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Paul takes a sparing sip from his literjon before stowing it away in his fremkit. The container is still heavy with water, which he is grateful for – his parched mouth is thankful for the fluid, but he knows he will need to drink again soon. There is a long stretch of the desert in front of them before they reach the sietch. Paul hopes they’ll be at their destination just before the sun becomes harshest.
Half a pace behind him, Feyd-Rautha drinks too. He has been less conservative with his water ration; Paul anticipates that it is likely already half-empty. Though their excursion isn’t long enough to warrant any genuine concern, Paul still feels the press of irritation at the front of his skull, which will probably later manifest as a splitting headache.
Feyd, sheltered as he has been thus far in the walls of Arrakeen, has not had much reason to learn water discipline. His flesh is still full and healthy – water-fat, the Fremen call him scathingly. It is, admittedly, something Paul enjoys seeing on him – he likes the decadent swell of his muscles, how he looks as though he has been untouched by the harshness of the planet that holds him captive. It lends a sort of endearing innocence to Feyd-Rautha, which is something he had never expected to see in the man.
Now, though, they make their first joint excursion to Sietch Tabr, and Paul feels a stab of apprehension for how Feyd might fare on their journey.
Back in the barracks of Arrakeen, before they’d boarded the thopter that would take them to the edge of the Shield Wall, Paul had helped him into his stillsuit, checking his ankles and testing the straps around his chest and shoulders. It had been a competent first effort at dressing himself, Paul had thought, especially as Feyd had seemed none too pleased at the idea of wearing the suit in the first place; it was only due to Paul’s assurances that there was no other way he’d survive the full length of their excursion that he’d agreed to wear it. The ultimatum was this: Feyd wears the suit, or Feyd stays behind.
He'd opted to push his pride aside and don the stillsuit. Perhaps that would warrant a small reward, later.
Another sip from the literjon. Paul finds himself looking back at Feyd-Rautha, frowning. As he tips his head back to drink, the cover Paul had fastened over his head slips, and his pale skull is bared to the sun. In a flash, Paul steps back and grabs his hood, yanking it back over Feyd’s head so quickly that Feyd splutters on his water.
“Careful with that,” he chastises. Feyd narrows his eyes at him, tucking his literjon away. “Even at this time of day, just a few moments in the sun is enough to do irreparable damage to your skin. You don’t have hair to protect your scalp like I do.”
“Your concern is noted,” Feyd growls back.
“And you need to be more careful with your water rations. If you drink it all, then you’ll have only your stillsuit’s supply to rely on. And in order to drink it, you’ll need to give water to your suit first.”
Feyd’s whole face wrinkles at that, turning away from Paul to scowl at the sand under their feet. “Disgusting,” he says. “You can’t think I’ll be drinking my own sweat out of this wretched thing.”
“You’ll do what you have to in order to survive,” Paul tells him. He thinks to himself, if he’s that caught up on the sweat, God knows what he’ll think of what else the suit recycles.
They fall into step alongside each other again, quickly approaching what Paul knows to be worm territory. With a grimace, Paul thinks about how much fun it will be to teach Feyd to sand-walk.
-
Soon after, the sun is creeping higher, and Feyd is draining the last drops of his literjon as they rest atop a dune. With an irritated grunt, he shoves the empty cannister aside, casting his eyes instead to Paul, who is inspecting a paracompass. Before Feyd can even open his mouth to speak, Paul stops him.
“Yes, I still have water. No, you can’t have any. You’ll have to use your suit,” he says plainly.
Feyd scoffs. “Such is the generosity of the great Mahdi.” He leans in closer, looking at the paracompass. “How far are we?”
“We’re making good time,” Paul explains. “If we carry on now, we’ll get there before we reach peak heat.”
“Thank god,” Feyd says, and there’s a ragged note of relief in his face that Paul finds curious. Is he that thirsty?
And so they continue, shifting their legs carefully through the sand, until from the peak of a dune Paul spies the rocky outcrop that he recognises as Sietch Tabr. He stills Feyd a moment with his hand and points into the distance. “That’s the sietch. We’re close.”
