Moonbeam Mist

He is a man doomed who refuses to lead a House of shame.

All that remains is to distract himself and search for culprits. His uncle, yes, but his uncle is already dead. The Emperor, the Fremen, the Atreides. They’re all ripe for the killing but House Harkonnen can’t even provide for their own spice addicts.

And then one day, a new resident moves into the palace.

She is a gentle poison flower, planted by the Bene Gesserit. They had thought her a weak witch at first, with no poise and little use. She had only barely passed the Gom Jabbar test, crying and screaming like an animal, but she hadn’t pulled her hand out of the box, so they couldn’t dispose of her. Only much later did the sisters realize what a useful asset she could be. 

De-Harkonnification is the word whispered off the record. A new era of breeding will commence, for the better of the universe. The experiment will start with their leader. It has to.

The suddenly useful Bene Gesserit woman has been chosen to teach Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen the delicate art of empathy.

To force him into bland lessons will bear no fruit. The new baron needs to think he’s discovered wisdom all by himself, only then will his skin peel away and make room for a fresh layer. The slow blade of curiosity will penetrate the shield and kill a Harkonnen, and let him be reborn as something new.

This new woman, she is so soft and… mundane. 

With great irritation Feyd-Rautha takes notice of her moving into his palace where she occupies a medium-sized chamber that has been painted in all the warm colors that aren’t native to Giedi Prime.

“I know you’re a witch,” he tells her the first day, standing in her doorway like a beaten bull who is still ready to charge. “I have no business with witches.”

“I won’t force you,” she replies with a short smile which renders the new Baron momentarily speechless.

The next day, he returns with more anger and piercing eyes that won’t know peace until he finds the answers he seeks. “What is your purpose in my palace?”

“I am to live here,” she announces while sticking her finger into the soil of a gross looking potted plant with wide, green leaves to test how moist it is. Frustratingly, Feyd is unable to detect any deceit in her voice, even though she is a Bene Gesserit, so there must be deceit. He won’t be manipulated.

Throughout the weeks, Feyd realizes everything she does is boring. So boring that he finds himself returning every day and watching with blatant interest, wondering how anyone can live like that.

In her free time, this woman reads literature that has no educational or strategic value. She also says she enjoys naps and she considers having to do nothing at all a rare blessing that not many are free to relish in a world that is battered by politics and war. She reminds Feyd of a lazy housecat who cripples her own potential.

Her survival instincts are so meek, sometimes she won’t even wake up when he enters her room. Feyd is tempted to do a number of things to her sleeping body, but in the end he always just stands there, next to her bed, waiting for her to finally wake up and take note of the danger. With a blade at her throat he tries to teach her to be more attentive, relishing the naked fear in her eyes when she startles from her sleep and finds pain against her neck.

In those moments, she is such a fun toy and Feyd wants to thank whoever is responsible for sending him such a pitiful witch.

Another thing she likes is daydreaming, she says, and when asked to tell him what about, she just smiles mysteriously and shakes her head no, followed by soft laughter. Feyd assumes those daydreams must be about violence, because no human mind goes without violence. And so he smiles too, thinking to himself that he's learned a dirty secret of hers that takes away from her perceived purity.

There is at least one point on which they seem to agree, and that is their interest in good food and drink, though their ideas of ‘good’ differ.

“Do those… pastries you’ve got there strengthen your body?” Feyd peers at her over the table, licking bloody meat residue off his pale fingers.

“Hmmm. I don’t think so, but they’re very tasty.” And that again is something so mundane, Feyd can't wrap his head around it. “Would you like to try one?”

He hesitates, regarding the icing and powdered sugar on the tiny cake. “No. There’s no point in eating it then.”

“Aw.” The woman looks briefly disappointed but then resumes eating.

“Don’t you want your body to be strong and capable of attack and defense?!”

“I suppose that would be nice…” Feyd has noticed a while ago that she seems to have trouble looking him in the eyes and sometimes he thinks he has been deceived and this woman is no Bene Gesserit at all, but a stray that has been deposited in his palace because the sisterhood wanted to get rid of her.

“If I attacked you right now, what would you do?” Feyd stands up and grips her plate, pulling it away so she is left with only the cutlery in hands, looking a little helpless.

“I would scream for help.”

“And if no one came?” The idea amuses Feyd-Rautha and the corners of his full lips twist into an alluring smirk. The temptation makes his skin warm and his core tight.

“I could try to hurt you with this knife and fork,” she proposes and presents her weapons of choice, targeting Feyds clavicles with her mellow eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to try it?” He purrs and slinks closer, rubbing his hand up her arm and shoulder, cupping her throat. He really could do anything to her and she’d have no choice, no matter which weapons are in her meager hands. His cock strains against the dark trousers he wears and she either ignores it or doesn’t notice in her endless languor.

“No, of course not!” She yelps with the high-pitched tone of an animal stupid enough to walk into a blatant trap.

“You bore me to death, woman! I wish you weren’t here.” Feyd rumbles and releases her throat with a punishing squeeze that knocks her backwards, then he sweeps her plate off the table so the pastries bounce across the carpet, leaving a trail of crumbs.

“Then don’t come and see me!”

His loins are left throbbing and he feels so strangely dissatisfied when he leaves that day and cannot help but picture the woman crawling over the carpeted floor, picking up the mess he’s made, and for some reason this image makes him unhappy.

In his churning mind, Feyd keeps wondering why she was brought to him and after enough twisting and turning, he commences an era of harshness in which he thinks she was given to him for his amusement, to be molded by him. The ways to torment her are as manifold as they are fun. Something as simple as twiddling with his knife can draw the warmth out of her cheeks and make her pull her feet under her body, as if fearing Feyd-Rautha might cut her toes off otherwise. 

Now, if only he could make her see how enjoyable pain is. The cuts and nicks on her body tell stories of his attempts, as do those on his, when he guided her unwilling hand to carve lines and half moons into his pale flesh.

