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impala_chickTitle: Within Our Depravity
Pairing: Paul Atreides/Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen
Rated: Explicit
Word Count: 2,119
Summary: Feyd-Rautha kills in the name of the Emperor, but sometimes he defies orders to get Paul’s attention and invite his wrath.
A/N: WARNING for Graphic Depictions of Violence. Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
smut4smut.
Fic on AO3
When Feyd-Rautha was captured, the Emperor offered Feyd an ultimatum. Become a weapon that can follow orders, or face death.
That is how Feyd-Rautha became the enforcer of the Emperor’s will. He is the fixer, his hands undoubtedly the bloodiest in the entire realm. Paul couldn’t be Emperor without Feyd-Rautha, and Paul knows this. Yet he still lets Feyd-Rautha move about freely, lead his own team when necessary, and choose his own weapons.
In return for such freedom, Feyd comes back to him.
There are still moments when Feyd likes to push boundaries. He doesn’t outright defy the Emperor, but he takes some liberties. He sometimes drops more bodies than he’s supposed to. He gets himself off from the blood that rushes down his forearm after he cuts a man’s throat, even if he was supposed to kill the target in a much less dramatic manner.
He does these things in the name of the Emperor, but he does them to get Paul’s attention.
---
This assassination was supposed to be quick. The target: a visiting dignitary from off planet that Paul wanted dispatched in a way that could not be connected to him. Poison had been the agreed-upon plan.
But Feyd never killed anyone with poison. He got little pleasure from that. So he slit the man's wrists instead, for a slow and excruciating death. Apparently the man was a piece of shit anyway. Feud felt no guilt over the murder. After the man took his last breath, Feud constructed the scene perfectly. He laid out the body in the bathtub, nude, with the target's own belt around his dick and the knife in his hand. No doubt a humiliating position. His family and his political party would not want such a scene advertised. They might rush the investigation or not even conduct one at all.
But still, it isn’t foolproof. It isn’t what Paul had requested.
Feyd goes back to his chambers, smug and self-satisfied, and doesn’t bother wiping the blood from his arms or his shirt. His chambers are large and lavish, with no windows. The lighting is dark, just as dark as his room back on his home planet. But here, he has an opulent bed and a not-so-secret closet that rises up from the ground when he calls it forth. It contains everything he could ever imagine using for sex, because Paul has spared no expense to keep Feyd satisfied.
His weapons closet doesn’t look that much different from his pleasure closet, but Feyd purposefully asked for two different places for storage. If only so that Paul had to acknowledge there are two sides to Feyd. The line between that separation is thin, because Feyd likes killing for the pleasure of it and for the business of it. But for Paul, he feels it's important to act like there is a difference. Otherwise Paul might decide that Feyd likes being punished too much, and stop punishing him altogether. Which would be its own kind of torture.
Someone must have stumbled upon the dead politician, because he hears a scream down the hall. Feyd had plotted all day to find a window of time when he’d be alone, but the man had a fairly packed schedule. Feyd vaguely remembers he was supposed to be at a meeting at some point that afternoon. Someone must have come looking for him.
Feyd finally strips out of his bloody shirt when there is a knock on his door. It’s someone from the kitchens, bringing him his lunch. He eats in silence, waiting.
He knows Paul will come eventually. But he hopes Paul will punish him. He hopes even more that Paul uses The Voice. He’s only provoked Paul to do it one other time. But Paul undoubtedly saw the massive hard-on Feyd got when he did. Paul must consider using The Voice a violation of some invisible line he’s drawn in his own head because he has to have some type of justification for using it, no matter how weak that justification may be.
A short time later his chamber door slides open abruptly, and Paul storms in, his long gray robes billowing around him. This outfit is not something he normally chooses to wear. It’s clearly ceremonial. Which means Paul is supposed to be attending somewhere else, but he has decided that dealing with Feyd is more important.
Feyd shivers in anticipation as he turns to face him.
“On your knees,” Paul says, barely-contained rage evident in his voice.
Feyd does not comply.
“You are displeased? I did as you asked.”
“You did not. You made a mess, is what you did,” Paul hisses. “His family is embarrassed. I’ve barely convinced them to stay and finish negotiations.”
“But that means they are going to be quick to bend to your will, Emperor.” Feyd speaks the truth, but he lets his voice rise up on the word Emperor, just a touch of sarcasm to make his point and push Paul as far as he can.
