❝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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For six days the moody, pissy bag of bald dicks had ignored you, sleeping somewhere else. Six days suffering under his blatant, petty rudeness.
What about you saying no after he mated some concubine in your own bed was so bad? Huh?!...Still, you had insulted him, deeply.
Such a child sometimes, was Feyd Rautha, which was apt considering it wouldn't be legal for him to consume alcohol on Caladan.
And that was ABSOLUTELY fine you didn't even want to look at him. Like ever again. Punk. Straight out tired of the murder, and cannibal harem, and obsession with knives and masochist/sadistic bullshit, of his hurr—gurr voice and obsession with hard core physical training slash arena theatrics.
In fact it'd been an easy work week, free of his creepiness and overt tyranny. Every now and then you caught him staring though, expression blank, giving nothing away in the ruthless eye fuck or deep—thinking sideways blinks.
You'd just clutched your fork and let it roll over you, or quickly walked in the other direction, ignoring the urge to look over your shoulder.
Come to bed? No. Pass you the salt? No. Could you turn out the light? UGH useless ATREIDES. Dinners were awkward even for Harkonnens, he just sat there looking regal, internal monologue probably wild, a pouty royal prince. Rabban enjoyed it, picking at the scab over plates of ugly meats slathered in gravy. "Leo may have liked this plate, sister. Don't you think?"
...
"But he can't now because he's dead."
The Baron had told you to take it as an expression of fondness.
And the tongue, quickly becoming legend had been lacquered and nailed to your bedroom door, some macabre knocker of sorts. A reminder.
You'd both had your engagements, luckily none together, the public couldn't see you both so frosty. But your star was rising, you hadn't been moping the entire time, no, trips to factories and ship yards, funding new wings in medical clinics in the most impoverished areas, the leaf well taken from your fathers playbook.
No one had tried to kill you either, at least to your knowledge there was always Hakim up to something shady.
And today; you and Ezza had supremely bitched as usual, no one free from it, the ink—eyed attendant slyly and professionally avoiding talk of your master—one of them was a spy.
Lady Olaz who ate spice like sugar had been indulging in an affair with a stone—mason less than a third of her age, the stone mason had committed suicide by a five shots to the back of the head, the Princess of Taluz had become drunk and knocked the hat from a Guildsman, not to mention Salah from the kitchen was sneaking away with Rabban.
and you and your ladies had lounged on great cushions as they spoke about their lives, complained about their dull families and mundane problems. SO WONDERFULLY AVERAGE.