Feyd nods. Paul looks at him and notices an odd tick in his jaw, like he’s concentrating on something. There’s little emotion showing on his face, though Paul thinks he can detect a small, well-hidden flicker of agitation. Glancing down as they set off again, Paul can see Feyd’s sand-walking has taken on an odd, stilted quality, so different from the usual fluid sweep of his body in movement. It’s like he’s trying to avoid using his legs too much.
Paul takes a second to wonder what the cause of that might be before they press onwards.
-
Thankfully, due to Feyd’s impatience and their palpable exhaustion, the group of Fremen that had gathered to receive them at the sietch did not keep them long before allowing them to retire to Paul’s yali. As they walk together through the winding, mercifully cool tunnels, Paul makes note of Feyd’s fists clenching and unclenching, his hurried, tight stride, the way he chews restlessly at his lip – it’s uncharacteristic of him, and Paul is eager to get him behind closed doors so he can find out what the issue is.
As soon as they’re alone, Paul draws the curtain across the doorway, turns to Feyd to interrogate him, and finds him desperately fumbling with the straps at the waist of his stillsuit.
“What are you doing?” he asks him, brow furrowed.
“I need this thing off,” Feyd snarls, his gloved hands slipping over the latches. “Get it off me – and show me to the nearest bathroom.”
“Bathroom?” says Paul, incredulous. “Are you stupid? There are no bathrooms here. Is that why you’ve been so moody? Because you need to piss?”
“Yes, obviously!” snaps Feyd.
Paul stands in front of him, grabbing his wrist to stop him from unlatching part of his suit. “You’re ridiculous. You’re supposed to go in your suit, so that you can drink the water later – ”
“You’re truly insane if you think I’m doing that,” interrupts Feyd. “You might not have an issue with drinking your own filth like these rats do, but I am above that.”
“You’re being pathetic. No one is above that,” says Paul, and when Feyd sneers at him, he decides then and there that he won’t tolerate this temper tantrum even a second longer. He twists Feyd’s arm in his grasp and swings him around so that Feyd’s back is pressed to Paul’s chest, one arm trapped uselessly between them. Normally, Feyd would have been able to predict and defend against the manoeuvre, but Paul suspects most of his mental faculties are being focused solely on not pissing himself. Feyd can only hiss and fight back weakly, but his entire body stills when Paul settles his free hand below Feyd’s abdomen.
They stand together, deathly silent. Feyd makes no attempt to move – Paul can feel his breath quickening against him, panicking like a rodent in a trap. Experimentally, Paul presses down, applying just a small amount of pressure to Feyd’s bladder, and Feyd gasps sharply.
“Don’t,” he growls, his voice low, dangerous. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking – ”
“Piss,” Paul commands him.
Feyd bares his teeth, twisting his arm fruitlessly, and Paul feels the way he’s trembling, sees the desperation edging onto his face. “Don’t do this,” he chokes, and it sounds almost like he’s begging. Paul feels a little twinge of – something. Don’t examine that, he thinks to himself.
“Piss into your suit, or I’ll make you,” says Paul. “You don’t have a choice, Feyd. Stop being so stubborn and do it.”
He presses down, harder, and Feyd barks, pressing his thighs together desperately and sagging against Paul’s hold. Paul takes curious note of the press of their bodies against one another, the nudge of Feyd’s backside against his own groin. He twitches. Don’t think like that, he chastises himself. You’re just teaching him a lesson. Don’t overcomplicate things. A bead of sweat of exertion rolls down Feyd’s face – another thing, Paul hopes through his distracted haze, that the suit will capture.
“No, no, no,” Feyd stammers, squirming, his eyes squeezed tightly shut; Paul is hit by a wave of frustration so powerful that he can’t stop himself from pushing as hard as he can at Feyd’s bladder and snapping, “For goodness’ sake – just PISS YOURSELF.”
And the Voice immediately takes hold, makes the traitorous muscles of Feyd’s pelvic floor immediately relax, and in the utter silence of the room Paul can hear the quiet, streaming sound of Feyd relieving himself in his stillsuit. Paul lets go of him and his knees buckle – as he drops to the floor, Paul looks down and watches him.
The look on his face is one of reluctant ecstasy; his bare brows are drawn together, eyes hazy from the hold of the Voice, his mouth hanging open. Paul thinks it almost reminiscent of orgasmic pleasure. It must feel good for Feyd, relieving himself after hours of holding in an entire literjon worth of water.
