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plutoswritingplanet · 1 month

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It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt.4 (final)

a/n: we did it Joe! this chapter officially marks the first ever series i've completed lmao. thank you for all the support on this fic, every like, every comment, every out-of-pocket anon ask.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (like...fr this time), Blood and Violence, Manipulation.

Summary: After the wedding, Husband and Wife work out the intricate web of their relationship.

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3

Gurney looks at you as if you're already dead.

You hide from his gaze, ducking behind pillars, whenever you can hear his footsteps. It's truly depressing, the way your mentor shakes his head, as if, instead of looking at you, he's looking at a coffin. You suppose he might be right, he's the one with the most experience in the Harkonnen area. He's fought them, dined with them, seen their customs through and through. And now, his dutiful little student is about to be thrown into the very same world, he has relayed to you as a nightmarish fairytale. Still, a little misplaced optimism wouldn't kill him. Or just, a sliver of hope, an inclination that you might survive this.

The day of your wedding rolls upon you like an oceanic storm, all chaos and rumbling.

Here you sit, your bones locked with nerves, as the servants pack away your things. A futile thing, you muse to yourself. It's highly doubtful the Harkonnens will let you keep any personal items back from Caladan. They'll mold you into their image, until all your hair naturally falls out. The thought would make you laugh, but here's a servant, placing your jewelry into a case, which lands in a bag, which will be transported to the Harkonnen ship by the end of the day.

Your room, the place you've spent all your life in, slowly becomes more and more barren.

The closet stands empty, so do the drawers. All your trinkets are swiftly transported away until you're left alone in your wedding dress, the only familiar thing between the hollow ribs of your life's sanctuary. Wishing you could fold the entirety of the castle, with the stables, and the horses, and the cliffs, and throw it into the final suitcase, so you can open it up in times of turmoil, and breathe in the familiar scents. You need to leave, right now. Sitting like this, wrenches a dangerous numbness out of your chest. And you can't be allowed to dissapear into yourself. You're an Atreides, you shall wear your pain with dignity, as per your Mother's wishes.

Your wedding dress swishes around you, as you stand up from your bed. It's much more classy, and less of a chiffon catastrophe, than your engagement dress, a welcome change. The veil is embroidered with light crystals and metal plating. It falls heavily over your face, and jingles when you move. By all intents and purposes, it is a dream dress. A dress you'd like to wear for a wedding of your own, a wedding with some dashing gentleman. A gentleman, which in your most private of dreams, has the face of Duncan Idaho, with silver rings braided into his hair.

Instead, you're left with this monster, so alien and cold. A beast at the center of the maze.

The bull looks at you from the wall. Its horns, smeared with your Grandfather's blood, curl grotesquely into the ceiling. The head is mounted above the doors to the library, a grim reminder of his spectacular death. As a child, you'd spend hours, standing right here, at the entrance, staring at the animal's head. You've always wondered, whether it were the lights playing tricks on your mind, or you saw a shadow of pride in the bull's eyes.

Did it know who was its victim? The leader of one of the most important Houses in all known universe laid dead at its feet. Did it know what sort of spectacle it produced? What destruction of hubris? You suppose it couldn't, it was an animal, after all. A headless creature, hung on a wall. Still, you stare at it, just like you used to, trying to decipher your own fate from its cold, dead eyes.

After all, there will be a spectacle, a life-long fight stands ahead of you. Giedi Prime shall be your arena, dead and cold, covered in black. And every single Harkonnen will be your bull, their mere presence a deathly danger to your being. It took one bull to end your Grandfather, you dread to think how many it'll take to end you. There will be blood, you're sure of it. And if things were allowed to go your way, it would flow in rivers upon rivers, through the industrial halls of Giedi Prime. You'd have the entire planet drowned in their blood. Your cursed betrothed, the Baron, the fucking Emperor if you had to.

The bull laughs at your quiet hate, beady eyes bearing down upon you in an imaginary display of indifference. You huff, cheeks reddened, insides twisted and burning.

That's how your Father finds you. Enchanted by a once living instrument of death.

He hasn't spoken to you, since your betrothed has arrived, not really. Not like you used to talk. A way to shield himself, you supposed, from the Emperor's order, which will soon enough take his only Daughter away from him. This was your superpower. You could fish out signs of love in every action.

- Your Mother hates that thing - he comments, as he stands next to you, eyes looking up at the bull.

- I don't blame her, the sight is quite disturbing. - you reply evenly.

You've missed him, more than you can possibly explain with words. But teary displays of affections were below you, especially since you're trying to distance yourself, rise above your body, float right out of your head. Perhaps it'll hurt less that way. Duke Leto Atreides turns to you, and for the first time in a month, you recognize your Father behind this statue of authority. He looks troubled, for lack of a better word. There's much more gray on his brow and the lines of his face are darker, harsher.

