❝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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And after kissing half your face off with a long, disgustingly warm tongue that always seemed wet and slick he'd pulled back with a barely there breath;
Stroked a rough thumb across your glossy lips,
Then left with his slug faced uncle.
Actually walked away as if you wasn't his betrothed wife but some slave he'd had a little sly fun with.
Left, rudely, with some shit—eater of a grin.
FUCK FEYD RAUTHA.
FUCK HIS BEASTLY, EGG HEAD BLOODLINE, freaks and sadists and reckless, dribbling weirdos.
Fuck Hakim especially, she'd been tasked with giving you lessons, six hours of them a day, blabbering on about cuisine and culture and their precious battles, tales of spice and crusades on sands, the intricacies of their economy, at least the Fremen were interesting as the toad of a crone tried to get you to spill family secrets.
BUT ONE THING; you'd been pronouncing Harkonnen wrong, right in Galach, but wrong on Giedi, something Hakim had been salivating for you to correct, HAQUIN it should be said, an entire hour dedicated to wrapping your lips around your husbands RAUTHA as it was meant to, a prominently rounded ROUW—THA, an aggressive stab of tongue against front teeth.
Your gut churned when you realised it was your own name too, ATREIDES ROUWTHA HAQUIN, the name of a tyrant, it tasted of blood and the slick on black teeth, a guttural chest rattler of a name. Just like the way he kissed.
And for two days he'd been gone from The Capital, from the fortress, you hadn't realised how publicly lauded he was, Giedi's darling prince, equally feared as he was envied.
You'd been busy, too, as you were now.
There was a name on this planet for this type of gathering, a ceremony of sorts where the still unmarried that hadn't yet began courting mingled, a party, but one to show off.
Hundreds of young woman attended, stuffed in their most intricate clothes, their dresses revealing, erotic, modesty didn't exist here, their thighs out in dresses with deep slits, breasts hitched in corsets, so much food and wine being served constantly it felt...vulgar.
You were there in a royal capacity, elegant in a richly purple leather dress stuck to your form, another occasion to show your face, paying little attention to the back—biting and whispering.
You'd talked politics for hours, rubbing shoulders with the elites, endured being the sole foreigner not in the slave pits.
"What are they saying?" Now, free of idle talk with a minute to yourself, taking advantage of a lull in the buffet line to eat, you whispered to Ezza. "Don't worry about hurting my feelings, I can take it."
