❝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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Damn guys running out of hot ass dune gifs so I gift you a meme instead—adhd brain can't work without photo stimulation.
smh Feyd's jawline has better structure than my paragraphs brah
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The middle of the night; two thirty exactly.
And if Feyd Rautha listened hard enough, he could hear the change of the guard, the whine of overheated machinery spewing out filtrated chemicals in the industry zone beyond the keep, and a three mile wide stretch of super plaz roof open to accommodate the crawlers leaving on their transport ships into orbit.
A scary sound if you've never heard it before, like a wounded titan.
He'd slipped inside your shared bedroom like some phantom, silently, creepily silently, slipping heavy leather boots from his aching feet, fucking exhausted.
And it was a tiredness in one of those ways that made him feel giddy after he'd bid the guards ease and engaged all seventeen security latches behind him.
leaning on the wall, existing within the shadow—
he didn't expect you to be awake.
Alas if you was not under five different layers of blankets by nine AS A GRANDMOTHER DID you'd become cranky.
But the sight made his fat lips tilt, that sickening giddiness amplified,
there was a strange woman in his bed, no one else's woman, just his, the heir apparent not too sure why the revelation both distressed and excited him, why couldn't you be his nice, normal woman who didn't need permission to be used, he shook his head, "ridiculous Atreides."
Avoiding anything that could fall over, Feyd—Rautha sunk his hands into the hot water basin under the stretching windows, cleansing soaps automatically bubbling up, his back arching at the little massage nodules and tiny scrubbing bristles working underneath his fingernails, flakes of dried blood and steel polish sucked away.
he peeped behind the hot towel he rubbed over his face, not charmed, the entire bed to yourself, draped in self heating silks of inky black and gold trim, and you just had to be slap in the middle of it, dead to to the world, the scent of spice in the air.
he partook in his own personal store of melange, like everyone with the means, still in comparison if Feyd Rautha ate a sun grape, you'd scarf down the entire vineyard, he was too sensitive to the stuff, the dreams awful. you died in a lot of them. And he could only secretly wince at the fat bumps any acquaintances did.