- I came to give you something - he announces, producing a small object out of the pocket of his trousers.

It's harder than you thought, tearing your gaze away from the bull, but you manage, your eyes landing on a figurine in your Father's hands. Your heart stops, as you recognize the blackened stone, polished to perfection. On a flat disc stands a figure of a Matador, proud and posed. Next to him, a bull, ready to strike. It's cold to the touch, when you take it from your Father, ridges of the small sculpture digging into your palm.

Jumping in front of danger, for better or worse. Your head starts to hurt.

- Father - the sound of your shaking voice carries through the corridor - How will I ever survive this?

By the way Duke Leto Atreides sucks in a sharp breath, you can deduce the answer. And what a sad answer it is.

Your Father steps closer, gathering your trembling hands in his, the warmth of his embrace engulfing you like the first sun rays of spring. He squeezes your fingers, tightening your own hold on the small figurine, and his eyes are so incredibly sad, you're convinced they could make any heart in the universe weep.

- With courage - he says - and grandiose.

Like a true Matador would.

***

Your bull stands completely still.

His pale skin creates a beautiful contrast against the ever present darkness of the Harkonnen ship. It's so much different from your native fleet, all sleek and black, and efficient. Terrifying, but at the same time, strangely beautiful.

The both of you watch, as the hatch is being pulled up, slowly but surely obscuring all sight of your home planet. Of your family, standing by the docking station like a funeral parade. It's only when you can no longer see them, your life sealed with a click of finality, does your betrothed, now husband, move.

His hand grasps your upper shoulder, and you jump at the sudden contact. Your confused gaze is completely ignored, as the man drags you through the ship, taking large, hasty steps.

Hairless faces swish past you, all so similar to each other, you're worried you'll never figure out who is who. The corridors of the ship wind and turn like a merciless labyrinth, a realization daunting on you, that you will never be able to find your way in this place.

Suddenly, you're faced with a black door, which opens as soon as your husband walks up to it. His grip tightens and he basically throws you forward, watching you stumble through the entrance on weak legs.

It takes you a second to gather yourself, as you instinctually settle into a defensive stance. The room you're in looks quite different from the rest of the ship. It's much more luxurious, one would risk saying cozy. With a gigantic, round bed filled with pillows, a dark desk, and a deliciously comfortable looking armchair. It all dims in your eyes, however, as you look up at your newlywed.

He stands right at the entrance, blocking the only means of escape with his tall frame.

Both of you are still in your wedding clothes. Your dress hugs your body in a way that is anything but comforting. His outfit is as black and sharp, as all his attire. It exposes his lean physique, clings to his warrior's physique. Terrifying, your brain summarizes, muscles freezing suddenly. Feyd Rautha looks at you with emotions you can't decipher in the low light of his room. Your room. Your marital abode.

You can't breathe, lungs tighten painfull with the sheer thickness of the air between the two of you. Still, there's a certain power, residing in your bones, an inclination of a fight you're ready to put up, should he try anything. And by the way his brow bone settles over his darkened eyes, your husband seems to understand. What a terrifying thought. The sheer idea of finding a common ground with this awful man makes your guts turn.

He doesn't even flinch, when the doors behind him slide open. You however, nearly jump out of your skin at the sound, cutting through the deafening silence of the bedroom. With furrowed brow you watch, as three Harkonnen women spill into the room. All of them completely hairless, lips pulled back in feral snarls, as they regard you with an emotion you can only interpret as contempt. Their bodies, clad in typical, Harkonnen garments, flow and slither, when they gather behind your husband, like three hungry lionesses, their black eyes flickering to him, to you.

- Get her ready - Fey Rautha throws a command over his shoulder, eyes glued to you still, and his gaze drags itself across your body like tar.

This is the first time you've heard him speak since the wedding, and involuntarily, you cringe at the gravely sound. While he stayed silent, it was easy to forget who you're dealing with. But as soon as sound leaves his mouth, you're cruelly reminded of the roughness, and the strangeness of your life's partner.

The three women stir behind him, hands sliding up his body in a gesture, that is almost too close to reverence. He does look like a young god, like some ethereal being, but you're too distressed to dwell on that thought. Instead, your arms encircle your body, a shiver of terror and strangely, disgust flowing over you, at the mere idea of these women touching you. Then, one of those three strange creatures moves forward. She has a stripe of black running down her bottom lip, and her face twists into a cruel smile.

She says something in a language you don't recognize. Probably a native Harkonnen. A rough bark, her disgusted expression translating the meaning better, than any dictionary would.

