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Paul said, "I'd like to try something."
His husband paused in the middle of undressing and looked at him with heady interest. "Oh?" asked Feyd-Rautha.
"When you've changed into your sleep clothes, come to me," said Paul. He patted their bed.
Eager as he might be to see what Paul had in mind, Feyd-Rautha was never one to be rushed. He did everything with a deliberate, measured calm. And so, Paul watched him shrug off his robes and change into a pair of soft, loose pants that he wore for both lounging and sleep, moving with a lazy, feline grace.
Not for the first time, Paul admired his husband's form. The shape of him was altogether pleasing. He did not hide his appreciation from Feyd-Rautha, who therefore approached him bare-chested and smirking, blackened teeth gleaming in the light of the suspensor lamps. "And what would you like to try, Paul?" His voice was also pleasing when pitched like that—deep, gravelly, almost a growl.
Paul sat with his back against the headboard and his legs crossed. He said to Feyd-Rautha, "Come and lay your head in my lap."
The smirk became a grin, a black slash across his husband's pale face. "If you want my mouth, you need only ask."
"No!" Heat suffused Paul's cheeks. "Not that. Lay back on the bed and rest your head in my lap."
Bewilderment never found its way onto Feyd-Rautha's face, but he could be puzzled, and Paul had clearly puzzled him now. "For what purpose?" he asked.
"Only to make your transition to sleep more pleasant," Paul answered.
Feyd-Rautha tilted his head to the side. He was curious, but curiosity came hand-in-hand with suspicion. Paul had studied his husband's family history; not a few members of House Harkonnen had met their end as their spouse's hands. But whatever Feyd-Rautha felt for Paul must have contained enough trust to override any doubt, for he crawled onto the bed and then turned to rest his head in Paul's lap.
Paul gazed down at Feyd-Rautha gazing up at him. "Hello, husband," he said, unable to hide his smile. He felt ridiculously triumphant.
Perhaps it was the angle, but his husband's expression still seemed somewhat nonplussed. "Paul," said Feyd-Rautha, and there was both a question and a warning in his voice.
Gently, Paul placed his palms on either side of Feyd-Rautha's face and held them there for a few breaths. Then, he took his thumbs and smoothed them over his husband's heavy brow. He repeated the motion, starting at the middle of Feyd-Rautha's forehead and ending at his temples. He did it again, and again, steady as a heartbeat.
"Hm-m." An inquisitive noise, or simply an exhalation?
Paul asked, "How does that feel?"
"Pleasant," replied Feyd-Rautha. His eye were half-closed, his full lips parted. "You may continue." Imperious even in relaxation.
Next Paul rubbed circles along his forehead in a rhythmic pattern. Feyd-Rautha lifted his arm and brushed Paul's cheek with his fingertips. Pleasant. Yes, this certainly was. A moment of calm and tenderness in Giedi Prime's citadel—one that Paul had crafted with his own two hands.
He said, quietly, "My mother does this for my father, after long days in council."
"And now you continue the tradition," murmured Feyd-Rautha. "But is this duty, or affection?"
"What do you think?" asked Paul.
"That your hands quite soft for a duke-to-be." He turned his head and kissed Paul's palm. There was the heat of his breath, the slightest touch of his tongue. It was, by now, a very familiar sensation.
In turn, Paul lowered his head and pressed his lips to his husband's brow.