HELLO people, yikes, I'm so sorry this little book of mine hasn't been updated in so long and I've not responded to notifs—life has been a little—eh, but thank y'all to the moon and back for reading, 50k views is 🦇 💩 I'm amazed. ♥️

I've got back into it and done some tweaks, so a few chapters have been unpublished because it was moving too quickly, the story's been sucked back to right after the wedding night, after we/you/all of us lol nearly get fucked up by the spider.

Might help if you read the chapter beforehand again :) we begin with a little time skip after the uh, consummation.

Again, thank you, I hope you enjoy it, this chapter might be a little rough, as per inspiration hit me before work, but I'll come back and tidy up shop. Extra long to make up for it.

♥️ ♥️ ♥️ ♥️

Thirty nine days;

Although in reality, here on Giedi, it was really forty eight.

It'd been the longest Feyd—Rautha Harkonnen had been away from this black rock planet without the sharp, all—seeing guidance of The Baron, allowed to finally dip his toe into interstellar politicking alone, save a small entourage of translators, cherry picked court masters and body guards.

Not that he needed one of those; a reputation proceeded him.

And you'd pleaded to accompany him, with those lovely, wet eyes, the responding no turning them slitted in insult.
You'd never even said goodbye, no kiss, no warm mouth around any part of him, teasing brat.

Rautha wasn't exactly thrown into the deep end of Great House Relations, no, Vladimir was far too protective of him to actually find out if his chosen heir would drown instead of float, but it had been muddy and bloody and seditious enough it was evident to everybody the boy could handle it.

First to Ix, procuring complex machinery for melange harvesting—then over to seven other planets under the control of the Landsraad too woo and wheedle, and finally to three outer stations under Harkonnen rule to dampen the fires of revolution.

And as usual, he'd done well.

With no little Atreides as a distraction, exceptionally so.

There wasn't any other option for a potential emperor and soon to be planetary governor of Dune to achieve anything less. Power smelt weakness.

The colossal craft touched down, the main ramp unfurling as Feyd—Rautha adjusted to the light. "Mmm."

Wrapped in a woollen military coat sleek and form fitting, collar popped, hands hidden with whale—fur gloves, your husband stepped down, inhaling the familiar scents, a legion of handlers rushing to him to fawn and congratulate, he paid them no heed, walking with lion—like strides into the expansive halls of the fortress.

If his head was big before, he could rule the Known Universe now.

And he had no idea what old De Vries was saying, eerie blues hunting through fanatical faces, because everyone had come to greet him, the peasants in the street hoping for a glimpse, the crowds at the fortresses parameter thicker than The Barons bread,

Everyone felt jubilant enough to attend, except you.

"Where is the Na—Baroness," Feyd asked curtly, voice rising over the chants of his name as the mentat struggled to keep up, "she should be here."

"Ye—yes, My Lord." The man with the sapho stain bowed, the instant switch in conversation startling him, with fingers interlaced, really not wanting to a part of whatever shit two teenage brats born into absolute power did, cleared his throat, steeling for Rautha's reaction as the milky film vanished from his lowered gaze, "in the massage house."

"Where?!" The Na—Baron stopped in his tracks, "the m—," two slaves removing his coat before he turned to a terrified waif of a woman, "take me there, I'm not aware of this," his lip sneered, "massage house."

"One moment of your time, My Lord," De Vries interrupted as Feyd began to follow the pathetic woman.

Na—Baron turned on his heels, the sound of a chain in his pricked ears. "Quickly."

"Bring her." And the mentat raised a hand, curling his fingers,  "a gift from Our Holy Baron, for your success."

Two guards brought her out into the last echo of colour from the open great door—a collar around her throat, heart plug already implanted, the tall blonde with the crystalline eyes had a mixture of awe and fear on her perfect face, lips painted black, Shapley hips decorated with little bells, dressed in a fine, deep purple shift made to leave nothing to imagination.

"Your exact preference," The Mentat lingered at his Lords side, "she's trained how to please in the Harkonnen way," fixated on the whores heavily rising chest, "shall I have her sent to your personal chambers? Such a generous gift."