The only sign that Paul is angry are the fists at his sides. "You need to be contained, otherwise you are no use to me."
“I am yours to command. Do as you see fit,” Feyd says. And this time he’s not being sarcastic. They both know what Feyd is asking for, what Feyd is ready to beg for.
But Paul hesitates.
“Lean over your bed,” he says, gesturing towards Feyd’s lavish bedspread.
Feyd wants so badly to goad Paul into a bigger reaction, but he also wants to see where this is going. So he complies and presses his cheek to the bed. He hears Paul’s footfalls and turns his head to watch as Paul crosses the floor and presses the button that calls forth the cabinet from the floor. The one that holds the instruments of pain.
Feyd’s body stiffens as Paul approaches.
“Don’t move,” Paul says. And then the cold metal of a blade hits Feyd across the meat of his ass, hard enough to make a sound but not hard enough to bruise. That does surprise Feyd. He's been spanked before, but never with a blade.
“You’ve deliberately disobeyed me.”
Paul’s voice is stern, anger simmering just beneath his carefully cultivated demeanor.
He brings the blade down again. The pain barely registers. His skin feels tingly where the blade hit him, and blood is certainly rushing south to his growing erection, but none of that is enough for him to get off. The pain is just a tease, just enough to wet his appetite without actually silencing any of the demons that live in his head.
“I have, but I think you’ll find my plan to be superior,” Feyd taunts.
He hears Paul’s sharp exhale and figures he must have surprised him with his openly defiant tone. This time the blade comes down harder than before. The edge of it is tilted down just enough to cut Feyd, and he hisses as he feels blood welling up. It stings, but it feels more like an annoyance rather than an erotic experience. Especially because he keeps seeing his mark’s fresh blood running down his arm and thinking about the nearly overwhelming coppery scent of it. His room doesn’t smell like that at all, and he doesn’t feel any of his own blood trickling down his leg. Feyd grinds his cock against his bedsheet, frustrated.
Paul leans down until his lips are close to the shell of Feyd’s ear, and whispers, “Not enough?”
Feyd turns his head to show his teeth. “I’ll need more than a spanking to learn my lesson.”
Paul groans. “You’re depraved.”
Feyd hesitates for a moment with the obvious retort rolling around in his head. He wants to provoke Paul, and attacking his vanity doesn’t always work. But acting like they are equals does strike a nerve with him.
“So are you, Emperor.”
Paul reels back like he’s been slapped and Feyd knows he’s won.
“GET ON YOUR KNEES.”
The Voice compels Feyd to do it. He doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to tell his body anything. He drops down onto the cold, concrete floor in an instant, aware of what he’s doing but unable to stop himself.
He sees that Paul is still holding the blade at his side, like either a threat or a promise. Feyd's erection bobs against his stomach at the raw power Paul's stance conveys, his loose tunic doing nothing to constrain it.
“Doesn't House Atreides look far better on their knees than I?” Feyd says. He lets a smirk overtake his face, making sure all of his teeth are showing.
“STOP TALKING UNTIL I’M DONE.” Paul uses The Voice Again. It fills the room, and sucks out all of the air. It's consuming and terrifying in its enormity, and Feyd might have whimpered if he had the choice.
Finally. Now Feyd’s fate is sealed, and his mind goes quiet. He opens his mouth, and Paul pulls his own robes aside to reveal his cock, already hard and leaking. The sight of it makes him realize he is deeply inclined to beg for Atreides cock, so he's glad that he can't. His mouth is watering, his throat opening and ready. He wants Paul to stuff him full, really punish him. Make him hurt.
Paul strides forward and shoves his cock down Feyd’s throat. He doesn’t waste time, and Feyd gags as it bumps the back of his throat. Paul’s dick is huge, much larger than Feyd would have guessed before he saw it. But now he’s already drooling all over it, pushing forward until the hairs of Paul’s groin tickle his nose.
“KEEP YOUR BODY STILL.” Paul uses The Voice again. He’s still angry, then. That means he won’t hold back.
Feyd is locked into place, his mouth open for Paul to take as he sees fit. He fucks into Paul’s throat hard enough to make Feyd gasp for breath. Drool runs down his chin as tears slide down his cheeks. He can feel it all, he wants it all, but he can do nothing to help Paul come or make the pain lessen.
