Oommg months since I've updated this 😮‍💨 but I've wrote like 15+ chapters sooo if anyone is still interested in picking this back up, it'll be completed and THANK YOU SO MUCH ❤️ ❤️

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—'such a beautiful boy.'

This was a game, and neither of you would win it. Adult bodies, teenage minds, compared to the ancient wit before you both, you wouldn't have a chance.

And only one of you felt right at home killing in cold blood.

With Feyd—Rautha Harkonnens shoulders squared, that biters jaw set,

lips,

on his actual lips

you'd never seen men kiss on the lips before

and with the almost suffocating humidity, steam rising in coils from The Barons corpulent, naked flesh saturated in dribbling oils that oozed from his head to feet, you'd looked away sharply at the meeting of their puckered mouths

they had you fucked up.

this wasn't a good dynamic

only prime nightmare content.

Oh wow, nope, hoping to morph into a poltergeist and escape through the nearest solid object, you winced at the wet, slapping echo.

And you was about to casually inspect a ceiling fixture before your husband, with a rolling darkness and a growl right from his chest, gipped his uncles wide head,

dragged his wobbling mass into mouthing distance

and with The Barons eyes alight with a small spark of fear, Feyd—Rautha kissed him again, aggressively, his uncles thumb falling lazily from the shield he wore as a ring.

Heat rose, condensation swirling with purpling beads of pure melange breathed out by the humidifiers towards the curved ceiling as you blinked quickly at how their noses pushed against their faces.

and it lingered

and lingered

lasting

Feyd's fingernails dug into his uncles cheeks, the hint of his black canine beneath a rising lip implying he thought about biting, shoving in more, like he wanted to pry open this plague of an uncles jaw, climb down his throat and gnaw his way out of his stomach,

and you was sure Feyd Rautha would roll around in split guts like the dog he was— devour the entrails like he did his own relatives maw.

The Baron closed his eyes, "mmm," fists clenched, the action squirting murky droplets of liquid out his palms like sloppy projectiles, bulked out head fighting the instinct to tilt.

The Old Man pulled away first, "oh," baring his bottom teeth like some fucking animal with a hiss passing through them, "yes, very good," and the sudden stillness, an eerie stillness, just before a predator pounces, made you believe he was about to go for another.

"How you," breathless, piggy eyes blissed, The Floater sucked his bottom lip, "how you honour me, boy."

Maybe you could sneak out—

"As I should, uncle." Feyd Rautha had no expression, cold and still as Corrin marble, chest rising, "you've set me on a path to glory."

Yeah, you was about to dip.

Expressionless, but only for a moment, the Na Barons pale face turned to you with a, you squinted, zest not befitting of the situation, reddened lips smirking. "And I'm indebted to you further for arranging such a—," blown black eyes raked down your form, "spirited mate to join me along it."

Serene, poised, you wouldn't let them spook you, damp hair clinging to your cheek. Honestly regretting not sneaking away like, five minutes ago. This was a power move.

"Ah of course." Spiders eyes widening in faux admiration but full of malicious amusement found you, remembering you were present. "Your—," a tiny pinkish tongue ran across his teeth, "lovely bride."

Slaves rushed to dress the old man, the finest towels over their shoulders, two on each leg, three at his back, two rubbing the fluffy black material over his chest—it would take a while.

Feyd raised a brow.

"Is this customary on your planet?" You whispered.

"Only within our walls." He equally whispered back, knowing full well what you meant to say was: is it normal in this family to have casual councel with naked, oily hovering men who also happen to be evil?

And your husband noticed how you leaned into him, hunting for some reassurance, and he wondered if he dragged you against him you'd allow him to kiss you exactly as he wanted, hold that pretty, scared face and lap at you, those meaty hips bumping into his thigh.

He shifted his stance, rutting against your leg.

Now you looked nervous.

"Harkonnen." You hissed.

"Atreides." He hissed back.

"It's not only him that's slippery though." The Na Baron added, laughing at your face that screamed don't even fucking dare. "Or at least it's my hypothesis."

"Feahh—." Your sucking breath as he cupped your cunt from behind and pinched an inch of meat on your clenching ass, nails and all digging in the fat caught his uncles attention—

and Rautha wanted to laugh at your silly little expression, like you'd been caught by a school mistress.

