Blood & Marriage🩸Feyd Rautha x f! Reader

01;

So I wrote this in like 2 days, spelling mistakes abound, not proof—read, we ball.

❝ωнαт ∂σ уσυ ∂єѕριѕє? ву тнιѕ уσυ αяє тяυℓу кησωη.❞

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

At the ripe, geriatric age of eighteen and eleven days the Lady Jessica and Duke Leto had decided it was time to offer their only daughters hand in marriage.

Maybe for prophecy, maybe they just wanted you out of their castle.

And unfortunately, as their only womb carrying female in the line, it was a duty, or so you were told since you were old enough to not wear a diaper. A burden to bear that would bring the warring houses together to bring peace and prosperity.

One of mother's Bene Gesserit schemes that had pretty much been in the making for ninety generations.

The day was cold, unusually so for Caladan, especially for a summer on a lush planet, the breeze had bite, the sun hidden behind rain moist clouds threatening to rain, which only made your gloriously expensive outfit of a deeply gold robe adorned with weeping diamonds more uncomfortable, the silk train ten foot long whipping in the stirs of the colossal, incoming craft landing from the splitting sky.

Your face was covered, fully veiled, almost like a brides gown already, thin enough to peek from, but for your husband to be, your appearance would be a mystery.

Which was lucky because insomnia and a slight allergic reaction had kicked your clenching ass.

The Lady Jessica slyly moved her fingers, communicating discreetly. 'Keep your composure'.

You scoffed, taking a defensive step behind your father who cast you a solemn, sorry glance.

"That's easy for you to say," your voice carried on the wind, some shudder working up your spine, your mother ADORED father, as he did her.

There would be no soft feelings or mercy in your union, they were sending you to hell in a hand basket and still expected you to be the formidably polite lady.

And you found yourself bitter as your father cast a soothing hand on Jessica's pale, feminine shoulder. "She'll survive, our daughter is a warrior."

Yes, Father just about.

Paul coughed, about to make an inside joke that would make you laugh and subsequently start a war.

The Harkonnen ship landed, richly black, disturbing the gorgeous Caladian trees as their emerald leaves sang. Would people think badly of you if you puked? Passed out? Atomised these Harkonnen rats? Stabbed your new husband in his sleep straight through that rotten heart?

Because of course you wasn't getting married to just ANYONE, nope, you wasn't lucky enough to get the much older but kinder Corrino, or an inattentive but intelligent Fenring, but to the beast of the universe, the psychopathic, knife—wielding, murderous, ruthless, soul—crushingly filthy Harkonnen animal; Na—Baron, FEYD, the scourge of your people's enemy.

FUCKING FANTASTIC.

You'd heard he was ugly as a twelve legged spider, too. Ugh.

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