Blood & Marriage🩸Feyd Rautha x f! Reader

38;

hello again sexy fucking people. rawdogged chapter, no editz, ADHD infused 3k word count, ily 💛😏🥹
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DEAR GODDAMMIT SHIT.

You awoke in bed, tangled up in a cosy little silk throw you hadn't seen before. Actually pretty refreshed like you'd slept more than 12 hours. Odd.

Feyd—call his manhood Tranquil 'cause he'd sent you to sleep harder than a sleeping aid could'a.

"Ouch," your thighs burned, head sore, actually—everywhere a little (scratch that) a lot sore.

You knew he wasn't there no need to even look, his aura not in the room

With light pouring through the thin slits of the privacy shutters telling you it was—"ugh, God," you squinted, hunting for the clock that wasn't there.
no glowglobes, wait—IT WAS AFTERNOON?!

"SHIT!" like some little crab ass bitch running away from a starving seagull, you scrambled, brain kinda toasted, landing on your hands from the bed you slithered from. "SHIT!"

YOU NEVER WOKE UP LATE

never.

Ever.

six thirty was pushing it. 

And with it now half twelve, no Ezza (she was turning into a kind of a bitch) present, in fact, with the sheet now wrapped around your naked body, wincing at the still tingly sensation in your coochie, you realised it was quiet.

Not just any quiet, but one on purpose, one ordered. 

Looking at your post sex face in the vanity, you hummed, it was actually pretty decent with the just got the screw of a lifetime glow, you gulped back some sweet juice that'd been left, Feyd's left overs, immediately working on your hair. 

Had he let you sleep well past your 'GET UP LAZY ATREIDES' time? Why? To get you in trouble? To miss a pivotal meeting? You silently gasped, had he drugged you?

In only thirty minutes, you were due for a family lunch with the floating man and your pale husband.
What fuckery would there be today. 

Twenty minutes later, not close to resembling your normal pristine self, hair in a slightly tangled pony tail, dressed in a simple pants and man shirt style compose, you stood from the makeup chair, in no makeup at all.

And slipping into flat shoes, you dashed for the exit, if you were less than fifteen minutes early to lunch the Baron found it insulting, now you had like, three minutes to run a walk that took ten—but hand reaching out for the door, you wobbled to a stop. 

"Huh?" Head cocked, immediately suspicious, you crouched to inspect a little folded note that'd been slipped under, the paper signature black, 'Alia' written in gold ink on the top.

You knew that handwriting. 

You did it all, snooped for poison, inspected for a spring mechanism that would spray out acid, filament paper that would burn, nothing. 

Note in your hands now, tongue stuck out, you carefully opened it, heart going just that little bit faster. 

That same gold writing, but Feyd's usual sharp, no nonsense style was flourished, elegant.