It’s delicious to be caught in such an exquisite trap, only an object to be used. A tool to be punished and shaped into submission.
Feyd swallows around Paul, and gags, and keeps his eyes open. He’s frozen as Paul fucks into him. The sword clatters to the floor so that Paul can place his hands on either side of Feyd's head for leverage. Feyd’s knees are starting to ache, and his back feels tight from Paul pushing into him, but Feyd’s body cannot adjust. He only catalogues all of these discomforts, and tastes the salty tang of Paul’s dick as it keeps sliding in and out of his throat.
Paul is relentless and unforgiving, and Feyd has the wild thought that he hopes he can get Paul to fuck his ass just like this some day.
For now, Feyd focuses on the growing intensity of the burning in his throat and watches Paul fall apart. He notices his hair has fallen from its carefully gelled coif, and his bangs are plastered to his forehead. His robes are swirling around him because he’s snapping his hips so fast, and his cheeks are flushed red from exertion. He looks too disheveled to be an emperor.
And then Paul comes suddenly with his cock shoved deep into Feyd’s throat. His load streams into him, and Feyd feels too full and he can’t twist away or work his throat. It’s almost like drowning. For a moment, he thinks he might.
“SWALLOW,” Paul commands.
Then the muscles of his throat finally regain function, and he gulps. His eyes and throat are burning by the time Paul pulls back.
Feyd is impossibly hard, but he barely registers that. He feels so worn, it’s almost like he doesn’t exist anymore. His body is just a vessel for pleasure, his brain an unnecessary organ.
“You can move again,” Paul says, his breathing irregular. “Next time you shall do exactly as I say.”
And then he’s gone in a swirl of robes.
Feyd is free from The Voice’s influence, but he stays on his knees for a while longer. He takes his dick in his hand and comes all over his fist in a matter of minutes. He’s not sure if it’s an after-effect of Paul using The Voice or just how it feels after being so thoroughly used, but his body is pleasantly buzzing. His longing for pain and punishment has subsided, because for a moment the whole world feels balanced.
Except for the fact that Feyd already wants desperately to do it all again.
Pairing: Paul Atreides/Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen
Rated: Explicit
Word Count: 2,119
Summary: Feyd-Rautha kills in the name of the Emperor, but sometimes he defies orders to get Paul’s attention and invite his wrath.
A/N: WARNING for Graphic Depictions of Violence. Written for
smut4smut. Fic on AO3
When Feyd-Rautha was captured, the Emperor offered Feyd an ultimatum. Become a weapon that can follow orders, or face death.
That is how Feyd-Rautha became the enforcer of the Emperor’s will. He is the fixer, his hands undoubtedly the bloodiest in the entire realm. Paul couldn’t be Emperor without Feyd-Rautha, and Paul knows this. Yet he still lets Feyd-Rautha move about freely, lead his own team when necessary, and choose his own weapons.
In return for such freedom, Feyd comes back to him.
There are still moments when Feyd likes to push boundaries. He doesn’t outright defy the Emperor, but he takes some liberties. He sometimes drops more bodies than he’s supposed to. He gets himself off from the blood that rushes down his forearm after he cuts a man’s throat, even if he was supposed to kill the target in a much less dramatic manner.
He does these things in the name of the Emperor, but he does them to get Paul’s attention.
This assassination was supposed to be quick. The target: a visiting dignitary from off planet that Paul wanted dispatched in a way that could not be connected to him. Poison had been the agreed-upon plan.
But Feyd never killed anyone with poison. He got little pleasure from that. So he slit the man's wrists instead, for a slow and excruciating death. Apparently the man was a piece of shit anyway. Feud felt no guilt over the murder. After the man took his last breath, Feud constructed the scene perfectly. He laid out the body in the bathtub, nude, with the target's own belt around his dick and the knife in his hand. No doubt a humiliating position. His family and his political party would not want such a scene advertised. They might rush the investigation or not even conduct one at all.
But still, it isn’t foolproof. It isn’t what Paul had requested.
Feyd goes back to his chambers, smug and self-satisfied, and doesn’t bother wiping the blood from his arms or his shirt. His chambers are large and lavish, with no windows. The lighting is dark, just as dark as his room back on his home planet. But here, he has an opulent bed and a not-so-secret closet that rises up from the ground when he calls it forth. It contains everything he could ever imagine using for sex, because Paul has spared no expense to keep Feyd satisfied.