After a second, Feyd seems to come back to his senses, and Paul watches the panic dawn on his face as he realises both what he’s doing and that he’s too far gone to stop it. He is forced to kneel and hang his head as he pisses himself empty, hiding his face from Paul’s burning eyes. Captivated, Paul can only let it happen, allow himself to admire the hot flush on Feyd’s face, the way he guards his crotch with his hand as if Paul can see his shame.
When it seems like he’s finally done, Paul steps into his space and grabs Feyd’s head, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it,” he says patronisingly. Feyd glares at him, but it’s weak – he looks defeated in a way that Paul has seldom seen him before. He isn’t sure he likes to admit what it does to him.
“Just because my piss is in the suit doesn’t mean I’ll drink it,” Feyd retorts sulkily.
“You’ll drink whatever’s there to drink, when you get thirsty enough,” says Paul.
-
Months later, Paul thinks back on it fondly. Feyd’s shame, his disgust, the quiet, seething resentment he’d fixed Paul with for the days that followed – all of it, in hindsight, was rather funny, and extremely endearing. He had realised then that he very much enjoys the sight of Feyd’s pout, as well as his vehement denial that that was what he was doing when Paul had pointed it out.
Though Paul thinks he’d have been quite happy for another excuse to literally squeeze the piss out of Feyd, the little skirmish at Sietch Tabr seemed to have humbled him somewhat. Their return trip had been without incident; a few hours into their walk, Paul had heard the dry, ragged breaths tearing from his company’s throat, and seen the crack of his normally lush lips, and suggested Feyd drink from his suit with perhaps a gentler tone than he would have normally used. At first, Feyd had refused, but when Paul stepped in and suggestively lifted the water tube from the clip at Feyd’s neck, he had taken it reluctantly between his lips.
For a moment, Paul had stood with him, eyes keen, waiting for him to drink and almost doubting he would – but then, Feyd’s cheeks had hollowed minutely in the tell-tale sign of a suck, and water had flooded from his suit, through the tube, and into his mouth. Sweat and piss, reclaimed from his body. Paul hadn’t been sure why, at the time, but his body had flushed through with an odd sense of pride and relief and – something. That same odd something as before.
“See?” he’d said, dropping the tube and patting Feyd’s shoulder, still adopting a softer affect. “Doesn’t that feel better?”
Feyd’s face had pinched, cast into shadow by the canopy of his hood, though Paul had seen his tongue dart out to wet his lips and thought, he’ll get there.
-
Feyd-Rautha is permitted to join Paul for several more desert expeditions before Paul assesses that he’s ready for something more strenuous. Official business calls him to a southern sietch, closer to the equator of Arrakis – it requires a much more treacherous journey than the one to Sietch Tabr that they’ve done several times together by now. When Paul proposes the excursion to Feyd, he’s almost surprised by the fervour with which he agrees; Feyd is none too fond of the desert, but perhaps he is even less fond of the idea of being away from Paul’s side for several days.
At this point, Feyd is able to suit up all by himself. Paul almost misses the reliance Feyd used to have on him – he always used to have to adjust several straps, check Feyd’s boots, untwist a kink in his watertube, but he’s more self-reliant now. It is a sign of the desert making its claim over him; he has even lost some of that water-fatness that Paul had been so fond of.
The plan is as follows: once past the shield wall, they travel as far south as they can by worm (and that certainly had been interesting – Paul had not been sure how Feyd would enjoy his inaugural sandworm ride, but he had clung to Paul with delight the whole time, and when Paul had glanced back at him through the clouds of sand rushing past them whip-fast, Feyd’s face had been positively alive with adrenaline) before dismounting as they draw near a large expanse of bedrock. Once out of worm territory, Paul estimates that the rest of their journey will take perhaps two days on foot. As the heat becomes oppressive, Paul finds an appropriate place for them to stop and set up a stilltent. They’ll wake after sunset, and continue on foot until they reach the southern sietch by the close of the second day.