The assortment of her scars stop around the middle of her thighs, even though he could easily lift her dress higher and leave his marks of his ownership wherever he wants. There are desires left unspoken and he revels in her fear, because she knows it will happen, just not when.

But the worst thing undoubtedly he's ever done to her, is when he brings her to the former preparation chamber behind the deserted colosseum that was once his gladiatorial arena, when House Harkonnen still had pride and honor. 

In the dark he shows her his assortment of blades, left untouched by the defeat of his House. He laughs when she nods and smiles uncertainly at the slave girls who stand gathered around with bowed heads.

“You’re a Bene Gesserit. You don’t need to smile at them.”

“But I want- Oh!”

With a swift thrust of the arm, Feyd swings his blade in a half circle and slashes two girls’ throats at once. Their willowy bodies drop to the floor, landing on top of each other with tangled limbs and inky blood dripping down their chests.

Feyd turns his head, tilts it slightly to the side and smiles at the woman who grows sickly frigid and barely manages to turn before she throws up as the overwhelming smell of fresh blood assaults her nose and gurgling last breaths her ears. She turns and runs, finding the door unresponsive to her pushing and pulling, so she backs away into the furthest corner and curls into herself, staring fearfully at the pale Harkonnen who still looks at her with an air of boyish fascination.

He lets her go after half an hour but soon learns a harsh lesson. When he seeks her out in her quarters that evening, she acts like a skittish rabbit and hides herself away in the bathroom. For some reason, this enrages Feyd so immensely, he can’t help the immediate tantrum that bursts out of him like gunfire.

For one whole week she doesn’t speak with him and Feyd finds absolutely no fun in that. This week is the worst of his life.

Desperately, he needs her to be the way she was again, the timid creature who peacefully lazes around all day and sleeps, unaware of danger. Now she won’t let him get close, glaring at him over the edge of her book whenever he loiters in her quarters like misplaced furniture, a black and white abomination in the warm, soft capsule she has created for herself on Giedi Prime.

On the seventh day, Feyd  walks up to her awkwardly, like one ready to confess his sins, or a beaten puppy the size of a man. She stiffens in her bed and is fully aware of her defenselessness, fingers tightening around the book as the mattress dips under Feyd-Rautha’s weight. But he only crawls over her and wraps his arms around her middle like he would hug a slain opponent in the arena before letting them drop into the sand.

“I wouldn’t do this to you ,” he rumbles and finds his breath uncomfortably quick and his throat uncomfortably tight. He can’t look her in the eyes.

“But you did this to them ,” she whispers and Feyd is left speechless as to why she would care. Yet for some reason, she drops her book on the floor and hugs him back, hiding her sniffling face in his shoulder. Like a toddler walking his first steps, Feyd pets the back of her head until her tears diminish to a small trickle that is soaked up by his shirt.

Months go by and the woman’s chamber becomes a place of forbidden things. No servant ear must ever hear about what goes down in there, how Feyd stains his hands with softness and sleep, not because he is tired but because he feels like it, how he eats the pastries that are made for her mouth not his, how he reads the pointless literature that forces him to imagine places he’s never been to and people that aren’t real. 

The woman doesn't even want anything from him in return and doesn't complain when he lays his head in her lap when he decides to sleep. She softly scrapes her nails over his scalp without being prompted and he never takes long to fall asleep. She could have plotted his death this whole time long, killed him now with a Gom Jabbar, and he wouldn't have cracked an eye open.

Feyd awakes in the late evening, though he can’t tell the hour of day through the ever-drawn curtains that block out the sun’s harmful wavelengths. Consciousness returns to him as a slow stream and he breathes drowsily against her thigh, listening to the seconds on the clock tick by. She has finished her book and placed it aside, now only focused on stroking his head.

“Do you sometimes think about me?” Feyd slurs, which leaves her wondering if he’s still half asleep.

“Of course, I think about you.” Her fingers curl around his jaws and the pad of her thumb finds the apple of his soft, pale cheek.

“Even when I’m not around?” He inhales the scent of laundry detergent and the subtle note of perfume that clings to the layers of her gown. The warmth of her lap perfuses the fabric and a light current of arousal flows through Feyd-Rautha’s awakening body. Hardness takes hold of his drowsy cock and he wonders when she will finally make a comment or do something about it. He finds himself wanting to hike up her dress and kiss the parts of her body that he has never seen.

“Especially when you’re not around.”

“So, you miss me?” Feyd’s voice becomes sharp like the cutting edge of a blade and his ears perk up. She only laughs softly upon that and curls both arms around his shoulders. Feyd is glad she can’t properly see his face now, ashamed of jumping to such a conclusion.

“You can’t go out there. It’ll make you sick.” Feyd stops the Bene Gesserit woman in the hallway. One half of her body is already bathed in brightness and one eye squints into the unforgiving sunlight.

Even though she seems to have been so very content in her quarters so far, a flash of disappointment washes over her face. “Not even for a short walk?”

“It’s not safe when you’re not Harkonnen. It’ll make you sick,” he emphasizes. “And there’s nothing out there. Only desperate people.” He curls his hand around the crook of her elbow and tugs her away from the light, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when color returns to her skin and hair.

The next day, Feyd is in for an unpleasant surprise.

The woman is found wandering in the sunlight without an umbrella, not even a protective shawl wrapped around her bare shoulders. A pair of Atreides guards spot her slumped over in the shade of a building, blinking disoriented into the light with a colorless rash of blisters on her exposed skin.

Half an hour later, she is back in her darkened quarters, tucked into bed with a soothing ointment applied to her skin.

Her eyes are glazed over with half-translucent milkiness as she stares at the ceiling above her bed. Her lungs still ache and wheeze from the residue toxins she had breathed from the polluted air and her temporarily blinded gaze flitters with silvery dots. Just barely she can make out Feyd-Rautha’s angry, white skull moving back and forth..

“This wouldn’t have happened if you read something substantial every now and then,” Feyd hisses, pacing in front of her bed. “If you had at least worn protection for your eyes and flesh.”