And the slave shrunk under the appraisal, half—hoping, half afraid as she curtsied, "my Lord, I wish to please you well, if you would have me, it would be an honour."

His eyes closed tiredly, slightly sick from the spacefold.

"No—," Na—Baron said simply, "keep her as a fine gift for a future ally."

The much smaller slave flinched when he turned to her, "no more interruptions, take me to my wife."

🩸

The trembling wench had lead him to a secluded area of the fortress, a five minute walk, the relief on her face palpable when The Na—Baron dismissed her.

He'd heard of this place just beyond the intricate door as the sliding metal behind him locked closed, and he began to remove his clothes for the preparation mixture, glancing up at the long, golden bar which would dispense a fine, preparation mist to slick him up for treatment.

It was warm down here as he shoved his attire in the safe box, wearing nothing but that stupid loincloth, inspecting the little bruises all across his body from a few...skirmishes as the timer finally reached zero.

And the mist painting his skin felt nice, pressurised, squirting in thicker pulses, sticking to every inch of him, taut, pale skin shining as it collected in the grooves of his flexing muscle.

What was you doing in there, hm?

Soon as the light changed colour, the main door disengaged, he slipped through.

The massage room made of brilliant black marble shot with pale flashes of gold smelt purely of peaches, roses, spice—the good stuff, too, burning in sticks of incense in far corners, you must've been sidling up to The Baron for him to give you his special stash of it.

And Feyd, lips curled slightly in the hint of a smirk leaned on the entrance archway, feline eyes of eerie blue blown at the sight, he already wanted to kill someone.

You lay blissfully unaware of him on your belly against a warm table, body covered in a spice infused oil, skin shimmering, a 'massage,' he thought, taking note of how the liquid had already drenched through your pathetic attempts at modesty, a simple white pair of panties, a wrap of cotton the same innocent colour around your breasts.

Barok, big even for a Harkonnen, too meat—headed to notice the threat, with skilled hands the size of skillets worked your back, thumbs plunging into your sore, tired, aching muscles, training in stillsuits for seven hours a day had been hard, and when Feyd was away, the beasts in training didn't hold back.

Nothing on his face betrayed the biting rawness, this is what you were doing instead of greeting him? Mewling like a good little whore as someone that wasn't him dragged his hands all over you.

And he made a promise to cut them into stumps.

He could see the pathways, down your legs, down your arms, finger divots through the thick coating running down your sides.

This wasn't against protocol, but it would never happen again.

An attempt to make him jealous again? Maybe.

With a panthers grace he stalked to the back of the bald headed man—mountain enjoying himself a little too much, blade out, sharpened, and with one sweep of his lithe frame, Rautha covered this inferior man's mouth, because he looked a screamer, tip of the blade against a throat, head gesturing to the door. "Leave," he whispered so low, guttural, "breathe her way again and I'll kill your entire family."

Barok retreated, bowing deeply, holding his gut like he'd been kicked in it, wild eyed and stumbling.

Silly Atreides, Rauthas brow raised, tongue wetting his plump lips, this was the first time you'd allowed yourself to feel safe, totally relaxed, relaxed enough he could sink his teeth into your neck and breed you on the slippy floor before you could wake up—now it was time for a lesson.

For your own good of course, not a punishment for slighting him.

But that didn't mean he couldn't look for a while, after all, didn't you belong to him? Quite literally under planetary law, yes.

Fucking beautiful thing, flesh of your back shiny like opals, and he held his strong hand out over your bare form, head tilted back and lips popping open at the sheer heat of you—

The Na—Barons eyes traced down between your slightly spread thighs, the sight hitting him right between his, you'd not been touched there, but wanted to be, breaths so deep and lulled while he ghosted a finger just above and between the prominent muscles aside your spine.

And he inhaled, bare, honed chest rising as he dragged your scent through flared nostrils, the same concoction you left on his bed, your hair full of the scent of honey and something—you, he'd cut a strip of the silken case to take with him, held it under his nose when he'd touched himself slowly, such a good feeling to fall asleep to.

