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Poe stepped naked out of the ‘fresher, rubbing his hair with a thin, worn towel. It had been a long day, and he had spent a little too much time in the shower. The Command Staff meeting would be starting shortly, and though he knew they wouldn’t start the session without him, he hated making everyone wait. However, now that he had an actual shower, not a sonic shower but one with water, it was very hard to not linger.

He glanced at the chrono on the table by his bed, relieved to see he was still good on time. The meeting was supposed to be short, just a quick overview of their new ion canon that had just been installed this past week. General Organa had promised they would be done well before lights out. Maybe, just maybe, he would have time to read a bit before bed.

He padded across the cool plasteel floor, installed just last month to help keep the heat and humidity of Ajan Kloss’s environment out of the barracks; they didn’t have an artificial cooling system yet, so they needed to do what they could to keep comfortable. Poe, who had grown up on a hot and humid planet, didn’t particularly like the feel of the material on his bare feet. The Massassi wood used for most of the buildings back home always helped keep things cool, too, and was much more comfortable to walk on.

He opened the door to his storage locker, pulling out a clean shirt and his Resistance issue uniform, throwing them on the bed. He pulled open a drawer on the side and grabbed a pair of socks and briefs. He closed the locker and turned back toward the ‘fresher. Suddenly, the door to his quarters opened, and he spun around, startled.

The last person he expected to enter his quarters uninvited rushed through the door. “Poe! We need to talk about that suppressor you added to your ship before the meeting…” Rey stopped short, her eyes widening as she realized he was naked. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes looked him up and down, and he knew he didn’t imagine her pause as her gaze landed on his privates. She blinked suddenly, shook her head, and turned away. “I am so sorry. I should have knocked.”

“Yeah,” Poe drawled, amused. “You should have.”

“Do you always walk around naked, Dameron?” she squeaked.

“When I’m alone, yeah,” he said. “And sometimes when I’m not.”

She sent him a glare over her shoulder, glanced down once more, then turned away quickly, her cheeks pink. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her blush before. “Are you embarrassed, Sunshine?”

“Of course not,” Rey argued immediately. “I’ve unintentionally seen too many naked male bodies in my life. It’s just…”

“Just?”

She sighed. “None were attractive.”

Poe grinned. “But mine is, is that what you’re saying?”

He could see Rey clench her jaw. “You know darn well that you’re attractive, Dameron,” she grumbled, not looking at him. “Don’t get cocky.”

He laughed outright. “Fine, Sunshine. Just give me a moment to make myself less attractive and we’ll talk about that suppressor.”

She snorted.

Still grinning, Poe grabbed up his trousers and headed for the ‘fresher. He’d always been comfortable being naked and never too concerned with who or what might see him without clothing, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit of excitement knowing Rey appreciated what she had seen.

Usually, that would set him off, prompt him to spring from his bed and tackle the offender onto the floor. He would swipe the dagger hidden at the side drawer, and latch it onto their throat, stare deep into their eyes as rueful fear settles upon their face for even trying to usurp him.

Leto has been through enough training with his armed guards to lock himself in a constant fight mode, awakened his reflexes to protect himself from any potential threat that might befall the Duke of the venerable House Atreides.

Even in the weakened, drowsy state he is currently in, his body would rouse to attention, muscles taut and ready to fight back if he so commands.

But, it’s you — he recognises the sultry rhythm your body sways to, and the velvet glide of your skin against his. That comfortable weight that drags along his olive skin; not too heavy to suffocate him, yet enough gravitas to swaddle him snug like his nursemaid once did when he was just a babe.

You disarm him. You make him want to throw his hands up in sweet surrender. In fact, you can reach for the dagger and carve the sharp edges into the meat of his thighs, threaten to cut off his balls, henceforth severing the Atreides line forever — and he will let you.

The power you have over him, it is stronger than any mind games a Bene Gesserit witch can impose on him.

Only with you, Leto submits — as your thighs flank his forearms decisively, shackling him. As your naked crotch rubs against his chest, in parallel with his heart where it pulses mutedly under the radiating warmth of your cunt — a different kind of fever he doesn’t mind revisiting, over and over again.

He succumbs to your assertive hands sweeping up the length of his thighs, nimble fingers caressing the contours of his hipbones. He sighs in placid submission, as they slide between the mattress and his buttocks, and without so much as a struggle — none at all, lets you push his undergarment down his legs, blissful to the puffs of heated breath warming his cock, already twitching against the chilly air.