“It was so warm outside.” She tries to justify her lack of protective layers.

“Yes, because of the infrared radiation that cooks the atmosphere!”

She attempts to turn her head away so as not to see the flickering vision of Feyd’s accusatory visage, but he leans down and cups her face with both hands, drawing a whimper from her. The splitting headache turns every movement into agony.

“A few minutes later, and you would have gotten caught up in the sour rain.” Feyd’s voice quivers now. The sour rain brings cancer to foreigners and no one knows a cure for that.

“There was no sign of rain when I was out,” she meekly defends herself, cradled by two strong hands.

“The climate is turbulent on Giedi Prime and our storms are as ferocious as they are sudden. You know what the sour rain does.”

“I'm sorry.” Blistered hands carefully wrap around Feyd-Rautha's wrists, neither pulling nor pushing. Her fingers softly slip over the veins that coil over the back of his hand and between his knuckles.

“But you're a Bene Gesserit. You have control over your own cells, you could have reversed the damage, had it happened.” Feyd's gaze jumps from milky eye to milky eye, wondering why she isn't doing anything against this. “Right?”

She only breathes a soft sigh against his lips as he hovers impossibly close. “Feyd…”

Her lips brush against his as she speaks and a jolt of surprise prickles through the both of them. Feyd is suddenly overly aware of the weight of his own body and he cannot push himself away from the woman. A pull stronger than gravity tugs him down and his lips fall to hers, softly kissing, tasting her saliva and a note of ointment.

“Feyd, everything hurts.” The meek whisper is barely audible, even to her own ears. Her body yearns and arches, separated from him by thick layers of blankets. 

“Kiss me now, before you get yourself killed out there and we don’t get the chance.” Feyd knows he shouldn’t. Even her lips are colored red with a rash, but her hands slip from his wrists to his cheeks, holding him close. Moaning, Feyd’s lips part and he moves his mouth and tongue with as much gentleness as he can muster, softly rutting against her hip over the blanket.

Feyd rumbles: “I should keep you on a leash for your own safety.” The idea makes his cock jump against the blankets and after so many months of thinking about so many things, his balls feel plump like ripe apples.

But they only kiss while sour rain slaps against the windows.

“Do you ever fight?” Feyd ponders while sticking his finger into the soil of the lush potted  plant with wide, green leaves to test how moist it is. It could use a little water.

“You know what I do all day. Have you ever seen me fight?” The woman perks up, her skin healthy and her eyes clear again, like the lakes of Kaitain.

“Let me specify. Did you ever fight?” Feyd lets water from the can splash into the flower pot and the longer she looks, the more she gets used to the view of other things than weapons in his hands. She cocks a brow at him, no longer having so much trouble looking him in the eyes that are dark but usually glazed over with harmlessness when he is around her. “I’m only asking because you seemed so… bored, before the incident happened.”

Guilt drums against his heart with a soft pitter-patter that is like the droplets that soak the soil. He wishes he could offer her more. The longer she ponders, the more awful he feels.

“I sometimes fight with myself.” Her tone of voice indicates this is a big confession.

“How so?” Feyd is confused. He sets down the can and cautiously stalks closer with cat-like grace, head tilted to the right.

“It's a fight that I can't win, I can only delay it.”

“I don't understand that.” Slowly he blinks once, lowering his gaze, then lifting it again. The soft golden light of the glow orbs frays against his blonde lashes.

She pensively sighs. “Are you never angry with yourself? Or dissatisfied?”

“... No.”

She chuckles like she so often does, like he’s missing an obvious clue and Feyd angrily bends down, caging her on the sofa with both hands planted on the seat cushions on either side of her. “Don’t laugh at me, woman. I hate when you do that!”

“Then you know why I’m doing it, or else you wouldn’t hate it.”

“You’re not smarter than me.”

“I am indeed not.” Her eyes dig brightly into his and Feyd swallows. His jaws work and after a minute he pulls away from the intensity of her gaze, looking down at her chest instead. Softly, her hand cups his jaws and her fingers dance over his skin like feathers.

“But that’s not a real fight. You know that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about training and… gladiatorial games.” Petulantly, his eyes lift to hers again.

“How is self doubt not a real fight?” She tilts her head and Feyd swears she never did this at the beginning of their acquaintance.

“I… I didn’t want to talk philosophy, I just wanted to offer you a distraction from your boredom. I thought you might enjoy a fight.” Upon that, she giggles, something flustered in her voice, and Feyd grips the hand that cups his jaw, sliding it to the front so he can kiss her palm with plush, pouty lips. “Always laughing at me,” he grumbles and proceeds to kiss the inside of her hand until she wraps her arms around his head and locks her lips with his.

Much later, Feyd realizes he probably missed a hint.

The right moment is now! No. Yes. Another breath, another minute, another turn of the page while she caresses Feyd-Rautha’s face in her lap. With her Bene Gesserit awareness (Feyd still isn’t sure if she even possesses it), she can probably hear his labored breathing and quick heartbeat. His clammy palms occasionally slide over the blanket she had thrown over her legs before Feyd settled there.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?” Her thumb settles right over the point of his neck, between muscles and tendons, where his pulse hammers the hardest.

“I’ve been wondering…” Feyd twists the blanket and stares at the potted plant. “Are there other things you like to do just for the sake of it? Just like reading or napping…” 

In his whole life, he has never had sex for any other reason than to demonstrate power, or the desire to hurt and be hurt. To think he could have some just for the mundane pleasure of it feels almost forbidden. Feyd is ashamed to ask plainly, but she can read the thoughts behind his boyish eyes. 

She has been expecting this to happen and she is prepared, yet she is not. Before her stands a human now, with all the facettes one should have. 

“Yes, there are…” Pensively, she looks down at her lap. A faint warmth has risen to her cheeks and Feyd-Rautha takes proud notice of her coy glance, raising himself on his hands on either side of her lap.

“Then why did you never…?” His question trails off into nothingness when he notices the petulance in his own voice. He attempts to sit in a way that hides the tent in his pants.