Still, you have no time to process the foreign insult, because as soon as words leave her mouth, your husband turns. His white hand grabs the woman's hairless head, as one would pick an apple from an orchard, and then, you see a flicker of true terror flash through the woman's face. In a smooth, deadly gesture, Feyd Rautha smashes her face against the wall, the resounding sound of her skull fracturing against the concrete is like the cracking of a whip in your ears.

That's all it takes, one move, and she falls into a lifeless heap, sliding down the wall.

A sigh escapes your lips, as your eyes stay glued to her body. You can't see her face.

Your husband barks something towards the remaining two women, and they scurry towards you, heads hung low, bodies curled onto themselves. You don't know, whether he looks at you, acknowledges you in any way, shape or form. The doors close behind him, as he leaves you in the hands of his... Whatever these women are to him.

They begin to strip you where you stand. Their hands peel off your wedding dress from your trembling body, and every move feels like tearing skin from muscle. You can't protest, can't do anything really. Dark, thick blood pools around the third woman's head, dripping between the tilled floor, slowly making it's way closer to your feet.

When they pull you towards the bed, you say nothing. Let them massage your body with some ointment, which smells of heavy chemicals and scratches your throat.

Their hands are unexpectedly delicate. You suppose they're too scared to take revenge on you, or perhaps, they just don't care. Doesn't really matter, because you do. You really care, despite yourself. Heart squeezes in your chest impossibly tight, when they help you up from the bed, and once again you're confronted with the white corpse in the corner of the room.

The dress they pull over your body hardly qualifies as a garment in your eyes. It's made of delicate, sheer material, which barely covers anything, looking more like a courtain thrown over a window.

Is this how he wants you, you wonder. Terrified, bare, always on the verge of something, be it tears or anger.

One of the women steps in front of you, takes your hands in hers and rubs something into your cold bones. You try to catch her eye, try to decipher how to categorize them, as humans or as creatures, but she swiftly ducks under your inquisitive gaze. That is, until your eyes flicker towards the corpse once again.

Her hand shoots up towards your chin, dragging you back to meet her onyx eyes. You can see the reflection of your own confused face in the void.

- You- she rasps, her voice a grating symphony of gurgles and growls that stumble over the common language - Soft.

Whether it's a warning, or a threat, you can't fully decide, but it doesn't matter. Those two words tell you more about your future life, than any book, any archived account. This is what the Harkonnens are made of. Sensless violence, outbursts of anger, dark blood. You swallow thickly, and nod, your expression hardening in the woman's eyes. She looks as if there's something else she'd want to say, but her head ducks at record speed, when the sound of the doors opening cuts through the air once more.

For a longer moment you're completely devoid of words.

Here stands you husband, some sort of fruit in his right hand, two daggers hanging from the belt on his trousers. His chest, white and (unfortunately) toned beyond belief stares back at you. His unoccupied hand makes a wide gesture, and the remaining two women scurry off towards their third, dead companion. With quick hands, they grab the body and drag it out of the room, letting the door slide closed behind them. Immediately, you miss their presence, unnerving as they are.

Once again, you're left alone with the na-Baron.

His eyes float freely all over your figure, taking it in with an impassive stare. It's deeply unnerving, the way you're presented to him, the way he organized all of this, tailored it to his liking. You can't help it, the way your body begins to warm before him, skin becoming prickly to the touch, much too sensitive for the strange imitation of fabric covering it. Still, your mind stays sharp, and instinct kicks in, as you take a cautious step back, angling your bady away from him.

- So, what now? - you ask, voice rough, eyes following his every move.

And move he does, slowly advancing towards you. His feet, which you now discover, are bare, drag behind him. Grace and danger mix well within his movements, as he circles you, still without a word. You throat runs dry, when he bites the fruit in his hand, dark juice spilling all over his lips, drops rolling down his hands, his forearms. Your stomach churns.

- Now - again you're reminded of the gravely tones his voice can carry - We consumate our marriage, wife.

Somehow, your marital status sounds like a mockery spilling from his lips, and he laughs at the way your face scrunches.

- I don't want you to touch me - a lie, your entire body burns for any semblence of friction, but you're determined to keep some dignity.

To that, he nods his head in silent agreement, a gesture, which actually manages to surprise you. The fruit is thrown forgotten onto the floor. It rolls under the bed, and you fight the urge to reprimend your husband. Instead, you bite your lip.

- I thought you would say that - he murmurs, coming closer, his breath fanning over your exposed shoulder.

The hair at the back of your neck stands straight, and you crane your head to the side, so you can look him in the face. So he can see the disaproving expression, perhaps he'd feel a fraction of the hate boiling in your gaze. Then, you can feel something, cold and sharp, drag itself from the dip in your spine, all the way up to your shoulder blades. A gasp escapes you, and your entire body shivers violently.

- That's why I brought these. - Feyd Rautha whispers into your ear, and you can't help but sway lightly in your place, as if his words have the power to physically move you.

