❝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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"Comehere," Feyd—Rautha Harkonnen spoke with a whisper so soft it made you see stars as he curled his slender, pale fingers, "my little Atreides, the times come for me to seed you. To make you a woman."
There was no use denying him, your eyes dropped submissively, standing from the vanity to walk meekly towards him.
You felt so fucking owned, fiddling with the belt of your dress, until you stopped at his feet, peering up through your lashes, "I—." "Shhh." Feyd soothed with a closed mouth kiss.
And there was some fucking woozily strong hand on your throat, "that's it," he whispered, his free thumb idly stroking your cheek, "I'm still not sure how much you can take," and he said sweet things to calm you down while he was figuring out what it took to snap you before he went dicks out, TESTING. "I would like to be gentle with you as I promised."
No heed was paid to the RED ALERT tune in your head when his palm slipped up and connected with your hot cheek, the fake stiletto nails of your free paw gripping his jacket before he lead you to the bed, pushing you down back first.
YOU LEFT THIS LIMITING BODY, puréed, his weight sinking the mattress when he leaned down over you on elbows.
And his lips were initially dry from all that venom with Rabban, quickly slicked up by your moisturised lips he kissed deeply, your noses pushed together, some whiny mmmmppff slipping out when your tongues tickled he wouldn't want anyone to hear while his head tilted on instinct.
that was fucking hot, scorching warm breath on your face, your open lips still connected when you broke for air,
"Vain, haughty, classless Haroknnen," you whispered.
"Snobbish, self righteous, bleeding—heart Atreides," he whispered back, and he looked at you so fucking earnestly, straight out boyish, eyes half asleep, sending you right into a second puberty, the same syrup spinning funny—tummy feeling you had when you was nine and watched Duncan bathe in a stream, until your father caught you.
And you couldn't hold out anymore.
"Stand up, I want to see that cock you flash like it's made from diamonds," HE WAS SHY, cheeks flushing, bashful little prince working a tongue over teeth, he slowly stood and unsurely went to his belt.
"Ah, I'll do that," it was a gentle reprimand, gripping his hands had him swallowing, gazing through batting lashes as he stared at your connected hands, nodding sheepish, "you're a good boy, I really hope you're hard for me," his eyes rolled at the praise, nodding, giving his cock a squeeze.
