❝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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Ahh. Your neck;
Fuck, you felt like you'd been hit by a Heighliner, SUFFERING SOME PSYCHIC DAMAGE, groaning meekly, thighs under some serious duress for being spread too long, where was the magic of a grilled cheese sandwich and a fatty of a Spice cigar when you needed one?
Where was you again? OH YEAH, Shitty Prime, in the bed of a cosmically recognised fruit—loop. You PRAYED TO YOUR ANCESTORS HE WAS ASLEEP.
Like, what did you say? Nice dick, Feyd—Rautha Harkonnen, really didn't go easy there, huh? Uh, would you mind carrying me to my Chief Physician so he could check my back isn't blown out, by the way your baby maybe a messiah.
He didn't know that; you were forbidden under the pain of pain from telling him.
There was a moment of solemn reflection as you checked your breath, some real soul—searching when you remembered you put it inside your mouth. That wasn't very virginal.
And the situation escalated as you still pretended to sleep, slyly cracking an eye open with a royals slyness.
AW.
Your nose stuffed into his side, thigh hooked around his hips, arm under his pillow, oh god, you'd huddled for warmth, still buck nude, not under the sheets but some thin blanket, spread over this man like a damp loincloth in the dim, golden glow of the hover lights.
And it was only THREE IN THE MORNING.
You peeped up.
HOLY SHIT YEAH HE WAS AWAKE.
Your eyes met.
"AHHH," you had no idea why you yelled, maybe it was because of his raw intensity, he was just there, lying down malevolently, STARING. And in the paltry light he looked pretty fucking demonic, eyes void dark pits, the hollows of them drenched in shadows, the vein cutting sharpness of his cheeks so hyper prominent it looked skull—like.
"UGH." With a heavy smack of his lips he shoved you off, strength making you roll like a sausage into your space until you star—fished on your back.
"Sorry," you coughed, clearing your throat, hiding your bare boobs faster than your Duncan heart sketch.
"Again, Atreides!" Feyd—Rautha Harkonnen, mightily pissed threw his cover off, ah yes dick out and, God, semi—hard already, and he balled his big fists, legitimately sick of your shit. "Why do you in," he coughed the painful sounding hoarseness away, snatching a small vial to drink it back and slam it on the nightstand, "insist on frequently shrieking?!"
"I—." Uh, you couldn't say, shrugging.
"Remove yourself to the guest wing," he ordered bitterly, palms pushing back non existent hair as he muttered a Hark insult. Such strange curse words.