It is in the stilltent Paul now finds himself, peeling out of his suit after the first day of travel to prepare for sleep. The tent should do well enough at capturing moisture while they rest after a long day’s walk – Paul elects to change into softer, looser sleeping clothes purely for the sake of comfort, and rubs gratefully at the insides of his thighs once he’s changed, soothing a slight chafe from the stillsuit. Feyd lounges across a sleeping pod, in his own thin clothes. Paul knows he prefers to sleep shirtless, but won’t allow it while they share a tent tonight – he’s certain Feyd would sleep totally nude if Paul permitted it.
They share some of their food rations and drink sparingly. In the eerie quiet of the artificial darkness illuminated only by the sickly green of the glowtab, with the sound of only the sand outside shifting against the lining of the tent, they strike up conversation.
“This tent collects water too?” asks Feyd. He tests his hand against the airtight tissue of the tent wall. “Like the suit?”
Paul nods. “It filters the moisture from the air, as well as what we produce from respiration and perspiration. You’ll be surprised at how much it collects.”
“And we’ll drink it?”
“Yes. You can use the catchpockets to replenish your literjon tomorrow before we set out. That’s what I’ll do.”
Feyd’s eyes are wide, a look of mischief that Paul isn’t certain he likes peeling over his face.
“What’s that for?” he demands.
“You’ll be drinking my fluids,” Feyd says. Paul sees the glint of his black teeth as he grins, and takes a moment to be slightly appalled. It’s difficult to tell, sometimes, when he is being obscene for the sake of trying to get a rise out of Paul, or when he’s being genuine. Feyd finds fascination in many grotesque things, Paul has noticed – why would this be any different?
He does well to scrub the image of drinking Feyd’s sweat from his literjon out of his mind before responding.
“It’s not a first for me to drink someone else’s water. Where do you think the water we get from the sietches comes from?”
“Yes, but that’s a mixture of thousands and thousands, isn’t it?” Feyd goads him. “This will be just ours. Our sweat, our breath – isn’t that interesting?”
And his hand creeps out, reaching for Paul’s wrist close by. Paul doesn’t know whether to let him.
They’ve had what Paul refers to in his mind as a few moments as of late. Feyd has been testing the waters between them, finding out how far he can encroach; often, Paul doesn’t know if he’s looking for a fight, or a reprimand, or something else entirely, but he’s consistent, and Paul fears that it’s wearing him down. Sooner or later, things will come to a head. Sooner or later, Feyd will get what he wants – and Paul isn’t sure yet what that is.
Feyd’s fingers close around Paul’s wrist. Paul lets him.
“Must be something you’ve spent some time thinking about,” Paul breathes.
“Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve spent enough time drinking my own fluids out here in this wretched desert that the idea of drinking someone else’s is more intriguing.” Feyd leans in, and Paul instinctively tilts his body back, keeping distance between them. His shirt rides up slightly as his torso stretches, and Feyd’s eagle-sharp eyes don’t miss the inch of skin that’s revealed by it; his eyes alight on Paul’s abdomen, on the barely-there raised mound of flesh over his pelvis. Paul, horrified, realises that it’s been a while since he’s gone. His stillsuit is tucked safely in the corner. Relieving himself against the wall of the tent and letting it collect the fluid would be an option, but not right now, with Feyd’s eyes piercing through him, with that hand circling his wrist.
“Where’s this obsession with fluids come from?” Paul asks him.
Feyd, his face totally alien in the green light of the stilltent, turns his face down, unabashedly staring at Paul’s abdomen. “I’m thirsty,” he murmurs.
“You’ve still half a literjon of water,” says Paul. He keeps his voice extremely careful. He knows he would be a fool to ignore the way Feyd’s eyes hold on the gentle swell just below his navel. “If you’re thirsty, drink.”
“Oh? That sounds unlike you. Weren’t you always telling me to be better at conserving fluids?”
Paul isn’t sure what to make of the predatory look on Feyd’s face. He’s seen this before, many times – usually, a split second before Feyd whips his knife across someone’s throat. It’s the look of a beast about to crush something between its jaws.
Absolutely not, thinks Paul. He won’t be the prey. There’s no universe in which Paul lays down and lets Feyd gore him. And so, delicately, he turns his wrist out of Feyd’s grasp, begins to wrestle whatever this is back to his own side.