Then, your hand closes around a metal object, and you look down to be met with a beautifully crafted dagger. The blade is silver, shiny, and unbelievably sharp. It fits into your grasp as if it was made specially for you, and the possibility almost makes you smile. Then, confusion creases your brow, and your husband flashes you a deadly, black smile, as he steps back a couple of steps.

He's holding a blade as well, jet black and strangely matte, a perfect antitype of yours. There's a sort of lazy excitement about him, hidden in every movement. It reminds you of the way he'd behave in the arena, while making a spectacle of death for you and your family.

- I though this would work on you - he muses, twirling the blade in his hand, and your muscles seize with realization. - And it definitely works on me.

The idea is preposterous, utterly scandalous. Using a fight as some perverse attempt at foreplay, your brain swimms with conflicting emotions.

- You're being ridiculous - you attempt to diffuse the situation, but your husband doesn't budge, rolling his shoulders.

- Come on, wife - he snarls, with a sharp smirk - Don't you want to hurt me?

Something boils inside of you at his words. Some ancient, terrifying anger that you supposed, has always been there with you. From the moment you stepped onto the red carpet, leading you towards your undoing at the altar. Red, like the spilled blood still staining the floor of this bedroom. The rage, which you swallowed down, when you recited the vows, when you let him unveil your face, kiss you in front of the entire Atreides court. Now, it seeped through every pore in your skin, covering you in a tar like courtain.

You hate your husband. You hate Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Hate him for being your husband, for agreeing to this cruel match. For taking you away from your family, from your wise Father, and your strict Mother, and your sweet Brother. For ripping you away from love, which didn't even have time to properly bloom. Duncan's face dances in front of you like a taunting vision from an angry god, and your fingers tighten around the dagger.

Feyd Rautha is right. You want to hurt him. You wanted to, before you even met him.

- There you are - his lips pull back into a cruel, blackened smile of self-satisfaction - I was worried they took away all your venom, Viper.

You'll show him fucking venom, you think, feet sliding on the floor, twisting your body into a dancing position. Two sets of shields click into life, and suddenly you begin to understand.

This is your arena. This is your bull.

This will be your battlefield for the rest of your life, for as long as you're able to withstand it. With courage and grandiose, your Father's voice haunts you, but soon after another echo rises in your mind. Your Mother, your teacher, her whisper slithers from your memory, a passing comment right before you're shipped off to Giedi Prime, when she squeezed your hand so tight, you were worried tendons under your skin would snap.

Excitement and arousal flow freely from your husband's expression, as he watches yours harden. Something inexplicable settles over your features, a promise. You'll give him a fight of a lifetime, and he'll love it, every single time. It should unnerve you, the way his body lowers itself, like a panther ready to strike. It would've unnerved you some time ago.

Now, however, it shows you a clear path to survival. This is how you take control.

Cold blood splatters from under your feet, as you jump towards him, a series of measured blows following closely behind. He blocks them, lets some be pushed back by the shield. Then, he's on you, brutal and unhibited slashes fly around your body, and you meet all of them with a blocking blade. You're pushed back, towards the wall, where remains of the previous killing still stain the concrete. Blood seeps into the thin fabric on your body, and you shiver in disgust, as it sticks to you.

Your husband doesn't notice, his blade leaves a rather deep mark in the wall, as you duck under his arm, and avoid a nasty punch to the gut.

Plap, plap, plap, your feet carry you through the room, as you try to gain some leverage. The mattress on the bed is surprisingly soft, when you climb on top of it, gaining the advantage of a higher position. An advantage, which is quickly torn out of your hands, as your husband grabs onto your ankle, tugging at it with such force, you tumble down in an instant.

Panic rises in your gut, as the world sins around you, and without really thinking, you let your mind flow into autopilot.

- Let me go! - the Voice tears out of your throat like a landslide, and Feyd Rautha throws himself off of you, his body colliding with the nearby desk.

Books and papers crash to the floor with the force of his figure. Your head swimms, but you will it away, too focused on survival to care for your well-being. Both of you are panting, trying to recover from this sudden use of ancient magics.

- I should rip that treacherous tongue right out of your skull - the threat would carry more strength, if your husband's expression wasn't absolutely dripping with unabashed lust.

Never in your life has someone looked at you this way, and the shock of emotions is enough to pull you right to your feet. Your blade reflects the dim lights of the room, as you raise it high, body taunt and ready.

- You'll never get that close.

A challenge, which doesn't even have enough time to properly resound in the thick air of the room, before Feyd Rautha pushes himself off the desk. Things clatter to the ground from the force of his movements, and you barely have time to react, when his blade sinks into your shield. Your body flies backwards, falling in heap with his at the foot of your marital bed. The edge digs into your back, your left hand pressed tightly into the mattress.