He wondered if this was what it felt like to miss someone, not that he'd ever admit it.

Something was wrong, you felt it, the air had shifted, the masseuse too quiet, his energy of calm replaced by something so much more primal—slowly, you groaned, pretending you didn't notice, offering up a stretch just under your pillow where you'd hid a blade,

swiftly, with your mothers strike you gripped the crystal handle, launching upright to sail it against a throat, "you dare—."

Now that was something he would always praise you for, that velocity, the aggression, just not fast enough, your wrist caught in his palm as he roughly pulled you against him with a stabbing breath.

Your heart leapt in your mouth, the pressure on your arm from his brutal twist making you drop the blade with a harsh crash to the floor.

"Feyd?" You said in a barely there whisper, and he watched those pretty eyes of yours blow, the blush start on your cheeks, expanded pupils sailing down to look at his sprayed, glistening body nearly flush with yours.

And you was both breathing hotly into each others mouths, chests bumping, your nipples hardening as his cold knife kissed your throat.

"Caught you," The Na—Baron purred, lips flushing with colour, stealing a glance at your pair of perfectly outlined breasts as he instinctively licked around his mouth. "Silly girl, I could have had my way with you here," he was teasing, the air fucking scorching, head tilting as he bumped his forehead against yours. "Luckily for you, I'm a gentleman."

You laughed at that, lowly, feeling the sheer of the serrated metal against the thudding pulse point, "they told me you wouldn't return until tomorrow nightfall."

"They lied," he tongued, the oil from his thick biceps dripping on to you. "Just like you if you tell me you haven't missed me at all."

you knew he was waiting for you to kiss him, offering himself up, fat, open lips shiny with saliva, a demanding frown on his smooth, needy face.

Your gut flipped, the size of him, the way he held you like some dolly, thick with the smell of space and ozone, lashes batting as he bumped your noses together.

"Feyd, I—." You just couldn't help but look, cock semi—erect, engulfed in his shade.  "It's—."

"See something you like?" His lilt snapped you out of it, proud of himself, shoulders low and sharp.

Why did you feel like such a virgin? Frozen, like you didn't know how to kiss your husband at all who was following your shy, flushed face everywhere you moved it, "how about losing your knife?"

He smiled now, black teeth unsheathed, "but that makes it more fun," he looked directly at your mouth now, moving in, thumb of his free hand teasing calculating strokes down your arm. "Are you not elated at my return, Atreides? We've been separated for a while."

You pecked his lips, quickly, moving back, embarrassed at a messy saliva string he lapped up. "No, however things haven't been nearly as interesting without you."

He didn't laugh, didn't clean his sticky mouth, was that disappointment? "That's not the kiss I wanted, try again."

Heat rose straight from your cheeks, suddenly mute, slipping from the marble table, like a stupid schoolgirl when you smiled awkwardly. "You've startled me, did you kill the masseuse?"

"No, but I should." He let you move past him, finding some space, some smug, shit—eater of a grin telling you he loved you flustered.

"Get back on," he beckoned, "tell me where it hurts."

"Where what hurts?"
He raised a brow.
"Oh."

You opened your mouth to protest. "B—."

"Ah," a finger raised in the air as he started to stalk around you, caging you in, "it wasn't a suggestion, come."

You obeyed, climbing back on, lying straight on your back.

"Come now." And he laughed, a musical sound, the most genuine you'd heard, like you was a cute pet who'd aced a trick, spinning his wrist, "on your belly."

You hesitated, your expression one of don't even dare.

But The Baron took a bite of your chocolate, licking the smudge from his thumb, "unless you're worried I'll complete my husbandly duty and ravish you."

Asshole, with a roll of your eyes you complied, watching him closely in the mirror as you tilted your head on the cushion. "Does this satisfy you, my Lord?"

"When you're my good girl, Atreides? Always." He gave a hum, at your side in a second, filling the little gold cup with oil, "relax, love, I've been told I'm very adept with my hands."