"Playing behind my back, eh?" The Floater mused, you couldn't hide your flushed cheeks or guilty expression, or deny the way the touch had made that ache pump between your thighs, stupid pussy oil had you acting wrong.

"I don't know what you mean." Rautha acted perfectly innocent, rubbing his damp fingers together, his side eye giving you a lashing of shame. "The pollution, uncle, she's not yet acclimatised."

And under fleshy, curious eyes, he fucking pinched you again, hard, hard enough you reached up on your tip toes and grit your teeth.

It was a sight to witness, the Barons girthy rolls tended to lovingly, the slaves spraying him in scented oils as each rub of a towel and massage of moisturisers made them wobble.

"Pollution?" The Baron hummed dryly, some sass in his cured, bone shaking voice, "I'm old but no fool, always had a habit of sticking your fingers where they didn't belong, dear Feyd."

Your husband shrugged, frowning, and one rough, oddly hot finger traced from the top split of your ass to tickle the hot little hole of your pulsing cunt.

"Stop that," you hissed below your breath as the slaves in perfectly practiced tandem began to cover The Baron with a shift of utter black. "Right this instant, it's inappropriate."

"Like your neckline." He rolled his tongue behind his teeth, "and no."

Such a smug, smirking fucking asshole, you wanted to bite him, but he'd only like it. You spoke from the side of your mouth. "Just because you kiss your uncle doesn't mean I want to be part of this weird shit."

Feyd—Rautha didn't care, biting back a laugh, and soon as Vladimir's eyes were covered by material he struck out a hand, fisting the top of your dress to yank it down, tits falling out as he rubbed a thumb over a nipple, the other receiving a swift slap, "oh those are disgusting," he breathed into your ear, "first time I've creamed over a foreign export, ah ah no," holding your wrist to prevent you covering yourself. "Want me to suckle on them tonight? Until my lips grow sore and you could come with a word."

Oh God, yes.

"Please, Feyd, don't." You threw your head back, elbowing him in the ribs, face scrunched to the pulse of pleasure making your clit turn fat, your own hand latching over your mouth as he quickly dipped to flicker a tongue over one stiff bud.

You covered yourself just in time for De Vries to miss it as he snaked in the like the slimy abomination he was, adjusting your straps to preserve your modesty. He just stood there, fingers steepled, strange as he was ugly—none of your girls would say hear me out about that one.

Except Ezza, such a bad taste in men, one for the bad ones.

And the old boy wasn't watching, literally his eyes were closed as the terrified slaves that didn't blink dabbed his lids with spice.

"Do that ever again," you pointed a finger in Feyd Rautha's both sleepy, gorgeous, mischievous face, shoving his chest—foolishly he didn't move, "and I'll—,"

Uh, you would—would, be able to think if he'd only stop tracing the hem of swelling lips that spilt from your panties, and you couldn't think, the sight of his big hand under your dress moving the material with each stroke too much. "I'll—."

"Drool? Get down to your knees and beg to be tended to?" He raised a brow with a click of his tongue, slapping pussy with his finger pads, "don't strain yourself, your minds not as slick as your most important asset."

"The mentat is watching."
"Good, let him. Poor bastard needs it."

Why was this frustration making you feel so fucking wanting, heat between your legs painful. You needed to sort it as you rubbed at your eyes.

Ah! You had it, finally a threat, crossing your arms, you lifted up on your tip toes, eyes rolling at the experimental tickle of his digits. "Step on your balls."

Poor little thing, The Na Baron thought, so fun to wind up and watch go, he bent to your height, tilting his head, "do you promise?"

And he removed his hand, lapping it, third knuckle deep. "Mmm, does this come in a bottle?"

literally, you didn't even care anymore, you wasn't about body this bastard in his uncles bath house, so over it, numb to Feyd Rautha's stimuli to encourage some coital experience, your eyelid twitching as he ran a thumb over your bottom lip, catching the skin to drag it down.

And he winked, "that's it, let me play with you like the little dolly you are," wanting nothing more than to stuff his fingers into your mouth until the spit spilt out and he could see your cheeks bulge and you bit down until he bled.

"I mean it, Harkonnen," you snorted, snapping toothily at his digit, "don't make me—."