He's hovering over you, panting like a wild animal, face illuminated red from below, where, just short of his juggular, your blade licks a stripe across his alabaster skin. His right hand is wedged between your bodies, dagger nicking you under your ribs. And you stay in this position, like a marble statue, your eyes melting into his, frozen in time.

- You fought well, Atreides - his voice rumbles deep within his chest, and you can't help, but snarl at his words. - We would've taken each other to an early grave.

Something dangerously close to fondness floods his features at the idea, and your fingers start to unravel, letting go of the dagger one by one. He doesn't have a chance to react, when your blade clatters to the floor, and your hand, now free, grabs the back of his head, pulling him down.

Your kiss opens the gates of hell, and soon, his own dagger is thrown across the room. You can't see, refuse to see, as your eyelids flutter closed. His lips are slightly chapped, but not any less delicious. Left hand thrashes in his hold, until he lets it go. Then, they both find purchase against his sharp cheekbones, and you hold him so tight, you might break his face with your ministrations.

- I knew it would work - he pants against your lips, you can hear the smile in every syllable.

- Shut the fuck up - you snarl, fingers digging deeper into his skin.

He groans into the kiss, immediately forcing his tongue into your mouth, as his hands work hard to manouver your legs open enough, for him to slot in between. Then, his touch is everywhere. On your legs, he drags the sheer fabric up and down your thighs, as he carresses your skin, blunt nails digging into the flesh of your hips. They venture upwards, to grab at your breasts, they fight their way into your hair, where he pulls and scrapes.

It doesn't matter, you think, when you hear the fabric tear, and the carefully chosen attire falls from your body. Nothing matters.

You're boneless and defenseless against this one insidious emotion, which carries your every move, which compells you to arch your back, to reveal your running pulse under his searching lips. Feyd Rautha bites down on your skin, right where your neck meets your shoulder, and you respond in kind, head descending upon his porcelain skin. He shudders under your teeth and tongue, his entire body tensing.

This is how you take control, and you've never felt so greedy.

His trousers aren't even fully off of his legs, when he enters you, clumsily and with urgency, bare feet sliding on the floor. Surprisingly inexperienced, he chases your core with his entire body, as if the heat of your insides in a completely foreign sensation.Your moan tears at the column of your throat, where his lips leave a trail of purple marks. The covers remains undisturbed, as your husband ruts into you, pressing your back harder against the edge of the bed. It's uncomfortable, it's hurtful, but somehow, it feels perfect for the two of you. Fucking like wild animals, not even able to make it onto the bed.

- I hate you - you repeat, like a mantra, broken voice cascading with every thrust. - I hate you, I ha-

Your head rolls backwards, when a particularly hard thrust nearly breaks you, but your husband is here to help, his hand grabbing the the roots of your hair, bringing your head down, so you can watch as he performs a magic trick of repeatedly disapearing into your body.

You're not sure who's blood his hand slips on, but suddenly, you're fully on the floor, your body crushed by his. Nothing stops his wild movements, not the sloppiness of it all, not the hard wails he tears from your body. If anything, the more strain his body is under, the more ferocious he's being. Your hand shoots up, all five fingers digging into his throat, and you're rewarded with an angelic moan, which almost brings you to your finish line. Almost.

His head leans down into the crook of your neck, where he whispers something in Harkonnen, a gurgle of rough sounds, interrupted by sinful moans. He sounds so beautiful, so conflicted, for a second you consider being gentle with him. Alas, you hate him still.

Another realization dawns upon you, as your feet kick with force into your husbands backside, to force him deeper, to keep him inside. This is still a fight. You're still on the battlefield, still waving a red flag in front of a raging bull. So, with courage and grandiose, your muscles tense, and you roll your husband over.

The change in position makes both of you gasp in unison, as you sink down onto him. For a second, everything stops. His lips are red and swollen, sweat and blood mix on his skin, flow down in pinkish stripes. And he watches you, as one would a holy painting of a foreign god. With reverence and utter lack of understanding. You're fully aware the look is mirrored on your face.

Slowly at first, your hips begin to rock, up and down, in a steady rhythm, that forces a shuddering breath to leave Feyd Rautha's lips. You bend down, to catch it, and because of your greed, you catch his bottom lip as well. The bite you give him is anything but romantic, and his hips jump from the floor, hitting a spot within you, you didn't know existed. He swallows your moan along with his own blood, and his fingertips map the curve of your spine, as you straighten upon him.

Fingernails latch themselves into the skin of his chest, as you speed up, chasing your own release and no one else's. Moans spill from your lips, the concept of shame abandoning your mind completely. Then, compelled by something dark and twisted you drag claw marks down his torso.