He keeps his eyes closed, pretending he is still asleep when he is already wide awake behind the shuttered lids. But, he is fooling no one — his hardon has already given him away, straining to attention of its own volition, waking up and keening to your slow, caring strokes as you rub him to a full, stiff mast.

Leto feels your lips rain kisses upon his slit, soft and soothing like the pitter-patters that rouse the pleasant smell of petrichor right outside the window — before your mouth closes over the tip, your quiet hums crooning deliciously around his girth, like you have just sampled the best foods the Caladanian chefs have to offer for the Duke’s favourite concubine — favourite lover.

His eyes peel open, heavy-lidded as they rake down the salacious dip along your spine — oh, what a lovely sight to wake up to.

He would gladly give in to whatever ailments that weaken his every sense, rid of his dominion of the Atreides armada, and render himself but a mere soldier on the brink of death — if this is what awaits him on the other side.

He basks at the sight of your plump arsecheeks moving in front of his face, brushing teasingly against the tip of his nose, riling him up to cup a feel, to touch you.

Go on, my dear Duke, you know you want to — you want him to.

So, he obeys — large hands gliding up your thighs to the globes of your cheeks, kneading lightly, firmly. You arch into his welcoming touch, pressing your crotch flush against his sternum, as you moan around him — a ricocheting effect that pulls a strangled gasp from his lungs, granting you full permission to pick up speed, to shove a few more inches of his cock into your mouth.

His eyes roll back, chin tipped skyward and nostrils flaring to grasp at the alluring scent of your sex. He can smell you now, beckoning him with a mouthwatering aroma that reminds him of seasalt but which he knows tastes like warm, sweet honey — greater than the coveted spice melange that rules kingdoms and peoples.

The mere thought of your slick hitting his tongue, it’s enough to elicit a ravenous groan from his chest, his fingers digging into your plush skin — clawing for more.

Leto hears you — gagging sloppily, so beautifully around his cock, as his fat, aching tip thrusts deeper into the heated cavern of your mouth. Your tongue is like soft satin, cushioning the base of his veined shaft. Your jaw like desperate shackles, squeezing him so lovingly when it hits the back of your throat — drawing from you a melodious choral that shoots sparks down to his belly, wringing fresh spurts of pre-cum down your throat.

Your one hand pumps affirmative strokes along the rigid length in gratitude — thankful for what he has gifted you. The other, expert fingers fondle the robust orbs, as you suckle him like the most devout, so very eager to please your Duke — your master.

Your tongue swirls in hefty stripes, stretching along his weeping cock. Your cunt grinds against his broad chest, heaving to the rhythm of his heartbeat — stealing for yourself whatever friction you need to dance to his song.

You whimper, when his hand drifts between the buried alcove of your thighs. And right there at the apex, his thumb traces reverence along your sensitive nub — softly, so terribly soft.

He feels you gush around his fingers, and with your silky smooth release, he smears coaxing circles around your clit, kindling a guttural purr against his stomach, where he feels your heart thrums with wanting ache — practically begging for the affirmation only he can provide to satiate you, make you feel seen.

Leto likes it when you beg. You rarely do that in court. You never ask for more than what you think you deserve, so stoically demure as your footsteps thread down the vaulted halls. Even when they carry you past the heavy doors into his chamber, where you look after him so diligently — in bed, in sickness and in health.

But, when you do beg, he can’t help but offer you in kind what he thinks you deserve for your loyal and honourable service — everything. He would’ve given you the world if he could. He would’ve married you tomorrow, made you his Duchess if the Mentat calculations proclaim you compatible. He would’ve loved you with his whole heart until the day he dies even if they don’t.

Alas. This is all he can give you — his fingers digging into your skin, prying open your arsecheeks for the glorious sight of your cunt, blossoming pink like the first springtime bloom in the courtyards of Castle Caladan; throbbing right in front of his eyes — calling out to him to touch you there.

So, he obliges — touches you where it hurts, eases two fingers into your puckered hole until the web of his palm kisses your lips, scissoring to spread you out like a sumptuous feast waiting to be devoured.