The Harkonnen knew you were tense, all of it held in your shoulders, ready to pounce. "There, there, My Lady." He soothed you with a rough palm gracing down your entire back, teeth flashing at your shiver, "hush now, let me work," a finger tracing the sodden peak of your ass as he swept hair from your face.

He inhaled deeply, drizzling your shoulders, letting it pool down your sides—and with a suck of his lip, poured it in the achy peek of your pussy.

"FEY—."
"Shhh," he chuckled, finding your ferocious glare merely amusing, "if only to soothe it."

"Oh you're terrible, you've back fire minutes and you victimise me already." You gave in, hiding your face in your arm, toes curling—oh, he was good, strong fingers finding exactly where it hurt, kneading his thumbs into tender flesh, "does this please you, Atreides? You've not growled at me."

"I don't growl," you muffled.
"But you do, purr and roar, too."

You gasped when he slipped his hands under you, sliding them under your ribs to cup your breasts, "see, purr, now no protests, woman," he teased with that lisping vocal fry, thumbs circling hard nipples, "on your back."

Excuse me?!

He paused, thoughtful, musing a finger pad up and down your throat, "I want to see you, all of you," and his lips touched the side of your ear, "I want to remind myself that you, wife, all of you, are mine."

Something sparked in your gut, pulsing, strangling, your arms bandy when you used them to lift yourself, but he took over, flipping you with an ease that stole your breath.

Ugh, dirty Harkonnen, lips kiss swollen, the veins in his arms pronounced, forearms flexing as he let you drink him in, his breaths rapid, and the oil had overcome your clothes, made them almost entirely see though.

He skid his finger around the slick cup, bringing it to your lips to wet them, dragging the bottom down with a thumb, playing the blade of his finger down your face so gently it was as if he actually liked you, so fucking earnest, massaging down the meat of your thigh. "Open them both." He said simply.

Teeth on your lip, you complied as a hot puff of air left his nose, turning his back to you as he rifled through the little bottles on the table, stopping with intrigue at the little shiny blue one—"this should do, know what it is?"

You blinked at the container he showed over his shoulder, "no."

"I think you'll like it," the way he moved made you want to back up, flee from him, until his hand squeezed your knee, shooing apart your thighs instinctively closing as he popped the caulk lid with his teeth—there was no ceremony, just your torchy breaths as he thumbed your panties to the side and let the honey hued liquid drool across the exposed flesh.

"Hey! Stop! What is that?"

"Shh, shh." He looked in a trace doing it, pinning you with a hand firmly between your hips, eyes almost closed, "one," he whispered, winking, "two," you could feel it already, warmth, a feeling like the beginning of an orgasm, "three—," you squirmed, head thrown back, pussy milking thin air as the pressure started in your gut, "four—," was you, no, no that was impossible, the heels of your bare feet sliding for purchase. "Five."

"Feyd," you moaned, gripping the side of the table, hips rutting to it, "I'm gonnna—oh God what is that?"

"Pleasurable, no?" The Na—Baron strut to the top of your head, "just take it," closing your wrists in his hands, "it can't push you over the edge, but it make you feel like you're just there," he leaned down, elbows either side of your ears, "you'd need me to finally come apart."

"W—," you swallowed down the shame, wriggling in his inescapable hold, "will you?"

With a kiss to your forehead he rubbed a cheek against yours, "no."

And just like that he stepped back, "the effects flare every time your aroused," he shrugged casually, "and the effects last twelve hours," the glow globes golden light cast a halo effect over his head as he turned and stretched out his back, peeping over a shoulder through one eye, "but if you're a good girl, I may just let you later tonight."

Tsk. It was fucking ten in the morning. "How generous."

But you was totally serious as your played with a towel, feeling the distance, Ezza had swore he wasn't due home for another standard day, because you'd be there, to much of a gossip lover to not hear about his grand adventures, actually kinda jealous he was let off the leash.

"Feyd?" His touch lingered on your wobbly body, the kiss of steel still cool on your neck as you slipped from the table, testing the grip of your feet.