His weapons closet doesn’t look that much different from his pleasure closet, but Feyd purposefully asked for two different places for storage. If only so that Paul had to acknowledge there are two sides to Feyd. The line between that separation is thin, because Feyd likes killing for the pleasure of it and for the business of it. But for Paul, he feels it's important to act like there is a difference. Otherwise Paul might decide that Feyd likes being punished too much, and stop punishing him altogether. Which would be its own kind of torture.
Someone must have stumbled upon the dead politician, because he hears a scream down the hall. Feyd had plotted all day to find a window of time when he’d be alone, but the man had a fairly packed schedule. Feyd vaguely remembers he was supposed to be at a meeting at some point that afternoon. Someone must have come looking for him.
Feyd finally strips out of his bloody shirt when there is a knock on his door. It’s someone from the kitchens, bringing him his lunch. He eats in silence, waiting.
He knows Paul will come eventually. But he hopes Paul will punish him. He hopes even more that Paul uses The Voice. He’s only provoked Paul to do it one other time. But Paul undoubtedly saw the massive hard-on Feyd got when he did. Paul must consider using The Voice a violation of some invisible line he’s drawn in his own head because he has to have some type of justification for using it, no matter how weak that justification may be.
A short time later his chamber door slides open abruptly, and Paul storms in, his long gray robes billowing around him. This outfit is not something he normally chooses to wear. It’s clearly ceremonial. Which means Paul is supposed to be attending somewhere else, but he has decided that dealing with Feyd is more important.
Feyd shivers in anticipation as he turns to face him.
“On your knees,” Paul says, barely-contained rage evident in his voice.
Feyd does not comply.
“You are displeased? I did as you asked.”
“You did not. You made a mess, is what you did,” Paul hisses. “His family is embarrassed. I’ve barely convinced them to stay and finish negotiations.”
“But that means they are going to be quick to bend to your will, Emperor.” Feyd speaks the truth, but he lets his voice rise up on the word Emperor, just a touch of sarcasm to make his point and push Paul as far as he can.
The only sign that Paul is angry are the fists at his sides. "You need to be contained, otherwise you are no use to me."
“I am yours to command. Do as you see fit,” Feyd says. And this time he’s not being sarcastic. They both know what Feyd is asking for, what Feyd is ready to beg for.
But Paul hesitates.
“Lean over your bed,” he says, gesturing towards Feyd’s lavish bedspread.
Feyd wants so badly to goad Paul into a bigger reaction, but he also wants to see where this is going. So he complies and presses his cheek to the bed. He hears Paul’s footfalls and turns his head to watch as Paul crosses the floor and presses the button that calls forth the cabinet from the floor. The one that holds the instruments of pain.
Feyd’s body stiffens as Paul approaches.
“Don’t move,” Paul says. And then the cold metal of a blade hits Feyd across the meat of his ass, hard enough to make a sound but not hard enough to bruise. That does surprise Feyd. He's been spanked before, but never with a blade.
“You’ve deliberately disobeyed me.”
Paul’s voice is stern, anger simmering just beneath his carefully cultivated demeanor.
He brings the blade down again. The pain barely registers. His skin feels tingly where the blade hit him, and blood is certainly rushing south to his growing erection, but none of that is enough for him to get off. The pain is just a tease, just enough to wet his appetite without actually silencing any of the demons that live in his head.
“I have, but I think you’ll find my plan to be superior,” Feyd taunts.
He hears Paul’s sharp exhale and figures he must have surprised him with his openly defiant tone. This time the blade comes down harder than before. The edge of it is tilted down just enough to cut Feyd, and he hisses as he feels blood welling up. It stings, but it feels more like an annoyance rather than an erotic experience. Especially because he keeps seeing his mark’s fresh blood running down his arm and thinking about the nearly overwhelming coppery scent of it. His room doesn’t smell like that at all, and he doesn’t feel any of his own blood trickling down his leg. Feyd grinds his cock against his bedsheet, frustrated.
Paul leans down until his lips are close to the shell of Feyd’s ear, and whispers, “Not enough?”
Feyd turns his head to show his teeth. “I’ll need more than a spanking to learn my lesson.”
