Blood & Marriage🩸Feyd Rautha x f! Reader

15;

ALRIGHT, so the MOTHERKILLER had wrapped all the snakes around his pale, lithe finger.

Death after death, ruined flesh after ruined flesh, his shield not even HINTING once at red, of course not, those poor suckers were drugged. We CaN'T rOsK ThE na_BaROn. Classless.

At a head raised high in the scarlet dipped hands of your husband, obviously pumped up, high from adrenaline, you shied, lips wrinkled, fucking disgusted, you was glad you hadn't slept with that.

"This is good for him, gets the blood pumping," Bladimir clapped, "good for you both, perhaps you should wrestle, that may do the trick."

WOULD HE STOP?! Ew.

But Feyd, after showing his prize to the crowd, dangling the peachy blonde hair like a strawberry, AH, shit, he pointed to you, at least you thought it was kinda hard to see.

"He beckons you, go, Atreides, you problematic spoiled brat," there was the threat of violence in the uncles pose, positioned to strike, spice smoke billowing from his nose, "refuse I'll flog you myself."

There was no other option, not with a quarter of the city watching, Ezza urging you with her expression. "Fine." You sighed. There was NO knowing if this was a trap and Feyd would take your head.

Walking down the colossal steps too many to count, praying to NOT FALL over and have pretty much an entire planet laugh at you frilly ass out and all, you imagined it...SPICE VISIONS blotting like ink stains, your face lifeless, blood dripping from an unbreathing nose, eyes rolled and whiteout dead, Feyd smirking at your jiggling head he spun by your hair while the sickos went native.

And speaking of them, the crowd was silent as you walked into the unyielding light ENTIRELY ALONE, to the middle of the triangle stained with offal, his arms opening wide but face perfectly still, bowing oh so politically, he would expect your to be deeper as a symbol of female submission, a single bead of sweat blotting into his armour.

Ezza had signed the protocol with quick flicks of her finger.

1. The unbeaten warrior slave of the Harkonnen would enter
2. Feyd will stand as your champion
3. And then he will blood your face with bare fingers, if he won, a heart kept in the Giedi Prime museum

SO NOT AT ALL ROMANTIC OR NORMAL, where wet the flowers and necklaces at?

You halted at his feet, skirt raking through the ground, powder mineral your high heels penetrated, a courtesy following, ALL THIS RESPECT BUT NONE FOR YOU, "na—Baron," lip readers were on you, stench of decay on the breeze.

"My love," HUGE, a spectacle, armour refracting light, he closed the distance, thick lips twitching in amusement with blades sheathed as he traced the backs of his dried—blood knuckles across your hair. A ghostly, amplified touch.

His chainsaw of a voice fed back to the speakers as he circled you, "the bearer of my heir," sand dashing in disturbed plumes. "Is there a more beautiful creature that has graced this land? SPEAK for your Na—Baroness, tell her of your admiration!"

Your ribs rattled from the reply, half the crowd in spits and loathing, the largest oval door slowly opening.

"Fight, my darling," and he whispered in your ear, his veins pronounced, the one on his throat throbbing before raising his black and white knives high above your head, "or CHOOSE your champion."

The Duke always said you was too egotistical for your own good.

As a child you rarely cried, a easy baby, Lady Jessica had bragged. Like Paul, always deep in thought, head in writing and fantasy. And although kind, peaceful and fair, the other side was almost...Harkonnen.