So disappointed you were dead or...like, that you were kinda mid enough to be killed on the second day?

You guessed due to personal reasons you were a bad guy now, and had taken a moment while the raucous crowd quickly became out of control to lament your lost youth and WASTED potential as an ecologist.

The eight foot tall Harkonnen built like a battle cruiser had died swiftly. WHAT?

And you had shown mercy, husbands taste on your lips, a complete willingness to spare his life with a "YIELD." Dancing around him vaguely before the son of a Hark Bitch had plunged his sword into your upper thigh, hunting through meat for an artery.

Still in full armour, ploughing through the dismal corridors, you dismissed your ladies and a Ezza afraid of you for the night, barrelling through your bedroom door while the hovering lights sparked to life. "Shit."

What could they do to help you anyway? Your Atreides coat of woven chain mail was too difficult to remove if you didn't know how, and regardless of how sworn to you they pretended, you couldn't risk the Baron finding out that tonight you'd sleep better than 'FAIZAL', the maker rest his soul, the gladiator with the awfully stinky guts that had formed crusted knots in your hair, not in the mood for procreation.

Faizal surely wanted to kill you. And come to think about it WHY WASNT THAT FUCKER DRUGGED? Those creepy leather freaks with the horns didn't help much either.

Only when the engraved doors had closed did you stumble, leaning on Feyds minimalist desk, your own smell making you heave, eye bags heavy, slightly malnourished, on the verge of obliterating this sacred pact and heading on out.

The wound in your thigh was deep, hidden thankfully by your emerald sash, trickling into satin undergarments not made to take a beating while you made it to the bathroom, slumping down on the ornately woven rug between the basin bath and floating sink.

Sleep? Right here? Until the morning? Not with this cosmic gang of reprobates. And the struggle began, arms sore from throwing daggers aching as you attempted to relieve yourself of the 60 pound burden attached to your body, blood just getting everywhere.

Ugh, you'd have to limp to that willowy tall doctor for medical care, the black eyed guy who looked like he needed you more than a sandwich that asked unnecessary questions about your lady parts.

"Ugh, motherfucker son of a bitch, shit on your ancestors FUCKING THING!" Boot in your hand, you threw it out of spite, wrestling with the other one. "Fuck my life!"

"Who's there? Show yourself!" Your eyes bounced faster than bullets to the creak six feet beside you, THINKING HE WAS SWIFT, an eagle or some such, Feyd, looking utterly enchanted, lingering in the shadows with his ridiculously pale face perfectly clear, was smirking wistfully.

"It's only me, Atreides." He said, licking his parted lips, heavy breathing in his somewhat tight outfit of an oil—black one piece.

He looked different, energy all over the place, eyes slitted, experiencing an instinctual reaction. He smelt better than you, too.

"Oh no way for a second I thought you was the milk man," you thought about throwing the dirty socks at his face, almost tipping over, reaching behind your back for the release hook.

"Now, now, wife," he toed closer, your forehead wrinkling, "it'll take more than one kill for you to get away with speaking to me like that."

You dodged the hand he attempted to PET your head with. "What?—get out I'm busy."

The pinnacle of high society male, he wasn't phased, not complimenting you or anything just diving in without warming you up, MANHANDLING YOU LIKE A COMMON PEASANT.

"Shut up." As if you were a scrappy pup, "this is MY room," he lifted you to your feet by the SCRUFF of your neck, sitting you on the fifteen foot long counter, nudging his hips between your knees, "ah!"

This was out of order, every time you opened your mouth he SHHHHH'd you, until you gave up with a shrug.

Ugh, what a day.