“Yes, and you’ve always been terrible at it,” he retorts calmly. There’s a deliberate slip of condescension there, one that never fails to make Feyd’s eyes sharpen; hidden in his tone is the promise of something that Feyd craves. All Paul has to do is manoeuvre them into the right positions. “Always wheedling me to let you drink, always wasting my water because you’ve been too careless with your own – even now, that’s what you’re after, isn’t it? My water?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” says Feyd, meeting Paul’s eyes, perfectly neutral, and there is his tell – he deadpans when he lies. As if he thinks it will stop Paul from seeing right through him.
“You know exactly what I mean. I’ve seen how you’re staring.”
And Feyd’s eyes slide back, fixing on that part of Paul – water-fat – and Paul even sees his tongue start to poke between his lips before he hastily tucks it back.
Paul’s heart is pounding. There’s that same something that he’d felt before, months ago, when he’d forced Feyd to relieve himself back in his yali, when he’d heard the rush of liquid through his suit, when he’d seen the wretched look of surrender take over his face; he’s ready to see that surrender again, refuses to give him what he wants until Feyd shows it to him.
“I don’t think you understand exactly what you’re asking for,” Paul says to him. He slowly rises up on his knees, enjoys the way Feyd watches him. “Water is sacred here. To use it so frivolously is considered blasphemous. And that’s to say nothing of my water – do you really think you’re deserving of something so precious?”
Feyd snorts at that, derisive. Even so, his body is beginning to tremble with a powerful want. “So self-important. Piss is piss, Atreides, no matter who it comes from.”
“Is that so? So when we get to the sietch, you’ll fall at the feet of the first common Fremen you see and you’ll beg for their piss too, will you?” Paul has slipped two fingers under the waistband of his sleep trousers, and Feyd is watching them, entranced by the slip of Paul’s skin, by the part of him that holds what he’s wanting. He begins to inch down his sleep trousers.
“There’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever let that rat piss anywhere near me,” Feyd growls.
“So you admit it?” says Paul. His head is rushing as he exposes more and more of his pelvis for his captive audience. “My water is different to the water of others. There are millions on this planet who would clamour for the chance to drink it. They’d lick my spit from the sand. They’d wring the sweat from my clothes. They’d drink my piss like communion wine if I allowed it. What makes you think – you, Feyd-Rautha, worth no more than an insect under my heel – what makes you think you deserve the gift of my water?”
Paul sees Feyd’s face falter, and he devours the tiny expression. Humiliation and lust in equal measure cloud him. Paul sees his tongue work against this inside of his cheek, the way it does when he’s frustrated or preoccupied; right now, Paul thinks Feyd might be both.
He works his trousers lower and lets a few strands of the thatch of his pubic hair peek out over the top of his waistband. Feyd’s breath comes in a long, shuddering gasp, and he’s leaning forward, bracing himself on his hands, his mouth loose and open with an unspoken need. Paul has to commend him – his entire body betrays him, wrought with desire, but he’s being remarkably restrained. It’s with a jolt that he realises Feyd is waiting for permission.
“Nothing to say to that? You know you don’t deserve it, don’t you,” Paul patronises. He strokes himself, soft fingertips over his own stomach, letting the taut skin twitch and drinking in how ardently Feyd’s eyes follow the movement.
And then he looks up, fixes Paul with a burning gaze that could only be described as defiant. “Give it to me anyway,” he rasps. “Make me deserving of it.”
Shocked, Paul lets out a scoff. “You think you’re entitled to make demands of me? Have you forgotten where you are, Feyd-Rautha? Have you forgotten who owns you?” His hand finds the back of Feyd’s head, and he grabs the bare skin there and yanks him into a kneel as Paul stands, the curls at the crown of his head brushing against the roof of the stilltent. Feyd’s face is level with the swollen curve of Paul’s abdomen, and Paul has to fight the urge to bury himself in that slack, stupid mouth, to relieve the mounting pressure that lies between the both of them and inside him –
“You own me,” says Feyd, voice low and harsh, his face so full of dark rapture that it sends Paul breathless. “God – you ruin me. Dirty me with yourself, I beg you, I need it - ”
“You need whatever I decide to give you,” Paul interrupts. He presses forward into Feyd’s face, rubbing his soft cock against him through his clothing, and Feyd takes a deep, heady breath. Smell the desert on me, Paul thinks, as he grinds into Feyd’s face.
