❝𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.❞ You, an Atreides, the only daughter of Lady Jessica and Duke Leto are married to the violent bald Harkonnen.
I wrote all 20 + chapters of this in like three days so spelling...
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Oooh, ah ouch so rawly unedited 😣
I mean, it was barely a kiss, awkward and clumsy, but a heat wafted up from your dress as if Father had caught you in an orgy with the guard.
Your lips tore away—quickly. Yours, Feyd simply, and slowly slung inky pupils to the intruders, that viciously honed chest breathing quicker. You didn't miss the wrinkle of his lips though, creases of his narrowed eyes pronounced, showcasing some genuine hate.
Interesting.
And you turned your back to the FLOATER, to his disgusting, loathsome smile and his expression so evidently caused by perverse thoughts, his body suspended in the air that made him appear freakishly tall, looming above you both. "I apologise for the interruption, children."
"No need to, uncle, we were only sparring." The Na—Baron replied in that icy husk. "The lady enjoys our weaponry."
Rautha knew what was coming, he could see it in the way his uncle looked at you just as he did at him on those days he dared show mercy or weakness.
"Sparring? All I saw spar were your tongues." The Baron cackled, throwing down a silk handkerchief, "wipe your mouth, na—Baroness, his paint covers your lips."
"Oh." Your stomach churned, feeling the need to apologise, and you looked to your husband, who only kept his steely glare on his uncle.
Hakim closed in beside Vladimir, not to mention others, his advisors maybe, members of his closest circle as you politely curtsied, dabbing your lips with the cloth. It really was everywhere.
You may not be Bene Gesserit, but there was a change in the air, a strangle, something malicious brewing, of course, Ezza had warned you.
You moved closer to Rautha, shoulders grazing, shyly facing the lecherous older man, and something flickered like wind on embers in the deepest part of him at how you nestled yourself at his side for protection, his head lowering when he knew he couldn't help you this time, scent of your adrenaline in his nose. If only you'd just stayed in your damned bed.
"Dear Nephew," Vladimir slowly and with gleeful pleasure pulled a...you squinted, Feyds posture tightening beside you, some kind of whip from his flowing robe, what a carriage driver would use on horses, seven thick knots tied into the five foot of thin leather, "pull up her dress and make her receive fifteen lashes."
"What?!" Your mind roared with static, blood pounding like war drums in your ears, and you looked to the pale husband who barely looked stirred. "No!"
"LAY A HAND ON ME," foam on your lips, you thrust your hand to the hovering spectre, "YOU SLUGGISH WRETCH AND I—."
The fist in your hair instantly silenced you. "Husshhhh."
