FREE THE ANIMAL - A Dune/Feyd Rautha Story
New chapter titled Heat.
[trigger warnings: violence, gore, implied abuse, self-harm content, SMUT] prisoner/master relationship, forced proximity, trauma, coping, dissociation, romance through broken bonds, attachment issues, sexual content,
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
I did not want this life. This place, this fucking title that lorded over me like a reminder of submission rather than the freedom it implied. I despised it all.
Feyd, most of all.
It was he that pushed me into this. He used me as a trophy, no better than his harem.
My feet stomped over to the bathing room, past an oversized wardrobe not filled a quarter of its available space, and noticed a flick of silver upon the dresser.
Feyd’s stupid ring.
It was two bands of silvery metal with an inky black of the coal of his home world. The pollution pumped into its dark air from burning the dark rock.
Next time I saw him, I’d return it.
Not his ring was mine, same as the title of his lady.
Prisoner was all that I was. Prisoner on its last moments. That was all I was.
Nothing more.
The time alone helped chill the tempers that had risen. Arrakis was a hot planet. It made it all the easier to flare to anger, I guess.
A servant entered the chambers. Over their head was wrapped a cotton shawl with a robe-like dress covering them down to the floor. Their eyes were warm brown, layered with lines deep-set in their face. I wrapped my arms tight against my chest.
They did come bearing a treat: a steaming golden tea kettle and a pair of ripe mangos larger than my fist.
“Greetings, Lady.”
“Please,” I said swiftly. “Do not call me lady.”
“It is royal decree, yes?”
The tray was placed at a stone table. The scent of tea leaves filled the air with its woody aroma.
“Yes, but na-Baron forgets that I do not prefer to be addressed so highly.” Then I thought longer. “Actually, I do not need any wait staff at all. I can serve my own needs. My station is so low that a mouse would rank higher than I.”
The servant held the sleeves of their robe away as they poured the tea into its cup. “Na-Baron’s knives don’t seem sharp to you?”
I tilted my head.
“I only ask because anyone caught against his say will be faced with the opposite realization at the end.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works