His body shudders, and his hips lift off the ground, fucking into you with reckless abandon. The hold he has on the flesh of your hips is bruising, to say the least, but you did enough damage to call it even. Enough, to make your body tremble and tense up, as climax creeps up on you steadily.

Like a shark sniffing for blood, he senses the change in your being, and as you tumble over the edge, a silent scream tearing at your throat, he suddenly rises into a seating position. His arms encircle you fully, pressing your sweaty bodies impossibly close, as he too finds his own end.

It takes him second, to tumble over, filling you to the brim with ink. His head buries itself into your shoulder, inhaling your scent through deep gasps, each eliciting a broken growl from his chest.

Your bones are gone completely, body relaxing and falling breathless into your husband's arms. After a while of sitting in complete stillness, he moves first. Strong hands lift you up, off of him, and you whine at the emptiness.

Then, as a last hurrah, he throws you onto the bed, where your recovering body sinks into the soft mattress. It's heavenly, the way you seem to float in nothingness, head swimming from exertion. For a moment you don't even register him climbing into the bed with you, drunk on the fading tension seeping from your every pore.

The lights are almost completely out, yet his skin shines against the black comforter. You wish to see if he's flushed, like he was at the engagement party. Leaning on one arm, his fingers trail around the small wound under your ribs. Dried blood flakes off of your skin, and you shudder again.

- I - you start, voice completely broken - I've never known hate, until I met you.

You're not sure why you've said it. Perhaps, in this moment of serenity, truth seems to float to the surface much more easily. Or perhaps you're possessed, or worse, gone completely insane. Eother way, your eyebrows furrow, and Feyd Rautha leans down to kiss your forehead, gently.

- If this is how your hate looks like - he whispers into your hairline, teeth scraping lightly against it - I dread to imagine your love.

You'll never find out, you think, but for some reason can't fully vocalize it.

He says something else, after a while, but your mind is becoming as heavy as your body, and as the day descends upon you in a heap of exhaustion, you fall asleep.

And while your story has nothing but suffering in the future, while there's death and mourning, and years of violence written in the stars for you. Right now, on the Harkonnen ship sailing through space to Giedi Prime, you sleep in the arms of your husband. Whether this strange symbiotic relationship will last, no one can tell, but there is hope, and what else could you possibly need?

#my writing #dune part 2 #dune x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune smut #what a journey my gosh #thank you once again for following the story love y'all

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beskarandblasters · 1 month

Text

Enchanted to Meet You

Security Guard!Din Djarin x Senator/F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author’s note: Inspired by Enchanted by Taylor Swift! Part of the Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! This is also way more than a drabble and possibly some of my favorite smut I’ve ever written?!?!

Summary: You’re a senator for the New Republic and tonight you’re forced to attend the New Republic Gala. Senator Xiono won’t leave you alone but that in turn leads you to meet Mando, a security guard at the event. And that leaves you wonderstruck.

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: reader is able-bodied, canon divergent, reader has consumed alcohol, creepy guy at the gala, fingering, semi public sex, vaginal sex, pull out method, pet names (cyar’ika, mesh’la), no use of y/n

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics Fic recs: @kelbellsficrecs

Small talk. Painful small talk. Your cheeks hurt from faking smiles and pretending to nod at people’s boring anecdotes. If you fake laugh at one more unfunny story you’re going to lose it. Everyone here is so insincere, only here to further their own political gain. It’s a gala for the New Republic, sure but what happened to the social aspect of it? It just feels fake, like the whole thing is a facade.

The only thing that makes tonight semi-bearable is your dress– midnight blue chiffon with silver stars embroidered throughout the fabric. A dress that you’d like to meet someone in if you weren’t surrounded by self-absorbed politicians.

The gala is decorated extravagantly. The lights on the dance floor reflect gorgeously off your dress and your jewelry. The music is actually quite catchy for a party full of bureaucrats. And the multiple rounds of revnog are certainly helping you loosen up.

If only you had someone to share it all with.

You don’t feel like you fit in here. Most of the senators are Coruscant, Chandrila, and other Core planets. You’re from Naboo and that makes you feel like an outsider among the Galaxy’s elite.

A tap on your shoulder interrupts your train of thought.

“Care to dance?”

You turn around, the skirt of your dress swaying with the motion, and find Senator Hamato Xiono.

“With you? Not a chance.”

“Aw, come on. Perfect opportunity to talk trade routes. The music, the lights… it might make you think differently about voting no on my proposal.”

“Because your proposal lacks any real research.”

“You’ll change your mind once I’m done with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, stepping towards you and grabbing your arm.

You attempt to pull away from him but his grip is tight, snug around your wrist. The blood drains from your face and adrenaline courses through you. He’s trying to talk about politics now… at a party? And on top of all that he put his kriffing hands on you.