“Don’t,” she scolds him and places her hand on his pale wrist, curling her fingers around the curve of the bone. Feyd inhales sharply and allows her to peel his arm away from his body. For the first time, she actively looks at the bulge of his clothed cock and Feyd has never felt so scrutinized. In an instant, her hand is beneath his shirt, fingers splayed over his hard tummy below his navel. “Why didn’t you?”

She moves her hand as if wanting to slip away and abandon his scalding skin. “Don’t stop~” Feyd whispers, half-lidded eyes dropped to her wrist that disappears under his shirt.

A moment later, her fingers curl around the waistband of his trousers and his grip the laces of her gown and they tear each other’s clothes away with awkward impatience. When Feyd is naked before her, she sinks into the pillows with a meek sigh, swallowing when he climbs on top of her and parts her legs where her pussy sits flushed and wet at the apex of her thighs, waiting for his caress longer than her pride allows her to admit.

She marvels at his hard curves and planes of marble, so pale, so soft. So seraphic. His nipples harden when she slides her palms over each pectoral. For now, she avoids looking at his cock but she feels the ghost of its scalding touch against her soft thigh.

“You’re beautiful,” Feyd breathes, raking his eyes down her exposed skin, studying each mark, each fold, each dimple.

“I was never certain if you found me beautiful,” she whispers and Feyd picks out the insecurity in her voice. His tongue presses against the backside of his inky teeth, wanting to call her stupid for assuming he might not find her beautiful, but he realizes he is no better himself. Anxiety pricks against his stomach like ice shards.

The woman smiles and cranes her head to brush her lips against his, then giggles softly. “Yes, I find you beautiful too.”

The anxious knot unravels and Feyd bares his teeth, chasing after her mouth until he’s got her pinned against the pillow and steals her breath. His hard chest presses against the soft mounds of her breasts and his cock slides against her thigh, bending downwards so it is wedged between their pelvises. The essence of her yearning cunt coats its upper side.

Their kisses turn desperate and sloppy and they part for breath, piercing each other with lust-heavy eyes. Feyd-Rautha’s plush lips are swollen and a low moan escapes him when she presses her mouth against the underside of his gently curved jaw, nipping and smelling his skin while Feyd’s fingers slide from her knee down her inner thigh and brush against the tender, hot parts of her.

He never used to pay attention to how soft and hot and responsive a woman can be there, how willingly her hips jump against his hand when he circles the tender bud of nerves with his fingertips.

When he slides two fingers into her weeping slit, her mouth detaches from Feyd’s jaws and her head drops back on the pillow, eyes closed, spine arched. His fingers sink as deep as they can go, soaking in her essence that generously spills from her inner walls.

“Did you think of this often?” Feyd rumbles and the grating sound of his voice makes her jump. Her eyes snap open and her pussy squeezes his fingers. Leisurely, he drags them against her inner walls, curling them slightly, so her eyes gloss over and her wet lashes flutter. “You did, didn't you? You daydreamed about my fingers in your little pussy.”

She doesn't need to reply for him to know it's true. Her knees bend further up against her chest, angling her pelvis so he plunges into her cunt just right. As pleasure rises, her neck writhes  from left to right, teeth on her lip, toes flexed. Feyd knows how to read the signs.

Mesmerized, he sits between her legs, watching with boyish fascination as his fingers sink into her puffy hole and come out glistening wet between her lower lips, how her essence dribbles down the cleft of her ass. His unoccupied hand sprawls over her lower belly and toys with her. With his thumb, Feyd pulls up the hood of her clit and marvels at the little nub that throbs for attention.

Her hips buck, fucking herself on his fingers while he lets a thread of drool drip down on her clit. She whines when the warm liquid drips over the tender bud, bending her leg even further. Feyd has never touched a woman so attentively. As soon as his thumb rubs over the lubricated little nub, she thrashes, moaning and clawing at his knees. But Feyd pacifies her with her soft circles over the maddening spot, turning her legs and brain into mush. 

“Wait~”

Feyd doesn’t wait. Three splashes of wetness squirt against his wrist and the woman covers her face with her forearms, moaning and whining as her release rolls through her in hard waves. Mesmerized, Feyd regards the liquid that dribbles hotly down his skin. 

Her limbs feel like putty, like a doll's that he can bend and fold as he likes. Feyd's fingers slowly slip out of her puffy hole which feels as ready as it can be to accommodate his cock.

She whimpers weakly, not ready to face reality and Feyd-Rautha's wet skin and the awe in his eyes with which he regards the glistening web between his fingers. Only when he nudges his cock between her boneless thighs, she stirs and dreamily eyes the pale, flushed monster that pokes needily against her cunt.

“Yes, take a good look at what I'll fill you with.”

The velvety head with its weeping slit nudges between her lower lips and her cunt yields almost too easily under pressure. Like a sheathe, she hugs him tightly, wetly squeezing inch after inch as he conquers her.

A wild  touch of something possessive and dangerous flashes over Feyd's lust-struck features. This soft thing will soon be his entirely, once he places his ultimate, inky mark against her cervix. Whether she neutralizes it with her Bene Gesserit tricks or not.

A guttural sound escapes her when the thick length pushes against the apex of her channel. The woman's arms snake around Feyd's neck, pulling him in a sweet embrace with her entire body.

“Why are you here?” Feyd repeats the question from many months ago, softly rutting against her core.

“Because I was sent here.” She gasps, pressing her face into the crook of his shoulder.

“And how do you feel about that?” Feyd's nose brushes against her hair, inhaling the sweetness and the freshness of her soap.

“You tell me, Feyd-Rautha,” she softly sighs, arching her spine against his undulating body.

“You are discontent.”

Upon that, the woman's lashes flutter, tickling his shoulder. “Hah, n-no, I’m not.”

“You’re lying now, but you usually don’t. What are you hiding from me, my darling?" 

“I’m not!” Her mouth stands agape and her back arches off the bed, pebbled nipples kissing Feyd’s silky chest. 