He can’t let himself get hard. It will make what is about to happen much more difficult.
So Paul closes his eyes, clears his head (as best as he can) – remembering his mother’s Prana-Bindu training, he focuses on diverting his blood away from his groin, on keeping his heartbeat steady. It’s a matter of seconds before he’s calm enough to look back down at Feyd, mouthing sadly at the lump of Paul’s dick through his sleeping clothes.
“Take it out,” he orders Feyd.
Thick, blunt fingers scrabble at his hips to draw his trousers low enough, and Feyd carefully wrests Paul from the confines of his clothes; the lax cock is held reverently in his palm. Feyd looks at it like it holds everything he ever wants in the world.
“Now,” says Paul. “Ask for it.”
Feyd’s face contorts as though he’s in pain, and his breath ghosts hot and wet over Paul’s cock as he groans, “Please, baptise me.”
Oh, fuck, says a small voice in Paul’s head, and he has to slap Feyd’s hand away from his cock and takes it in his own to stay in control of himself; Feyd’s head tilts back, his mouth falling open, tongue resting over his plump lower lip ready to accept the offering. Paul wipes the tip of his cock over that tongue, and Feyd curls it around him, trying to sucker him in.
“You better not waste a drop,” Paul tells him, and then, too easily, the liquid comes.
The flow is weak, only trickling at first. When the first few droplets hit Feyd’s tongue he closes his eyes and whines rapturously. Paul recalls what he’d said just a few minutes ago – I’m thirsty.
Feyd’s hands are still smothering Paul’s hips, and Paul feels him tremble as the pace picks up. The dribbles become a steady, strong stream of urine, and Feyd leans in to catch it, letting it fill him up – his piss is hot and amber from dehydration, and the colour is impossibly dark in the gape of Feyd’s mouth, already threatening to spill over. Paul sees his throat bob, sees him try to swallow what he’s been given before accepting more, but he can’t keep up – rivulets of the liquid start to run from the corners of his mouth, and he grunts, pulling back slightly, but Paul doesn’t allow it.
His grip firm at the nape of Feyd’s neck, he forces him closer, forces his cock inside, and hears Feyd gasp and choke. Piss streams down his chin, soaking into his thin shirt and plastering it to his front. It’s a treat to see him so affected – smug, aggressive Feyd, trembling at Paul’s feet and sucking down his piss like it’s what he was born to do.
“You begged for this – don’t tell me you can’t take it all,” Paul chastises. “How embarrassing, Feyd. Were you even thirsty at all?”
A high, weeping noise sounds from Feyd’s throat, his eyes two hooded slits in his face as he looks pleadingly at Paul, a face that says I want it all, make me take it all. He sucks down what’s in his mouth with a sickly slurp, breathing hard through his nostrils and rustling Paul’s pubic hair; Paul wants to press Feyd’s nose tight to his crotch and bury himself as far as he’ll go, piss right down Feyd’s throat, make him choke and gurgle and cry –
But he can already feel the stream dying down. His bladder had only held so much. Feyd hiccups and moans, gulping down what he can, spilling what he can’t down his front, and Paul wishes that he had more to give him, more to pour down his willing throat.
Paul slows to a trickle once more, and Feyd catches the last few drops with his tongue, closing his eyes and savouring it. His face his flushed, his mouth wet and chin dripping – Paul thinks he can even see the shine of a tear in the corner of Feyd’s eye. To be so wet in the middle of the desert is such decadence, the peak of hedonism, and Paul bets he’s wet elsewhere, too.
It feels wrong and dirty in the most exhilarating way. He and Feyd, panting, damp with sweat and piss and tears and whatever else – the Fremen would pitch a fit if they saw them like this. Paul wonders what else he can wring from him.
He pulls away, his cock falling from Feyd’s lips, though Feyd chases him just to lap up the last lingering drops from his tip. Emptied, Paul now allows his body to respond, and feels himself twitch and prickle at the feeling of Feyd’s tongue on him.
“The mess you’ve made,” Paul says, tuts. Feyd does not even have the capacity to look ashamed.