"Stomp my testes, yes, how arousing." Black teeth, nothing but black teeth in a smile not exactly friendly, eerie blues eyes slitted, cackling as you blocked a squeeze of your abused breast, "I yearn for your sweet agony." He purred, vocal fry the only thing being paid for over time on this planet. "Bend over, just the tip," he popped the p, "I promise."

YOU COULDN'T WIN.
OR TAKE THIS ANYMORE.
Y—you wanted it.

"Lovers—," The Baron interrupted, knowing, a slave holding the pipe to his lips as spice—smoke poured from his nose.

"Sexual tension, My Lord," De Vries interjected loudly, smoothly gliding down stairs, bowing to all of you, "perhaps I could calculate the most efficient way to resolve it," the ends of his leather coat dragged down the marble lips. "I can smell their need to mate from my personal chambers."

You wrinkled your nose, "ugh," horrified at the slickness in your silk panties, tolerating the sly circles your husband bestowed on your bruised up ass.

"No calculation is necessary, Piter." And the floater levitated from his position, slaves falling to the floor in such submission they splayed their bodies upon it. "leave them to rub their longing little loins together until that's the only friction between them." he leaned forward as the reinforced great chair, as if it had a life of its own slipped under his backside, snorting dismissively, "there was a time, Feyd—Rautha when you sought me first after politicking."

the Barons look was wicked, but playful when Rautha held up a surrendering palm to then slide down your hip. "Forgive me, uncle."

"Who would spend time with a fat, doddering old man when one has such a," Barons tongue coaxed the word from between teeth, blinking slowly at your form just fucking there, "supple, young wife to warm your linen."

"Mmm, she's very warm," The Na Barons voice had turned slurry, harder to understand, You could feel it, the switch in pressure atmospherics melting into it, all of it turning lazy, indulgent, an aching air plump with arrogance, he looked handsome this sleepy.

"My Dear Boy," Baron slammed his pipe, exhaling through his nose, "is this you smitten?"

And he spoke as if he was genuinely interested, "what do you enjoy so much about the Good Dukes Daughter? I thought one of you would have been slain by now."

"A few things." Your husbands blunt, well—kept nails trailed at the back of your head, lingering at the base he worked with a thumb, enjoying the submission shown in the curve of your throat, and like he'd found the answer his eyes widened, "I enjoy the way she says my name."

"What?" Air snorted abruptly, "that's it? I've accepted an Atreides into my House for the way she says your name?"

"No," Rautha said plainly, relaxing more, stretching out his muscled back, "pretty eyes—," the flat of his palm rested on his cheek, "the way she sleeps topless," so this was informal as he kicked off his boots, "and I'm getting used to the hair, it's—," he mused, hips flexing "soft."

"Soft?" Was spat.

"Yes..."

Your eyes met, and you tried to smile, to soothe him down, to be small and sweet and supplicant—tried to touch the parts of his masculinity that inspired him to protect you, pull on that lever you'd implanted,

he smiled, smiled a black smile

The semi—stable Feyd was far away, lashes batting in a wink. "Soft," he said sweetly, nodding precisely, "deserving of special attentions."

The air was idle with the sudden lack of conversation, strangulating.

"And you girl," oh fuck he was speaking to you, "is a Harkonnen husband all you ever dreamed? Has my dear nephew fulfilled your wildest fantasies?" He loved this, gleeful, excitable, "I understand you have a poets soul, and speak to horses—." FUCKING FEYD TOLD HIM THAT? like what did they do just bitch about you together in the bath or some shit. "I imagine the rapacious, gut reeling, little black toothed monster I raised has been quite the—," he pretended to search for the word, the light catching his rings, "awakening."

sarcastic ass motherfucker, gonna hook some explosives into that chair, you softly batted lashes, "there are moments when he can be quite sweet."

The Baron's lips twisted violently in amusement, slapping a hand on MISTER LARD ASS CHAIR. "Is he now? How delightful. I always knew he'd make a fine husband. Such a... nurturing soul."

"High praise." Feyd let out a low laugh, WALKING OVER TO HIS UNCLES SIDE TO LEAVE YOU STOOD ALONE, "I've had excellent role models, haven't I, Uncle?"