“My darling,” Feyd repeats and she purrs like a little cat for him, wrapping her legs around his waist. So, she likes being his darling, Feyd notes with a skipping heart. "Why would you lie to me?"

“I didn't want to be here," she admits. Wet eyes look back at him when her head sinks into the pillow. "It’s not nice, being called useless.”

“Useless?! By whom?” Anger fuels Feyd's movement but the brief pain of nails digging into his shoulder blades soothes him and a soft moan curls around his lips.

“By my fellow Bene Gesserit sisters, of course. They had no use for me until the fall of your House.” The slightly quicker rhythm makes her hiss through her teeth. "They can rot and die for all I care."

Feyd's eyes grow wondrous and wide, hips stuttering as he regards his darling with endless fascination. Her violence is sweet like berries. How lucky he is to bear witness of it tonight, all the while her warm, sodden pussy holds his cock in a lover's embrace.

“I manipulated you,” she confesses under tears and thinks Feyd-Rautha will probably flay her alive now. “When I went out into the sun and made myself sick, I just wanted to see if you’d take care of me.”

“You sound like you think I’d be mad.” Avidly, Feyd rolls his pelvis. Pleasure flutters through his nerves with every heartbeat, sweet and wild. Her eyes meet his with equal fascination and her fingertips dip into the groove of his spine.

“When did you become so… so…?”

“So… gentle?” Feyd purrs, laughing softly like she did so many times. “You made me this way.”

“Yes, and it was wrong! What gave me the right?” Her voice trembles with anger now and she claws at his back like she wants to flay him, strip the layers of faux skin off so he may become what he was again.

Feyd chuckles louder now, lips pulling away from inky teeth as he ruts quicker into her cunt, making her groan through gritted teeth. “You just gave me something I didn’t know I missed.”

“But what if-”

“No.”

“What if I killed you?”

“Killed me?” Feyd’s dark eyes sparkle with humor. “You’re a funny witch. I’m still here.” His palm slides over her breasts and pebbled nipples, settling heavily on her clavicles before closing around her throat. Her cunt reacts in an instant, clenching around him. “I can give you more proof.” Feyd leers at the woman who lies beneath him in submission. “Do you want more proof?”

Eagerly, she nods, exhaling a soft, strained moan, lips parting as she struggles for oxygen.

"Would you like my knife against your throat and your tits?"

Heat rushes to her cheeks so they feel like two ripe apples, ready for the harvest. "Yes, please~"

“You’re so sweet when you’re worried for me,” Feyd giggles. His voice is like stones grating against one another as he reaches for the kukri in the sheath at his belt which lies discarded in the folds of the soft, crumpled sheets. Feyd brandishes it with a flash of painted metal. A soft shade of gold, because the world has been feeling lighter lately.

Still humored, Feyd raises himself high enough to create generous space between their chests, so he can brush the blade featherlight against his woman's nipple. "Would you like me to make a cut, to prove I'm still in there?"

Avidly, she nods, bare heels digging into Feyd's ass cheeks as she clings to his rolling hips.

Feyd slashes the blade over her breasts, one, two, three, creating shallow lines from which red droplets bead like tiny berries and meander down her sternum along convoluted paths. She moans sweetly for him, muscles in her neck flexing against his calloused hand. "There, now we're even. We both lied a little. I said one cut and made three."

Feyd's lashes cast long shadows over the glinting metal when he brings the blade to his mouth and gingerly laps up the red beads. The woman's hand slips over his hard, smooth shoulder and the muscles that ripple underneath. She circles his wrist to guide the blade away from his plush mouth, then plunges her thumb past his soft bottom lip, swiping over the wetness of blood and saliva.

"Drink it from the source then," she softly hums and Feyd obeys, dropping the knife and bending over her heaving chest. He laps the salt off her skin and then finds the stinging wounds with his tongue, tracing the hairline cuts from bottom to top, tasting iron. Feyd nurses nectar from his flower. Moaning, he peers up at her through feathery lashes as his body undulates against hers with increasing pace.

The drag of his cock shoots molten pleasure through her core and she clings to him with arms and legs, like he is the only soft and living thing on Giedi Prime. She moans his name and Feyd is swathed in a web of hazy bliss, raising his face from her chest. A little streak of crimson still clings to his smooth chin and she pulls him down to kiss the blood off his skin.

His fingers flex around her throat, rather holding onto her than strangulating her. She gladly lets him and regards the sweet despair in Feyd's eyes as he chases after his high in the warmth of her body, stretching her with each drag of his cock.

Feyd wonders if he should make her cum again, if that's what a lover would do, but his building climax coils like a snake in his guts and there is no space between their sweaty bodies for his hand to slip between her thighs and tease her bundle of nerves. Like roots slung around a tree trunk, her legs are wrapped around Feyd's hips, reeling him in, again, again, again. The rhythm hypnotizes him and he cannot fight against the pull of release.

His jaws go slack and his entire complexion softens when his climax rolls through him in long waves, each one pulling him deeper and deeper into the weave of his mellow darling's body and soul. While he still fills up her cunt with thick ropes of seed, blissful mellowness spreads through Feyd-Rautha like a touch of mercy. 

Moaning, he slumps down and her body is his pillow. He's never shown a semblance of vulnerability after fucking a woman, but now fatigue pulls on his bones and he suckles softly on the soft spot between her neck and shoulder. His balls and pelvis are nestled against the woman's warm, full center and his broad chest against her breasts.

“My darling…” Feyd hums.

He crawls into her embrace and curls against her frame like an unborn against the womb, momentarily stripped of cruelty and all the black and white illnesses that fester on Giedi Prime.

Out of one gentle poison flower might yet bloom an entire garden, if nurtured with love.

FEYD TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

She knows, if only she could dance well, this torment would be over and he would discard her like a toy that has grown old and boring. But she cannot force her hips to sway with the same elegance that the other dancers possess for all one is worth. Her every terrified limb is stiff and the horrendous plastic outfit his slaves have strapped her in makes her want to curl up in shame.