Paul crouches and takes the front of Feyd’s shirt in his hand, bringing it up to Feyd’s wet face. He must think Paul is about to wipe him clean; he proffers his chin, eyes drooping closed, and has the gall to look surprised when instead Paul shoves the wad of wet fabric into his mouth.
“I said you’d better not waste a drop, didn’t I? Suck up what you spilled.”
Clenching his teeth around the fabric, Feyd nods, and grabs hold of Paul’s wrist, holding him there while he sucks Paul’s cooling piss out of his own clothes. There are splashes on his trousers, and Paul makes him take them off and clean those, too, drunk on the way Feyd works the material with his tongue and teeth and lips to work every last droplet out – his hard cock lays feebly against his thigh as he kneels, nude, cleaning up his mess. Even the small puddle on the tent floor Paul makes him clean, lapping at it with Paul’s foot pressed to the back of his head, gathering the liquid and grains of sand that had blown in from outside onto his tongue and swallowing all of it alike, grateful for each last drop.
Affection might be a dangerous word for this. Pride is safer, but doesn’t quite encompass all that Paul feels when he sees Feyd swallow the last of the mess. This something he’s been feeling is hard to name. Maybe it’s not any one thing. Maybe it’s hundreds of different thoughts and feelings and desires, distilled into one hard, pressing emotion, like the water of the thousands of inhabitants of a sietch poured into one literjon.
“I’ll drink from your suit tomorrow,” Paul tells Feyd as he cleans, and the growl he makes rumbles through both of them. “Seeing as you have so much of my water in you now. It’s only fair that I claim it back.”
Feyd sits up, grabs Paul’s calf desperately and pulls him in close again. “More of your water,” he pleads blindly. “Only want to drink from you from now on – ”
“You’ll drink whatever you’re given,” Paul snaps. He snatches his leg back from Feyd and pushes him onto back; pliant and willing, Feyd goes down easily. When Paul straddles him, Feyd’s hips cant up, and Paul once again becomes aware of both of their pressing wants.
They’d better not waste this, either, Paul supposes.
Feyd’s mouth is hot and ready the moment Paul presses up to his lips. He takes the cock easily, like it’s returning home. The coil of his long tongue, the delicate scrape of his teeth, the pillow of the inside of his cheek, marked with a seam of scar tissue from Feyd’s terrible habit of chewing; all of it works Paul just right, and he rocks into Feyd’s jaw, filled with a reluctant appreciation. “Good,” Paul tells him. “That’s – that’s good, Feyd.”
Feyd hums happily, and that’s good too, sending a shock of pleasure through Paul from his root to the tips of his toes,; he buries himself deep, adoring the way that Feyd’s throat can hold him so tight, like an embrace.
When he cums, Feyd is grateful for the moisture. When Paul makes Feyd cum far too quickly into his own palm, and holds it flat to Feyd’s face so he can lick it up, Feyd’s grateful for that moisture, too. And when Paul kisses him after, slow and lazy on the tent floor, and tastes the different ways Feyd has drank him in tonight, Feyd pushes his own thick saliva into Paul’s mouth with his tongue as if he were saying thank you.
-
Under the low light of the late evening, they continue. Rested after a long nap (who had known Feyd was so adept at tiring him out?), Paul feels renewed with energy as they reach the peak of a tall dune. Feyd-Rautha is close behind, following doggedly at his elbow.
“Not too far, now,” says Paul. He reaches for his literjon, replenished with the small yield of water from their tent, but stops short when he catches Feyd’s eye.
“What?” Feyd asks him.
Paul eyes him up and down, sees the expectation in his stance. The stillsuit does look good on him, Paul begrudges. Maybe the way the desert hardens Feyd is appealing, after all; though there’s something selfish and possessive inside him that wants to see Feyd full-fleshed and water-fat again as soon as they return to the city.
“I’m thirsty,” Paul responds, a long second later.
And Feyd’s mouth twitches with poorly-concealed smugness as he allows Paul closer into him. Paul tucks his face to the neck of Feyd’s suit, and Feyd reaches for his clip and angles the watertube to Paul’s lips. Paul drinks, a deep, luxurious swig; and though it is tasteless, the knowledge that this is their fluid combined sates him more than the coldest, frostiest flagon of water ever could.
They’ll make it to the sietch just fine, Paul thinks.