Their gazes met for longer than was polite.

"Come, I bid it," The Baron said to you, voice so extremely cured, beckoning you with pudgy hands as a loving grandfather would, "indulge an old man who grows lonely," like how? "I wish to see this golden couple together and look upon your faces."

You thought the FUCK NOT.

maybe you could fake a miscarriage and be escorted away or some such because in here, the entire vibe was bad.

"Yes, wife—." The Na Baron relaxed, playful as he touched his wedding band, shifting to the side to show he had no weapons, "come," and he held out his pale palm with curling fingers, "we won't leave you out."

A seconds hesitation:

You must not fear, fear is the mind killer, you balanced, looking in, controlling your body in the way mother taught, and the fear passed through you.
Fear passed into morbid curiosity.

Good girl, Feyd thought, such a good girl—Fathers daughter, head up, posture military.

"Taught her some obedience, nephew?" Baron purred, "incentives for the trick, eh? Tickle under the chin, maybe?" He raised a brow that lifted a plump cheek, "or tickle something lower?"

And Vladimir didn't miss that wrathful frown of yours, delighting in it as he opened his arms, "move from the shadows that hide you and join us," his breath swirled like a halo over his nephews head, "you're kin now, no?"

With you in his shade, The Baron dipped his dripping head from his taller vantage, his palms positioned as if he cupped fresh water, voice deep, deep and deep and deeper, wet, like if the break of bones an the rage of a wildfire could speak,

the shade of his iris's had a more muted blue as they flicked to his waiting hands, a command, the stench of him both opulent and grotesque—with a held sigh you placed your chin in his waiting palms, I give you my head, I give you my trust, for you could take it if it pleased you, a sticky, thin pair of lips pressing against the crown of your hair.

"Don't hurt her, uncle."

Before The Holy Siridar lifted your face, lifted it with a surprising gentleness—

"I would not."

Horror, and all of it horror, the unabsorbed oils rubbed into his face and shoulders steadily dripping onto your cheeks, invading the corners of your lip, tasting it unwillingly when it worked onto your tongue,

and as he leaned down you startled, trapped,

"there you are," The Baron breathed, your own reflection in his eyes, "I see you," he smiled, "so very clear," your eyes momentarily blinded by a shard of light piercing through the slit windows with the passing of the glorious black sun, "Alia Harkonnen."

you exhaled hotly on his face, not as if he appeared bothered, shushing you as you went to recoil,

fingers curled around the back of your head, his palms braced under your jaw as he strained slightly,

you braced for the back of his hand, at ease with the thought of the prick of a poison needle,

and the terrible, primal realisation Feyd may sever your spine with his beloved white blade made you swallow compulsively, the old mans eyes catching fears first betrayal,

but as the machine in his back shined such a terrible scarlet that splashed light like blood across the onyx floor,

he leaned in, clumsy enough your noses bumped as you flinched back, "shh," his hold intensifying as he recalibrated his latch on your panicked head, "be calm," he soothed, like the spider says to the fly as it climbs above its webbed carcass, be good, be still, clever little Atreides snake, this is my world, and you are just a pawn.

And as Feyd stiffened, De Vries uncaring to hide the stretch of his smile and the pleased, gleeful steeple of his fingers,

Vladimir Harkonnen kissed you.

The firm yet soft hold on your face became a cradle

You squeaked into his mouth, hands flying out to grasp or scratch or push—no, feeling his square teeth against your bottom lip as he pried it open with his hot, little tongue.

You'd never felt your skin crawl like this, fat wads of unwilling tears stinging your open eyes.

And it lasted

lasted,

lingering

until your mouth filled with spit, once you'd tried to pull away and twice you'd been denied by a sharp inhalation and lunge of his blocky head reattaching

From barely three feet behind Feyd Rautha watched, mouth ajar, for the first time since he was nine, not knowing what to say to get this to stop, and the instinct was there to grab your shoulders and pull you away and for once and for all take his uncles fucking head.

But this was a game, and neither of you would win.

And when his uncle released you, you sheepishly backed away, right into your husbands chest.

"A blessing from your dear uncle in law," The Baron said to you, his chuckle sounding like a clogged drain as a slave adjusted the hem of his robe, "I hope it brings us clarity."