It emphasizes every body part that she hates, makes her feel exposed and undesirable. She doesn't know if Feyd-Rautha actually likes her in this or if he just likes to see her suffer.

Again, she turns, arching her spine slowly when her behind is facing him. Feyd laughs and she wants nothing more than to claw his face off, but the bruises from the last time she tried still haven't quite healed. Once she faces him, she places her hands on his strong thighs, shivering from the heat of his skin. The folds of his loincloth bulge obscenely where his long, thick cock is waiting for her to finish her dance.

Even drunk and drugged, he strikes like a viper, snatching her face with one calloused hand. She squeals pitifully through puckered lips, fighting as he lifts his glass and sets it to her lips.

"You look thirsty, pet. My poor darling shouldn't go thirsty." Amber liquid spills over her mouth and she swallows hastily, unable to stop the stream that splatters down her cleavage.

Immediately, her pupils are blown wide and her tongue prickles with the scent of cinnamon and Feyd-Rautha's perfume. He lets her go with a rough shove. The music blares.

Now she can barely keep on her feet, dizzy from the drug's onslaught on her brain. She tries to go on, but after no more than three minutes, she nearly falls, catching herself on the na-Baron's thigh. His companions laugh and her ears ring from humiliation, or from the spice. Tears spill freely down her cheeks and she sinks on her knees, hiding her face in her arm.

"Ahh-h-h, come here. I don't want your mouth tonight, want your cunt." Feyd-Rautha mercifully hauls her in his lap and she nearly sobs with relief. The bit that comes now is the pleasant part of the night. His chest is hard and warm and plastic creaks as he paws at her waist and hips, ravenous black teeth finding her breasts as his cock grinds at her cunt. 

The spice makes her bold enough to fantasize that maybe — maybe — in his own rotten way, he does find her desirable.

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

Purity Maud’Dib Atreides. A prestigious name to live up to, cloaked with the depths of her truth.

The first woman to have access to both male and female ancestral memories. A role that had originally been prophesied as only being male for eons. The Kwisatz Haderach.

Purity. Purified like the sacred holy waters of the Sietch? Purifying the planets, their horrors, and their history, stepping in as The Messiah. Seeing into humanity's connection and impact on the past, present, and future. Are actions taken or not taken?

But fully purifying anything was not realistic. It is more about lessening the damage. Tonight, she was due to swallow the essence, the bile of the young sandworm, the water of life. There was not even a way to prepare herself for this, for the implications and responsibility of this righteous path. A careful tiptoe between parasite and saviour.

She wanted to earn her place among the galaxy. Even just in Arrakis.

There was still work to be done to fully encompass the title of The Messiah. To be deserving of the unwavering support of her Sietch and the Fremen Naib, Stilgar. The undying devotion of Gurney Halleck, who served her father. The love and allegiance of her mother, Lady Jessica. The loyalty of Chani, who has been by her side since she was accepted by the Sietch.

Chani had recently been giving her hints of a different persuasion than their extremely close friendship, Purity believes. Holding the small of her back to guide her, gripping her hand a little too forcefully when they disagreed, letting her headstrong stare linger just a little too long. And Purity had allowed it, because it made her insides flutter, and Chani was dear to her heart. And she was... quite pretty. Quite alluring in her attitude, her honesty.

Something that was needed amidst the planetary conflict, the inner turmoil of her role, and the worth of her message as the Lisan al Gaib.

Chani had always been able to give her a different perspective when she had confided in her about the things that weighed heavily on her conscience daily. Chani had told Purity that her speeches had the power to influence. She told her that the quality of her voice is firm in its unapologetic tone. Enchanting in its projection.

“The strength that your voice carries is beautiful, Usul. Use it.”

But Chani had also tried to dissuade her from sipping the water of life. Telling her it was poisonous to her psyche, that it had the ability to corrupt.

But she had to take that risk; it was needed if she had any hope to lead. Lead with purpose. Have answers to the blaring questions of the people. Answers that could spiral out the path forward in a clear way. 

They told her before she was given the water of life, she would have the ability to see into potential outcomes… in the form of dreams and visions. They would be more vivid, feeling real. She may even feel short waves of lucid imagery, a Sayyadina had informed her.

But it was night terrors, rather, that came to her. The lucid night terrors that would seemingly only last a few minutes. Or hours. But she refused to accept that… that is what actually transpired. It seemed more than just mere visions. There was a blurred line after the days she had taken it. What had been reality. 

There was a peeking into the inner spaces of her mind; she never, ever had the inkling to pry open again. Mysterious, treacherous spaces. Rotted wastelands.

The electric blue liquid in the crystalline dropper dribbled into her waiting mouth, over the bow of her lips.

Walking is possible when dreaming, but it shouldn’t connect to things that haven't happened yet. That had the chance of happening. Prophetic visions are just that. Visions. A multitude of pathways. Possibilities if certain actions are taken. If certain things are said, even.

They didn’t say mystical hallucinations would be a side effect. They never told her that. But she had asked about sleepwalking beforehand.

“Sleepwalking is not the norm after drinking.” Stilgar had reassured her.

“If it is, let it be with your feet dancing slow and precise against the sands, Maud’Dib.” Stilgar had joked, quirking up in a smile while they sat along a golden-brown sand dune along the deserts of Arrakis. He clapped her on the back of her stillsuit, and her face was flat and searching as she took his words in, quickly grinning back at him haphazardly.

It was foreboding. Right after her eyes had closed and the world had gone black, the water of life had spiked through her system, zipping and swerving.

She had woken in a grand hall. Orangey hues all around. Exposed to the elements. To Arrakis. But it was disguised as an encampment. A hut within the deserts?

It was sudden. The gleam of a Crysknife dazzled, plunging into her gut, the pain excruciating, white-hot.

She heard her own ragged, heavy breathing loud in her ears as she was pushed back, stumbling over her feet. The blare of her breaths was echoing and reverberating all around her. A figure with smooth skin that was devoid of any hair walked up closer to her as she tried to regain her bearings. 