“Is there a problem here?” a sultry-toned voice asks.

You look to your left and find a man wearing silver armor. Tall, broad, an absolute unit. His face is concealed by a helmet that matches the rest of his armor, a T-shaped visor running down the middle.

Senator Xiono lets go of your wrist and you let it fall to your side. His touch leaves tingling marks on your skin, and not the good kind.

“Nope. We’re fine. Aren’t we?” Senator Xiono asks, a fake smile gracing his face.

You look at him and then back at the strange masked man before saying, “I need some air.”

You walk past both of them, your ears ringing with anger as the other partygoers' faces blur around you. The adrenaline doesn’t start to subside until the cool nighttime air hits your face.

Alone on the balcony, leaning against the railing and looking at the sea of speeders beneath you. Deep breaths and counting to ten calm you down. And once your mind is finally clear you ask yourself… Who was that man?

“Are you alright?” the same silky voice as before asks.

You don’t have to see him to know who it is but you turn around anyway, meeting his visor.

“I’m fine… But thank you for checking on me,” you say before glancing at the view of Coruscant again. Your hands grip the cool metal railing and the wind causes goosebumps to prick your skin.

“...Who are you?” you ask, still not looking at him.

“I was hired as security for the event,” he says, not saying who he really is.

“I see…”

You sense him standing next to you at the railing, matching the same pose you’re making, his gloved hand so dangerously close to yours.

“Thanks for stepping in back there,�� you say, turning your head and looking at him. Your eyes are always drawn to his visor. It should be unsettling looking at something without a discernible face. And yet all it does is intrigue you.

“He was disrespecting you.”

“He tends to do that.”

“You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“I’m sure you deal with much worse… Are you always doing security?”

“I’m a bounty hunter,” he says, turning to face you.

“A bounty hunter?” you ask, facing him too, your eyes widening.

“Mhm.”

You’re not sure why… but that excites you. It’s a contrast from your boring day-to-day routine of paperwork and meetings– a life on your own, living by no one’s rules.

“Tell me more about that.”

He gestures to a bench in the center of the balcony where you follow him, sitting side by side, thighs touching ever so slightly. You listen to him recount fascinating stories, ones where he’s brave and slaying countless people left and right. But he also tells you a story about the time he was bested by a blurgg. He makes you laugh. And surprisingly he laughs, too.

Maker, his laugh.

You’ve only just met him yet his laugh is like music to your ears. The conversation is so natural, so easygoing. You feel like you can be yourself around him. You hope he feels the same way about you. Your mind starts to wander… What does he look like underneath the helmet?

“Can I tell you something?” you say.

“What?”

“I wish I could kiss you.”

“...Really?”

“But you can’t take off the helmet.”

“You’re right. It’s a part of my creed.”

He pauses for a moment before saying, “Let me show you other things I can do.”

He rises from the bench and extends his hand out to you. You take it, interlocking your fingers with his as he leads you back inside. He pushes through crowds of people, leading you down a hallway and into a refresher.

He locks the door and turns to face you, looking you up and down as he walks closer to you. You take a step back and feel your back touch the sink. His hands ghost your waist and his helmet cocks to the side.

“Is this okay?”

“More than okay,” you breathe out.

His hands slide up your waist, caressing the outline of your breasts.

“I may not be able to kiss you… But I can show you a good time.”

He spins you around so you’re facing the mirror. Excitement pools between your legs as you watch him hike up your dress. Not once did you think you’d be having sex in this dress, let alone in the refresher at the gala.

He leans forward and whispers in your ear, “Bend over for me, cyar’ika.”

You follow his instructions, internally wondering what the nickname means.

“No underwear?” he asks once your lower half is fully exposed, “Naughty girl.”

You giggle and rest against the sink, gripping the ceramic as he tugs off his glove. He lifts his helmet for a split second, just barely enough to expose his mouth. You close your eyes out of respect and hear him spit in his hand. Once you feel his fingers tease your entrance you open your eyes. His helmet is secured on his head and his body leans over yours, a finger sliding inside you slowly. A small gasp escapes your lips. He barely gives you any time to warm up to one finger before sliding in the second. Not that you’re complaining. He curls his fingers against your walls, pushing against your g-spot. Your moans fill the refresher, gradually getting louder and louder as he brings you closer to the edge.

“Shhh,” he whispers in your ear, “Be quiet, mesh’la. There are people in the hallway.”

Another nickname.

You bite your lip and meet his visor in the reflection of the mirror, doing your best to not make too much noise. He pulls your first orgasm from you, knees trembling beneath you as you grip the sink. You bite your lip harder and try to be quiet but it’s hard. It’s too hard when he’s making you feel this good. He’s so skilled with just his fingers but you suppose it makes sense given the helmet.