Your slick trickles down his wrist, your hearty moan resonates around his cock, squeezing a stringy groan from deep within him, as his eyes flutter shut to savour everything that you have to give him.

The wet, hot sludge of your pussy, dying embers rekindled around his drenched digits. And when they crook at that devastating spot inside you, massaging billowing circles with just a smidge of pressure, he feels your thighs tense up as you squirt so desperately to his come hither.

And the sound you make — mewling with your mouth so full of him, it’s ethereal music his Warmaster can never pluck from the strings of his baliset, talented as he is with the instrument.

It makes Leto want you more, frenzied fingers biting into the meat of your calves to pull you closer, until your knees are digging into his shoulders. His growing beard rutting abrasion against your inner thighs, his growling mouth finally coming in contact with your clit — he goes in for the kill.

You release his cock, crying out in sweet surprise, when his tongue nudges into you, lapping at your bundle of nerves without any ducal decorum. His large hand presses upon the small of your back, to hold you in place, pull your arched form into his labouring mouth.

He plants his feet flat on the bed, angling his cock right back into your gaping mouth, silencing your outcries to smothered whimpers. His undulating hips drive himself deeper into you, filling you to the brim as the leaking head rams against the roof of your mouth, making you gag and drool down your quivering chin in a muffling mess.

Leto hums hoarsely against your cunt when your teeth drag along the veinous ridge for purchase, for any sense of control, when you’re already squirming, already unravelling to his desired device.

He knows you are close. He feels your pussy flutter at his ministrations.

He buries his nose against you, heaving in lungfuls of your tangy scent. His tongue teasing you in a quickened momentum, slurps hungrily like a man deprived of food for days.

Your hips gyrating against his chest, matching the temptuous tempo of his fingers, prodding in and out of you —

Until you clench around him. Your whole body shivering and your nails scraping at his inner thighs as you cum. His tongue flicking at your overstimulated nub still as he carries you through the storm.

You let out a long, stifled drawl around his cock, and he harmonises with you a delectable shudder that hitches in his throat, as he drinks in every drop of your honeyed offering, like sweet medicine to cure him of this insatiable disease.

Then, he pulls away just to see your pussy dribble onto his chest, painting him a lovely sheen — making him yours.

Leto’s eyes flitter shut, as he slips his anointed fingers into his mouth, revelling in the syrupy taste of you. Your heady scent assaulting his senses, making him dizzy — damn near feral.

It is enough to galvanise him, rocking into your wailing mouth with such dire urgency, as if he’s thrusting his cock into that pretty cunt he’s just fucked till kingdom come with only his mouth and fingers.

In one little moment, it feels like the fever has returned. Hellfire burns through his screaming muscles, as cold sweat licks at his pores. The pressure low in his belly coils tight —

And then he is snarling under your captive body. Balls drawing up in your loving hold, and spilling white, hot ropes down your throat, working with such deep devotion as it bobs frantically to take in every drop he has to offer.

He hisses, fingers biting crescents into your arsecheeks, when you hollow your cheeks and suckle at his reddened tip. An encore to make sure you’ve wrung him dry without a straddling drop left.

Until you have had your claim of him — all of him.

Only then, the storm clouds pass, and the rain subsides to mere whispers. His skin cools, and the thunder in his ears dwindles — and all he can hear is the steadfast sound of your heavy breathing.

Leto feels your heartbeat normalising against his abdomen, your fingertips mapping haphazard trails along his bare legs. Pathways covert even to himself, but nonetheless surefooted in finding your way to his heart.

He turns his face against your inner thigh, impressing pliant kisses to your skin, as his hand mirrors your motion. Trying so desperately to pillage his way through the shrouded labyrinth, and finally come home to where your heart lays.

His hooded eyes keep watch of you, as you drop your head and hum against his softening cock — a song that is already fading, even before he can learn the notes, memorise the words.

In knowing that, tears brim in his eyes before he can stop himself. His hand slides up your body, rubbing soothing circles up your spine; dislodges himself from under you to align his naked form against yours — from the tips of your toes, to the curves of your waists, to the rounds of your shoulders, where he brushes his lips and tries to lay his claim of you — all of you; when in truth, he has barely enough of you to hold on to from the start.

While you — you already have all of him.

Because that is all that he can offer you.

His most devout, his loyal servant.

His favourite concubine, his favourite lover —

Everything that you deserve.

//