengeful even, good boy, "she's not yours to toy with, uncle, why put your mouth on things you have no taste for—," his deep, gruff voice bounced from the walls with a bass so harsh it made De Vries blink milky slow, "I should—."

"SAY ONE MORE WORD CHILD AND I'LL BESTOW ON YOU A PUNISHMENT SO GRAVE NOT EVEN YOU WILL ENJOY IT."

The Na Barons chest rose fiercely, audible breath condensing into steam, black teeth flashing viciously before—"mmm," with a chew of his inner cheek and roll of his tongue, just like you, he submit, the violence in his expression settling eerily swift as his face fell into a mask of calm. "Yes, uncle."

"Ah, there we are, soothe yourself." Vladimir tilted his face, finger tracing a pattern on the bulky, resistant material of his chair, "you forget, dear boy, you have what you have only because of me, everything you see, hear, touch," he smiled some malevolent grin as his nephew averted his blues, "is by extension," a palm fell over his heart, "mine."

Feyd—Rautha agreed, arms held behind his back. "Of course."

"Of course," he mocked, throwing out his arms, the meat underneath rippling like a flag, "I won't violate the sanctity of your precious little marriage," but with a settling breath, feet propped on a slaves back, he waved his pudgy hand. "I told you I wouldn't harm her, and I have not."

The melange filters pumped fresh spice—"but there is time yet if you force my hand through your own weakness in the face of it, now leave me to my rest."

Feyd—Rautha exhaled, nodding before strutting forth towards the exit.

"And sweet boy—."

The na Baron restrained himself from clicking his tongue, stopping in his tracks.

"Don't make me wait too much longer for that heir, or I will take...measures."

Piter, preternaturally still, more of a shadow than a man, if he really was one at all, waited for the colossal doors to latch before pulling a pristine white cloth from the pocket of his floor length slig-leather trench, dainty on his feet as he padded to his master. "Measures, my lord? Artificial insemination is forbidden."

"More a taboo, and since when has the taboo been forbidden in my House?" His master replied with a throaty laugh with a wave of a single, ringed finger, "and why do you think that is what I intend to do? Now give me that."

 Vladimir took the cloth, "children, pah, glad I never had any," letting the saliva that coated his inner mouth collect in his bull dog cheeks in a soupy gloop before spitting inside it theatrically, dabbing the tip of his tongue against it. "She has such a sweet taste, how the boy stomachs it evades me, I weaned him on meats."

Piter shivered, eyes rolling into the back of his head until only the whites showed, so many pretty pictures of you there, "sweet, my Lord?"

"As Caladian cherry wine," he spat once more, the glob hitting the cloth, soaking in, the mentat not too thrilled as he was rudely passed it back.

And people would probably laugh at the lizard looking man with a poorly veiled expression of disgust pinching a handkerchief by the corner, not calculating very well that it would leak onto his shoe. "Professor Hila says it will take but a few days, my Lord—," ugh, he folded it tightly, "the process is delicate."

"Then hurry, Piter." The Baron cast his eyes down to the slave his feet rested upon, smiling toothily, "you, stand."