Paul groans. “You’re depraved.”
Feyd hesitates for a moment with the obvious retort rolling around in his head. He wants to provoke Paul, and attacking his vanity doesn’t always work. But acting like they are equals does strike a nerve with him.
“So are you, Emperor.”
Paul reels back like he’s been slapped and Feyd knows he’s won.
“GET ON YOUR KNEES.”
The Voice compels Feyd to do it. He doesn’t have to think, doesn’t have to tell his body anything. He drops down onto the cold, concrete floor in an instant, aware of what he’s doing but unable to stop himself.
He sees that Paul is still holding the blade at his side, like either a threat or a promise. Feyd's erection bobs against his stomach at the raw power Paul's stance conveys, his loose tunic doing nothing to constrain it.
“Doesn't House Atreides look far better on their knees than I?” Feyd says. He lets a smirk overtake his face, making sure all of his teeth are showing.
“STOP TALKING UNTIL I’M DONE.” Paul uses The Voice Again. It fills the room, and sucks out all of the air. It's consuming and terrifying in its enormity, and Feyd might have whimpered if he had the choice.
Finally. Now Feyd’s fate is sealed, and his mind goes quiet. He opens his mouth, and Paul pulls his own robes aside to reveal his cock, already hard and leaking. The sight of it makes him realize he is deeply inclined to beg for Atreides cock, so he's glad that he can't. His mouth is watering, his throat opening and ready. He wants Paul to stuff him full, really punish him. Make him hurt.
Paul strides forward and shoves his cock down Feyd’s throat. He doesn’t waste time, and Feyd gags as it bumps the back of his throat. Paul’s dick is huge, much larger than Feyd would have guessed before he saw it. But now he’s already drooling all over it, pushing forward until the hairs of Paul’s groin tickle his nose.
“KEEP YOUR BODY STILL.” Paul uses The Voice again. He’s still angry, then. That means he won’t hold back.
Feyd is locked into place, his mouth open for Paul to take as he sees fit. He fucks into Paul’s throat hard enough to make Feyd gasp for breath. Drool runs down his chin as tears slide down his cheeks. He can feel it all, he wants it all, but he can do nothing to help Paul come or make the pain lessen.
It’s delicious to be caught in such an exquisite trap, only an object to be used. A tool to be punished and shaped into submission.
Feyd swallows around Paul, and gags, and keeps his eyes open. He’s frozen as Paul fucks into him. The sword clatters to the floor so that Paul can place his hands on either side of Feyd's head for leverage. Feyd’s knees are starting to ache, and his back feels tight from Paul pushing into him, but Feyd’s body cannot adjust. He only catalogues all of these discomforts, and tastes the salty tang of Paul’s dick as it keeps sliding in and out of his throat.
Paul is relentless and unforgiving, and Feyd has the wild thought that he hopes he can get Paul to fuck his ass just like this some day.
For now, Feyd focuses on the growing intensity of the burning in his throat and watches Paul fall apart. He notices his hair has fallen from its carefully gelled coif, and his bangs are plastered to his forehead. His robes are swirling around him because he’s snapping his hips so fast, and his cheeks are flushed red from exertion. He looks too disheveled to be an emperor.
And then Paul comes suddenly with his cock shoved deep into Feyd’s throat. His load streams into him, and Feyd feels too full and he can’t twist away or work his throat. It’s almost like drowning. For a moment, he thinks he might.
“SWALLOW,” Paul commands.
Then the muscles of his throat finally regain function, and he gulps. His eyes and throat are burning by the time Paul pulls back.
Feyd is impossibly hard, but he barely registers that. He feels so worn, it’s almost like he doesn’t exist anymore. His body is just a vessel for pleasure, his brain an unnecessary organ.
“You can move again,” Paul says, his breathing irregular. “Next time you shall do exactly as I say.”
And then he’s gone in a swirl of robes.
Feyd is free from The Voice’s influence, but he stays on his knees for a while longer. He takes his dick in his hand and comes all over his fist in a matter of minutes. He’s not sure if it’s an after-effect of Paul using The Voice or just how it feels after being so thoroughly used, but his body is pleasantly buzzing. His longing for pain and punishment has subsided, because for a moment the whole world feels balanced.
Except for the fact that Feyd already wants desperately to do it all again.