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White for poison, black for purity.
It is the pure blade that caresses Paul's skin. Feyd-Rautha draws the point along Paul's cheek so lightly that it very nearly tickles. When he reaches Paul's chin, he pauses to brush away the shorn vellus hair along Paul's face, examining it with mild interest.
"Feyd-Rautha," Paul says.
The Harkonnen replies, "Hush. Captives don't speak without being spoken to." He holds his hand upright, his palm flat, and purses his full lips to blow away the bits of Paul's hair that had collected on his fingers. All the while, his other hand holds the blade at Paul's jugular.
Feyd-Rautha traces a steady line across his throat. When Paul swallows, he notices that Feyd-Rautha mirrors the movement, his own Adam's apple bobbing, his gaze heavy and dark.
Paul's wrists are tied above his head, so he can do nothing when Feyd-Rautha takes the blade to his clothing. Captives are at the mercy of their captors. Still, he hisses in displeasure as each layer of clothing is sliced through and peeled away by confident, steady hands. First, his uniform jacket, then his tunic, then his pants—his belt having been removed earlier to bind his wrists—and then, when Feyd-Rautha reaches his underclothes, Paul shifts to hide himself.
The blade presses into his side, just sharp enough for him to feel the warning there. "Know your place," says Feyd-Rautha.
His place! Underneath Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's admiring gaze! Slowly, Paul lowers his legs, spreads them, and does not flinch when the knife comes between his skin and the fabric, does not tear his eyes away from Feyd-Rautha as the Harkonnen tears the last strip of clothing from him.
Feyd-Rautha places his palm on Paul's chest, flexes his fingers, as though to squeeze the beating heart beneath his ribs. Down, down, slowly down his hand drifts, not lazily but with the careful intent of a scholar, noting every freckle, every mole, every scar. Paul's stomach flutter at Feyd-Rautha's light touch—he's ticklish.
The Harkonnen smirks. "Sensitive," he says, then drags his hand lower, to trail his fingers along Paul's cock. The smirk deepens as Paul's cock hardens under his touch. "You blush so prettily there as well," drawls Feyd-Rautha. His other hand still grips the knife. The weapon has not moved; it is still a hairsbreadth away from Paul's side, a constant, glinting threat.
Paul exhales. Such a display of vulnerability is anathema to him—but at the same time it fills him to the brim with heat to be made vulnerable—to be at someone else's mercy, to have someone else in control of his fate. A soft whine leaves him as Feyd-Rautha strokes his cock. It should be shameful, but Feyd-Rautha's expression holds no mockery. His full lips are parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he pumps Paul's cock faster, as Paul writhes on the bed, tugging at the belt that binds his wrists.
If he came, there would be no embarrassment, no indignity—because it would not be his fault—it is Feyd-Rautha who is in control here—
But then, Paul feels a slight sting at his side. He glances down. Feyd-Rautha's excitement has either reached the point of distraction or the point where his own want overrode Paul's command: the edge of the knife has licked at Paul's skin, leaving a short, thin line of blood beading along his stomach.
Feyd-Rautha's eyes widen—in want, in arousal—and in dismay at Paul's disapproving expression. "Paul," he says. "Wait—"
To lose control is to give it up. Paul angles his hands and twists his wrists in such a way that he slips free of the belt. He says, primly, "We had an agreement, Feyd-Rautha. I gave you permission to use that knife—so long as you did not wound me."
"What wound? No blood has been spilled!" And to make it so, Feyd-Rautha casts the knife to the floor and bows his head, laving at the cut, his tongue hot and wet on Paul's belly. It tickles. Each insistent, desperate brush of Feyd-Rautha's tongue has Paul laughing aloud.
The sound seems to hearten Feyd-Rautha. He grins, black teeth shining like a slice of the night, tentative, hopeful—and suddenly he's the vulnerable one and Paul is the one in control. "You haven't finished," says Feyd-Rautha, hand creeping closer to Paul's cock.
"I don't need to," Paul replies. This is true. He derives satisfaction from various sexual outlets; physical stimulation is pleasurable, but so to is the hold he has over Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. The heir of House Harkonnen is not used to being told no, to interacting with someone with the status and position to deny him. Paul is his equal in the Landsraad, is the object of his desire, and when he refuses Feyd-Rautha, the na-Baron becomes wide-eyed, pleading, and extraordinarily hard.
Denial, it seems, is one of Feyd-Rautha's other outlets.
Paul turns his head, makes a show of stretching his limbs as he studiously ignores Feyd-Rautha's touch. Vulnerability is a state of being. His nakedness means nothing if he has no reaction to it.
Feyd-Rautha argues, "But we aren't done."
"I believe I am," is Paul's arch response. "But I see that you're still excited." He raises his leg to press his foot against Feyd-Rautha's arousal, feels the wet fabric, stained with precum, on his sole. "I suppose I should see to that—even though you cut me."
The na-Baron shivers. He grips Paul's ankle, shifts his hips to rub himself on Paul's foot. "I didn't," he says, pouting and petulant.
"You mean it wasn't intentional?" Paul slides his own hand down his neck, his chest, to his stomach, spreading his index and middle finger to border the cut. It is still red, but not bleeding. He asks, "Does that mean the na-Baron can't handle a weapon?"
It's a pretty thing when Feyd-Rautha flushes, cheeks pink, blue eyes bright with anger, full lips curled into a snarl. "Don't mock me," he hisses.
With a smile, Paul presses harder against Feyd-Rautha's groin and says, "Then tell me the truth—you did it on purpose."
Feyd-Rautha groans, his pale lashes fluttering. "I marked you," he admits, his voice a rasp. "So that you think of me when you brush your fingers over it. So that when you feel the broken skin and the sting of it you remember my blade."
"It will heal," Paul says.
"I could mark you all over again," replies Feyd-Rautha. He licks his lips. "Harder, next time. Deeper. Perhaps then it will scar. If you permit me."
Pain doesn't appeal to Paul. It does appeal to Feyd-Rautha—yet another sexual outlet. But Paul can handle pain; it is another state of being, momentary, transient. Pain ends, eventually. One wound, and then Feyd-Rautha will be both sated and in Paul's debt, for Paul will have given him something that he's craved for so long:
Possession.
What would it be like to belong to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen? Like this, perhaps. This ebb and flow, control passing back and forth between them. To be Feyd-Rautha's might be the same as Feyd-Rautha being his.
He beckons Feyd-Rautha closer with a crook of his finger. The na-Baron of House Harkonnen crawls to him, over him, until the are face-to-face, nose-to-nose. Paul strokes the back of Feyd-Rautha's bare head, nails scraping at his scalp as he murmurs, "Perhaps, one day, I will allow it. But you won't use a knife, Feyd-Rautha. You will use your teeth."
Feyd-Rautha's breath is hot on his face. "When?" he asks. "When, Paul?"
"When you behave yourself well enough to deserve such a reward," Paul tells him.
In response, he receives a low moan, and Feyd-Rautha's mouth at his neck, teeth bared but not biting.