Blood & Marriage🩸Feyd Rautha x f! Reader

14;

Hakim, MEAN BITCH THE THIRD opened the privacy screen to your coach, bending to crawl inside, her sack cloth of a dress hitting you in the face as she turned to sit beside you. "My Lady," her black—toothed smile followed, what was that about anyway, "your husband awaits you in the arena."

Ah fuck, she meant the one you just KNIFED maybe you should take a detour into the nearest river.

The expression on your face must've been more obvious that the ugly black sun.

"Is all in order, Na—Baroness?" She croaked with her heavily wrinkled lips, green eyes batting lashlessly, "in your marital bed? In your marriage? There was talk of—." She knew she had to be careful, kind, yes, but you WOULD end her if she put you in peril, chewing the words as you passed a refinery of some sorts, "send food packages to the workers there, double their pay for the week."

"But—."

"DO IT." Whatever hesitation the KOMMANDER had was gone to the will of the voice, meat that obeyed fluidly while De Vries did his mentat blink. "You've grown plump on spice but refuse to share the riches, don't defy my orders."

"As I said, there was..." slightly shaken, maybe wondering if you wasn't all sweetness and awkward, Hakim continued, "talk of a confrontation this morning, shouting was heard, the smashing of objects, and Na—Baron Rautha leaving you to conduct your introduction to society alone...is...unusual."

B I T C H.

She grunted at a bump, the fortress in plain view while you SWAGGERED THE RUMOUR AWAY, "I can assure you, mistress, my husband and I are well acquainted, the smashing is merely for fun, and as for my introduction to society, that is my burden I enjoy carrying alone."

Of course the most militaristic society in a fistful of solar systems would be conducting drills this late. From the balcony you'd watched, in a way inspired, an acrobatic elegance to the synchronised footfall, banner after banner, ship after ship.

Aggression was a prized trait, death praised, loyalty an unknown concept, the only way to get to the top a ladder was a climb steeped in violence and treachery.

With a sigh, hating this desolate pit with every fibre of muscle, you hunted for a place you could cut your own skin, Ezzas advice was right, if Feyd didn't respect you enough to do consummate a marriage of this importance, no body else would think twice about spitting on you.

Between your toes, that seemed adequate, safe from Hakims all seeing eyes.

The journey to the jam—packed arena was short, your parade of maidens following you on foot; an unusual way to travel you were told, you'd asked Ezza to pick six of her closest allies, the quiet ones, sly ones, ones least liable to weaving stories, women who knew the inner workings of this fortress, they'd been paid well, their wardrobes outfitted, families moved to much better quarters.

Nothing was for free, The Baron had recomped the expenses.

Every seat was taken, the white sun streaking painful blitzes of light across the starved spectators, 1000? 10,000? 1,000,000,000? All of them baying, just like the wedding, chants so loud they shook the foundations under the white sky.

As your women lifted your dress while you walked down the runway, attendants on their side bowing, the usher draped in fine black silk who never turned his back leading the way to your seat beside the Floater so high about the sugar sands.

The cheers at your arrival were scant, an aspect Vladimir found delightfully amusing, "don't fret, dear girl, they'll warm up to you." His mass tilted on the axis of his titan—sized chair, mottled breath on your face, "or they'll destroy you, slay you right down there, you should focus on securing your Baroness instead of handing out pennies to the dusty wretches."

"Your concern is noted." Binoculars at your eyes, surveying ghost—white faces, you showed no fear, slinging him a wicked side eye, cutting his throat with a glower. "What is this savagery? And why have I been brought here to witness it?"

Peg like teeth flashed, unholy gloomy eyes creased in amusement as he sucked on his pipe, offering you a toke. IT WAS SPICE, the glimmer unmistakable, the sensitivity starting with a prickle in your throat. AUDACIOUS.

"Can you not?" You dismissed him, the creatures in skin—fight fetish gear creeping into the arena ground as the starter act sliced and diced.

"My dear Newphew," he in fact did not stop, BLOWING THAT SHIT IN YOUR FACE, "your husband," he shuffled closer, chins waggling, suspenders working mechanical, "killed his own mother."

You DRIBBLED whatever sweet juice held in your mouth, messed up with this new information, "what?"

And some shadow passed the Barons face, SERIOUS AS A STROKE, "didn't know that, eh? He merely keeps her hair, a token, if you will." No A SOUVENIR.

His pudgy hand came up, subtly, showing the scar in the circle of his palm, "me as well. Several times. He's lucky I enjoy the challenge."

It didn't help that the crowd cheered at a slain slave from another planet run in terror with a throat wound.

"Does he even know your name, Na—Baroness?"

You WANTED OUT OF THIS. Away from these FREAKS OF THE EMPIRE.

"I don't care if he does not." It was swiftly coming to a point that these beasts needed to be put down, their doomy rock eradicated, even if you were on it. It would be an honourable death. "The only thing you're lucky for is me not having access to the family atomics, pigs, all of you. This spectacle is garish, inhuman. Killing the weak for entertainment."

"There she is." THE FLOATER did not give two shits, kicking off his sandals, "such a strange Atreides, maybe your mother strayed," waving to his people. "It was said you was quick to temper, girl, but for such a small thing lightyears away from home, with nobody to defend you and a position so tenuous—,"

For some reason there was a flood of sheer excitement spreading through the spectators like a fever, reaching a PITCH that made Ezza and your ladies shiver, The Baron leaning forward, not interested in you anymore, "I would watch your tongue, or do you not fear death?"

NO, you didn't. "There are much, much worse things than death, Baron, I've seen them, there in the void."

"Witchery." He accused with a spit, swallowing peculiar grapes.

"Oh I'm not Bene Gesserit," and you wasn't, a failed student, not liable to being told what to do, to letting hags and heathens shape your destiny, you took food from his plate, immediately regretting it with the acidic flavour, "I don't subscribe to those machinations."

He looked at you as if you'd stripped nude and howled. "Yet here you are. Now be silent, ALL this is for you."