❝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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"Paul?"
There was the taste of cinnamon, the crossing of two suns in a sky bright as golden fire, and HEAT, heat inescapable, heat so blinding and wretched and unfathomably harsh you wanted to throw yourself on your knees and burrow like the mouse that ran past your toes.
"I'm behind you."
The sand beneath your feet plump glittering with spice scattered as you spun towards the voice, and at the sight of him your heart tore in two, agony unfiltered, carried on legs that didn't seem to feel real.
His mop of dark hair had grown, dusting heavy grey eyes, a wound on his nose dried with maroon, and gone was his Atreides pale as a set of arms wrapped around you, his face pushing into your hair after your leap into the hug.
Damned how long it lasted, his steady heart beating against your own chest, moulding into the shape of him.
"I need to show you something." He whispered urgently, "hold my hand and don't let go."
"No, please just let's stay here." You pulled back, cheeks wet, clutching at the contraption he was wearing, nose bumping at the tube in his nose. "Keep us here, don't leave me again."
"I only wish we could." And he sadly looked down, hair wind—shorn, urging with his soft soto, "but you need to see," Paul wiped a sticky streak with a thumb, the tear dripping from it before it hissing on the dune, "you can't do that on Arrakis."
"Arakkis?" You gripped his wrist, pushing into it, burrowing in closer at the hooded, chanting shadows hunting at your heels. "Paul, why are you here on Arakkis?"
"See." He said, eyes bleeding, your hands tangling as he turned towards the sun. "See."
🩸
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
Rabbans smooth egg of a head was intensely furrowed as the mirage passed. Fuck HIM, why was he here? Just...frowning as usual, dumb shit, on the balcony like a bad smell. "Freak."
"Shut up, Rabban go back to bed nobody invited you." "Ugh."
Your legs trembled, knees too weak to hold your weight, throat dry as parchment.
Ezza hadn't noticed, hooked on how Rautha cleaved Leo's head in perfect two, and crouching to grip blonde curls he pried out his still—wagging tongue, holding it up to you.
Hark romance.
His wounds were glossy, seeping shimmering cheery that ran underneath his armour, two gashes across his forearms, one inches open at the top of his wrist, and he panted like some beast, nodding to himself subtly.