A ghostly pale man gripped her by the scruff of her neck, directing her head towards him, low, gristly, grunting, fanning over her face, breathing her in.

His mouth was a void of death. Charcoal seemed to be painted over his teeth. Choked, heaving breaths flowed out of her beaten-down lungs, passionate in their effort to bring oxygen. Darkness settled over his determined, enraptured eyes that bore into her.

He pointed yet another Crysknife, the glistening tip ready to stick into the space between her eyes. Her gloved hand flew out as she struggled to keep it away, the knife's sharp edges piercing through her glove. Searing pain settles in as she grabs her stomach, croaking gasps huffing over the blood that splatters the firm line of his lips. His dark blue eyes stoked embers as they flickered over her.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

The raspy tone of his voice cut through the crowds in the same hall that the man had fought her. It was before.

His words were said with conviction. She whipped around at his statement, locking eyes with him. She didn’t like what festered there.

“I need a blade.” He said stoically. 

A noise, outside of her tent.

They were travelling; the guerilla war had started, the battle of Arrakeen. Fremen travel encampments and tents were currently swarming the area that surrounded her, obeying her order to rest for the night.

It was a sweltering night, and the ripple of a whispery, pained grunt was heard. Directly behind her tent.

She had shot up out of her rolled sleeping bag, the noise making her heart thunder against her rib cage. Her arm jutted out to grab the handle of her Crysknife that lay under clothing.

“Gurney, someone encroaches on our encampment!” She belts out, bolting through the flaps of her tent, her voice cracking through the moonlit skies. “Take my back!”

Gurney had been standing by on watch duty outside of her tent, and he had taken her warning in spades, even though he had not heard the noise she had shouted of.

He trekked with alarm, searching for hours that night, waking some of the Fedaykin who had also scoured the area. Searching for what The Messiah had heard.

There was nothing. Nothing but a fading self-assurance in the glow of the night.

...

That couldn't have been real.

“Who slipped in my tent last night? My blades, my father’s ring is gone?” Purity’s shoulders jittered with frustration as she was seen stomping through the flaps of her tent, her commanding tone making conversations instantly quell down to a whisper. 

The shock-filled stares that met her when she burst through her tent did not lessen her anxiety. Someone had taken her treasured belongings. The knowledge that the Fedaykin would betray her trust made her lose all faith in the prophesied path to paradise.

“Who?” She bellows out louder, balling her fists at her sides as she speedily darts around the puzzled group, circling around them in her head wrap and stillsuit, chest heaving.

“Do I not lead you well, Fedaykin? Does your Lisan al Gaib not protect you? Do I not listen to your concerns?” 

“Lisan al Gaib—” “Please, Maud’Dib—” “No, honourable Usul, we would never—”

A mix of defending pleas and declarations erupted into the air. Chani was seen in the back of the encampments, her eyes brimming with calculation at the state of Purity.

Her advisor and right-hand man, Gurney, stood with crossed arms and a hard stare. His distant gaze darted to the side at the mention of her late father. “My lady, are you certain you have checked everywhere? We have been travelling.” He was observing her with confusion but had kept a tight lip on any other inquiries.

Lady Jessica, regal and witchlike in her robes, had sat cross-legged like an oracle, a look of knowing on her tattooed face. 

There was a timid voice out of the corner of her eye. Stilgar, his frown etched deep into his tan face, the iciness in his eyes full of concern.

“Usul, your accusation dishonours us.”

Her face was emotionless as he tried to grasp her hands in his, save for her eyes that boiled.

Her black curls fell just above her shoulders. It was tightly wrapped up along with her alabaster, freckled complexion. Wrapped with the fabric of a Fedaykin headscarf, covering completely over the skin of her face, so only the slit of her spice-spiked cerulean irises shone through as she glided quietly, sandwalking through the dunes.

However archaic the chime of her presence. However the contradiction in her lithe physique and booming voice. She was camouflaging against the grains with the rest of the Sietch.

Purity's eyes nearly bulge out of her head at the image of a pale, bald man standing there in the rumbling dunes, like a halo of light orbited around him. He was out of place, looking like he controlled the very rumbles of the incoming sandworm.

Behind a Shai-Hulud? Behind the worm's body… like some ghoul in the sands.

It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream.

But he called out to her from afar, plain as day, beckoning her. No others had been alerted to him, only focused on the approach of the sandworm.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

Her face paled as she faced his distant form, a white speck in the golden dunes.

The desert shook; the sky broke. Casting a sheen of ruby red over the horizon.

They say she is like a mirror of him. 

Her cousin.

He is nothing. She is the prophet. She is the holder of the prophecy. She is the saviour.

Do you not see this, Chani? Do you not know the sacrifices I have already made?

She had sacrificed her mental state to be the Lisan al Gaib. To lead them to paradise. To day-walk paranoid. 

He is nothing like her. He is evil incarnate. He is all that she fights against. All that is soiled and rotted. He is the impending doom of humanity. 

He waved to her, pitch-black mouth open and turned up.

Purity wanted to make the trek herself this time. Across the desert. Just a circular round trip to challenge herself before she faces the Emperor with her armies. She knew how to stay hidden, and she’s been perfecting her sandwalk, honing it.

She knew how to ride on the back of a Shai-Hulud. She would have to ride more to ever hope to be true power.

And there was another reason. She wanted to find her father’s ring, which she had cherished with everything she knew. A Fremen had found both of her blades, however, about ten feet away from her tent with no explanation. It had boggled her mind for the last few days.

“I walk the path in front of me, as provided by the water of life. I trust you will know I do not do this for leisure. Everything has a purpose. Tell the Sietch to not wait up for me.”

Gurney had looked at her with a grim, desperate expression. “This is dangerous. You mustn't be too rash in the days that come, my lady… please.”

But Stilgar had bowed his head. “Mahdi, I will not question your motives.”

Chani had not even bothered to see her off, and her heart sank with volition.