He didn't look at you, hands perched on his hips. "Yes, little Atreides?"

There was a lion in your living room and you couldn't move too fast or it would eat you, tear parts free from your limbs in bloody gulps.

Did you—did you hurt his feelings? Shun him? Insult him?

"I promise," cautiously you tiptoed behind him, taking a towel on the way to dry your hands, "if I'd have known you was coming home to me," ah, yes, to you, your language chosen to reinforce a bond, "I'd have come for you."

The Na—Baron nodded harshly, head back as he inhaled the spice.

Just behind him now, lifting up to try and match his height, the soft, gentle hand landing on his broad shoulder made him flinch, muscle reacting with violent intent as he huffed through his nose, stopping himself from elbowing you to the floor.

"Let me dry you," you stood your ground, feeling him flex, waiting for permission—he'd been handled without consent, it explained the hyper awareness beyond general Hark violence. "You're a little," you tested it more, tracing a bruise on his lower back, "slippery."

Time didn't have a right to stretch so much, water dripping, metal groaning from the ferocious winds a hundred miles per hour raging outside, his energy darkening before he gruffly agreed, stance relaxing, "very well, slave pet, Atreides."

Ah, back to insults he wasn't gonna go off, a you ignored the viper side eye though.

The towel rubbed down each arm, languid strokes, your steamy breath on his neck making a shiver contract his spine, tight ass sticking out as he hummed in content.

It wasn't the time to ask how his diplomatic trip went.

Now openly admiring, he turned for you to get his front, power posing, and you could fucking HEAR his ego swell as you dried his taut tummy, so red you could cry, crouching to get his legs as he played fingers through the crown of your hair.

"All done," you said in a small, thickly accented voice he had to really listen to understand, his head tilted.

And Feyd—Rautha, as he often did, turned it, swallowing you in inescapable arms, your back stuck to his chest as he pinched the towel. "Your turn," he held you in place with a forearm, flicking out the towel—

for a moment, deciding where to start.

You stiffened when he ran it across your throat, big arm working down past your shoulder for your belly,

lifting you easily like a hissing cat to plant you on a shelf to coax the fluff down your legs.

Maybe it was the first time he'd done something so—intimate, almost shy, sometimes clumsy, every now and then glancing up to your gaze to see your reaction to every touch a little hard and a few accidental pinches.

"Done?" He asked, throwing the material over his bare shoulder.

Oh? It was a question, you stopped your horning, gulping dryly, wanting to laugh at how ready he was to fix a still damp spot with his raised brow. Like he was asking if the tea needed more sugar.

So fucking adorable—why did he have to slay bitches? And cheat? OpHeLiA had been a guest on his journey. Had those masculine, murdering hands touched her? Did she linger on his fingers? Her taste still in his mouth?

"What's the matter, Atreides?" Feyd noticed your little zone out, accepting the job of erotically cleaning one another was done as he stood, your face level with his crotch.

Well! You opened your mouth to give a lashing reply, only a little gust bleeding between your teeth—, changing tactics to inflict some emotional chaos instead.

You sweetly smiled, "I've only missed you, is all."

INSTANT WHATtt? Rautha twitched, biters jaw working in his pale face, schmoozed as he let himself smile, a rare phenomenon. "What is it you missed?"

A real pampered brat, he leaned one hand on your knee, dipping a foot in the automatically churning spice water, his big dumb dumb stomping ass foot massaged.

You narrowed your eyes, his out on stalks when your palm fell over his, honestly his jaw fell open, just staring at it like the time his uncle fell over and it took nine men to get him back up.

"For one—." An you wasn't lying, practically stuck on your shelf until he got you down, these floors were deadly, suspendors were necessary, "when I turn over at night, and your not there, so instead of my back against yours, I just..." you raspberried, "flop."

His chuckle was sickening, trading another foot in the Hark contraption, not pulling his hand away though, "go on."