Once you’re done coming he pulls his fingers from you, one hand holding your hip as the other slathers his cock with the wetness you just produced. He leans forward again and whispers, “Got so wet for me, cyar’ika. I’m not even done with you yet,” just as he thrust his cock into you.

A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips. He’s large, splitting you apart. If it weren’t for the sink holding you up your knees would surely give out. Your entire body trembles with pleasure and he hasn’t even moved inside you yet.

You bite your lip again as he draws his hips back, slamming into you swiftly. It’s too hard to be quiet. A whimper forces its way out of your throat. And then again as he thrusts into you a second time. Staying quiet is impossible as he’s railing you. You watch him in the reflection, stone-cold visor staring back at you as you’re reduced to a shivering mess beneath him. Yet he remains his composure, his pace never faltering.

You wonder what his cock looks like; a clue as to what the rest of him looks like. He wasn’t kidding when he said he could show you all the other things he can do. His cock hits the most perfect angles inside you. And the refresher is not only filled with your moans but also the wet squelching sounds of your cunt.

Your walls tense up in anticipation of a release. And though your second orgasm hasn’t happened yet you know this one is going to be bigger than the last, thanks to his impressive size. But aside from the sheer size of his cock he knows how to use it. He knows how to melt you into a puddle, putty in his hands as you’re brought to the edge of orgasm.

With one last thrust of his hips, you’re coming around his cock. You’re fully whining and moaning now, bordering on screaming. For a moment you forget you’re in a public refresher, completely blissed out. He doesn’t remind you to keep quiet this time, watching your face in the mirror as you cum.

“Good girl,” he praises, slapping your ass with his bare hand. You let out another small gasp but it’s cut off by a moan of pleasure. He continues thrusting into you through your high, prolonging it even further. Stars dance in your vision and there’s a strange haze around Mando in the reflection. This…. This is euphoria. All from a man you just met tonight.

He hangs on until you’re done coming, pulling out of you right before he comes. He paints your ass with his release, a modulated groan slipping out from under the helmet. You wish you could see his face as he cums. You can only imagine what he looks like, eyes closed and mouth open as cum leaks from his cock.

Once he’s done he quickly reaches for a towel, cleaning up the mess on your ass. He tosses it in the trash and helps you stand upright as you smooth down the skirt of your dress.

“That was incredible,” you breathe out, voice still high-pitched from your two climaxes tonight.

He grabs your hand, thumb rubbing against yours. You glance down at his bare hand and you’re greeted with tan skin. You can’t help but wonder about him, more of his story, more of what he looks like. You could’ve stayed on the balcony and talked with him for hours. But you’re not complaining about what just happened either.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, cyar’ika,” he says.

But before either of you can ask what that and the other nickname means, there’s a knock on the door.

“Mando? Are you in there? You’re needed on the dance floor. There’s been an incident,” a man’s voice says.

“I’m sorry…” he says, putting his cock away and bending down to grab his other glove, “I’ll find you after?”

“I’m okay! Go do your job,” you tell him.

He lingers for a moment, looking at you one last time before leaving the refresher and meeting whoever is in the hallway. You hang back for a moment until they’re both gone.

You glance at yourself in the mirror, ensuring you’re presentable before returning to the gala. There’s a bunch of commotion and groups of people are being ushered out. It must’ve ended early due to whatever incident happened on the dance floor. It’s all so overwhelming, loud noises and bustling crowds of people.

You spot Mando, talking to none other than Senator Xiono and another small group of people. You roll your eyes. Mon Mothma’s going to have to reprimand him. You figure you’ll just wait around until Mando’s done but another security guard comes up behind you and shouts.

“Everyone out! Party’s over!” he shouts, ushering you out with the sea of people. You open your mouth to protest but he shouts, “Let’s go! Get a move on!”

You glance over your shoulder at Mando, who’s still talking to Senator Xiono. His hands are on his hips as Senator Xiono argues with him. Mon Mothma’s there too now. It looks like he’ll be a while much to your dismay.

You follow the crowd outside, trying to wait on the platform for Mando but yet again security guards are ushering people into speeders. It isn’t until a guard practically shoves you into one that you accept your fate. You’re leaving whether you like it or not.

You stare at the tapestry of stars above you, replaying the night’s events. You were dreading coming to this event and here you are leaving… enchanted; wonderstruck. As the speeder takes you back to your hotel you wonder to yourself…

When will you see him again? Is he promised to someone else? Is there some other woman waiting on him somewhere else in the Galaxy? What did those nicknames mean?

The walk to your room is spent with your cheeks on fire, staring at the floor smiling, giddy like a little kid. Tonight was magical, flawless up until you were ripped away from each other too soon.

There’s one thing for certain, you were enchanted to meet him.

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