Her body was flung back and forth.

The roar of a sandstorm.

The ground quaked with force.

Sand grains blasted through the air as she ran.

An all-encompassing, metaphysical voice entered her mind’s eye.

You will not find the ring here, Maud’Dib. You must go back to the Sietch. Sleep again. 

"But I do not wish—” her voice wavered. “I need to find it—”

You will find the ring again. As written. 

The voice reached the universe.

Purity squinted; a Shai-Hulud was perched high in the sky in the raging blur of the sandstorm. Its feral teeth glinted at her.

She believes that might have been the source of the voice.

Purity wakes again, and she’s back at the Sietch, but she doesn’t remember returning.

She rubs her eyes as they flutter open, blinking as her fuzzy eyesight readjusts until it’s crisp.

The ceiling of the tent is sand-coloured, well-blended with the outskirts of the dunes. Looking down, she seemed to have fallen asleep in her stillsuit. It was caked in dust from sand.

“Maud’Dib… She's been hiding.” A demented voice taunted somewhere from outside of the tent.

Her instincts flooded her, a head rush.

“Gurney—!”

It was like déjà vu the way she had clamoured for her Crysknife again, barging through the exit of her tent.

“Prepare the Fedaykin—"

Her warning had died in her throat, left without much reason to hold her will.

The Sietch was bleak. Stark and empty. A dismal sight in the desert wastes.

So quiet you could hear a pin drop. The sun was a blatant yellow stain in the sky.

Why had Gurney let her sleep in broad daylight?

She descended forward, brandishing her blade, crouching with caution, scanning.

With no sign of a step behind her, she had felt the trace of the knife at her back, the point of it not entering very far, pricking her. It stung.

Completely aghast, she spun around with a raised Crysknife, seething.

But nothing was there to greet her.

Her voice boomed. “You will show yourself, cousin.”

She knew it was him. He had entered through the parallels of so many doors, so many dreams and visions. He had even broken through the dimensions of what she thought physically possible.

Those were just hallucinations. The result of taking this damned poison. 

Hands caught her hips from behind, spinning her around in their grip. Fingers thrummed over her stillsuit, and she jumped from her skin.

Blazing eyes.

Face-to-face with the phantom assaulting her every waking thought. Yet again, he is here. Feyd-Rautha. 

The Harkonnen, her duelling opponent. The one that threatens her claim to Arrakis. Her claim on the Golden Lion Throne. To inherit what she is destined for. Her cousin. Her enemy.

Her mirror.

“I’m here, Atreides.”

A typhoon of unwanted butterflies flaps inside her stomach.

Her mind shook.

And if I had not broken the Bene Gesserit's plans…

If I did not have access to the bridge of time and space, both male and female ancestral memories…

I would have been forced to share a son with him.

Purity’s arm flashed out, burying her Crysknife to the hilt of his shoulder.

He groaned. He clenched her hips painfully, making her sharply inhale. Something on his finger stuck out, bruising.

She dared to look down.

Her father’s ring.

How?

Her voice thundered out again. “How did you take this from me?”

She pushed the handle into his shoulder, grounding it around and around. 

His animalistic grunt was lecherous. It shattered the skies.

“The Maud’Dib cannot hide from me.” He rasped heavily. “You cannot be kept from me.”

Her gut swirls in horror.

That doesn’t answer my question.

Her voice broke. “You haunt me. Tell me how you navigate through the prophetic visions. Why are you shown to me—”

Pert lips spread out to bare his black teeth. His hands are on her face. Cradling it, caressing it with his thumbs.

He cups her cheek, and she latches onto the handle dug into his shoulder harder. Her skin is tingling, prickling with zaps of electricity.

She soon feels she is shocked by lightning when his forehead connects with hers, pressing into it. 

She winces, feeling herself tremble when their eyes connect, feeling that he was sucking the life out of her soul.

A blush runs from her chest up to her neck. 

The energy was eerie, but the tension between them was palpable.

“Atreides.” He huskily whispers. “You haunt me too.”

Her eyes flash with wonder. With gut-wrenching sickness.

She saw the sky blanket out into a crimson colour behind the edges of his translucent face.

He began peppering kisses over her cheek, chin, nose, and forehead.

“Atreides...” he gloated, capturing and nipping her earlobe. His gums open to reveal his shadowy mouth, thumbing her jaw up to the deep red skies, darting his tongue out to lick a hot trail of saliva from the bottom of her throat all the way up to her chin, finishing with a chaste kiss on her lips.

Something inside of her breaks. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, deeply glazed.

Her mouth filled with blood, and a blade was wedged in her stomach. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. A burning pain. A rupture in her gut.

She stares down.

There wasn’t anything there. There was no blade. 

She raises her eyes, and the Crysknife she had sheathed in his shoulder had vanished from sight.

And he’s on her again. Primal. Digging his forehead to hers as he drank her in tenderly, hands aggressively squeezing her hips. It seared her atoms. Her neurons.

This encounter is reminiscent of the prophesied vision of their bloody duel… because quite similarly, she finds her breath shallow and her voice strangled. All she had to do was breathe into him like this to feel his love, to hear her lineage uttered so adoringly from his lips—

But the stabbing is fake. Phantom.

“You will return my ring.” She booms out, despite her overwhelmed disposition.

Her mouth is sopping, dribbling blood, trickling, and staining. She can taste the metallic bitterness.

Your divination of me is endearing, Atreides. How romantic. Is this how you wish us to be?

Purity’s eyelids snap wider in awareness. The voice is cruel, mocking.

Somehow a version of Feyd-Rautha is echoing telepathically in her mind.

Her palms fly out to press against the plates of his armoured chest. He’s leaning in, staring into her spirit, burrowing into it, as if she were as pure as her name.

Something glimmers on her index finger that presses into his chest. The bulky signet ring, inherited from her late father, Leto. Her brain almost ceases to function when she wonders… Has it always been there?

His hands snake up her sides, dipping her backwards mid-air, like a seesaw. Everything buzzes around her.