"Your weight." You sighed, thumb roaming over his wedding ring, your wedding ring, "warmth," wondering what great gramps x3 would think of this union, he'd not taken it off, still, it's been fiddled with, "that really mood intense eye fuck you do at the breakfast table every morning."

"I do not—," he was a little prince, regal as he looked down his nose, and he found it so fucking hard to pretend to not like how you caressed his paw, "eye fuck at the breakfast table."

Playfully, maybe recklessly, you tapped his ass with your foot, the meat jiggling, lips puckered in approval, "oh yes you do, and the way you suck an orange without peeling it—,"

He glared.

"Disgusting."

The tips of his ears turned red as he shunned your touch, hiding his boyish, rogue smile. "You're disgusting."

You were about to say no, your mother. But this was going pretty well.

"The Baron wishes to speak to us," he announced, Feyd—Rautha Harkonnen the dickhead again, prepared to exit this massage parlour 99.9% naked with a faint erection, blackish liquid dribbling from his feet that left impressions as he strut away.

It took him forty steps until he turned around. "What are you doing?"

Ah, - that close to holding out your arms, you sipped the fruit juice from the shelf above, "I'm kinda—stranded."

His lips wobbled, thinking about leaving you, that juicy liquid poured over your pussy firing up as you did your best to ignore his body and crossed your legs.

Because you would let him carry you. Wrapped up in his biceps.

"I saw that,"
"You saw nothing, I had an itch."

he clicked his tongue to the rough roof of his mouth, padding back on over, shooting you a dagger as he almost slipped.

And just as you imagined, he held you baby with a shitty diaper style, you wasn't actually anywhere near that small, he just enjoyed dominating you, for a solid sixty feet until the risk of dying from a fall due to oil was no longer.

🩸

THESE PEOPLE WERE FUCKING ODD.

For an hour you'd had council with The Floater,

while he was in the bath.

You didn't know where to look:

Not that you wanted to be was messed up.

But praise for both of you was sweet, targeted sweet, and his manipulation was such a different beast, old, wise, sage, double meanings under blankets of analogies covered with anecdotes.

The deep water of a brackish colour was disturbed as his great hand slipped free, dripping as he gripped his spice pipe, hitting an experienced toke.

"You have moved me, child—bride, Atreides." He spoke to you, "with the ease you've adjusted to our society."

Feyd watched you closely, too closely, still as stone, expression impenetrable.

And you bowed politely, "my thanks, Lord Baron."

"She gives her thanks." His laugh was tar—like, and you didn't know if it was mocking or genuine amusement as the smoke billowed from his nose. "Mmm, your thanks is noted, girl."

But he'd done toying with you, finished rolling you around on his tongue, dismissing you not altogether rudely, just with a swish of his eyes.

You stepped back, catching The Na—Barons wide, but focused eyes before you took your place in waiting.

Fifteen minutes passed, their conversation hushed, interrupted by sloshes of water and Vladimirs brassy vowels.

Every now and then you could swear they directed their attention to you—it made you shrink, curl, inspired your lips to tighten and fists to clench.

Until everyone in the room momentarily closed their eyes to the sound—cracking bones—the whine of machinery, the seeping of a bloody red beginning in The Barons back.

And you didn't want to look, you shouldn't look, there was a horror to him, but you fucking did, you did as the creature floated from his bath—water pouring, pumping, spilling.

Not that you even noticed, but everyone except you and Feyd had left the room, even the ink—eyed attendants, his personal harem of handlers scuttled.

Vladimir, thirty feet in the air now, a poison dipped, swollen berry descended syrup slow, swiping a hand over his bald head.

You instinctively stepped back as he landed in front of your husband, chewing freely, nonplussed about his panic—inducing mode of entry. "Feyd, my Feyd, such a lovely boy."

And Rautha didn't seem too bullied either, posture perfect, not even a flinch in his jaw betraying anything, even as a hand cupped the side of his face.

It was true, your imagination was a wild one, but you didn't daydream a pair of pebbled, deep set eyes glance over his nephews shoulder, hooking like harvester anchors onto yours, "such a lovely boy."