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.

"Do I please you, woman?" Feyd had never looked as beautiful, the question genuine and catastrophic to your composure, as if he wanted to be wanted, focused on your lips, "do I impress you?"

and you watched each other amidst the chaos of a hundred thousand onlookers, his knifes poised while the NINE foot tall behemoth of a gladiator ready to wreck and shatter washed his hands with sand.

"Yes," maybe bodily, that was the truth, arms bulging, his hunters eyes docile as he nodded, ready to turn his back and go rabid again, "but I fight for myself."

YEAH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH EASIER TO have gone and sat next to the rotund man while Feyd slaid in your honour.

You stared at your self in the ostentatiously oversized mirror in the marble dressing room, Father had ordered this armour especially, given to you on your thirteenth birthday, the colours of white and gold with flashes of forest green muted in the sun of black fire, dagger forged from unbreakable crystals harvested from an asteroid ring.

Ezza was going BATSHIT, "but my lady you may DIE! Bleed and die and then you'll be dead! Why must you do this?"

You didn't listen, spice still in your system, actually with no logical answer.

Hakim simmered, twisting her crooked fingers, throwing around the edges of her skirt, "to threaten your womb and all future heirs—." Okay time to dissociate.

"OUT!"

Everyone flinched, the door smashed open so hard the wall broke, Feyd storming in, out of his armour, strides criminal, utterly enraged.

"You go too far, Atreides."

Hakim had never ran so fast, Ezza gasping, your girls dropping combs and lacquers to make the metal shine before scurrying.

This was the man who would revel in the pain of the Jom Gabbar, the man engineered to be your mate, and puffing yourself up in a display of big girl courage did NOTHING to stop him when he single handedly lifted you by your waist and threw you against the wall.

On you, over you, snarling in your face with manic eyes, it didn't hurt, but there was presssure, the will to outright DOMINATE, "do you want to die so badly?" He hissed out of breath, scarily calm. "Because if that's what you truly wish for, I'll give it to you."

Blues nearly white in the sun glimpsed over your chest, moving his hand a little too close away. "Cat got your tongue? I was told you were to be a simple broodmare not an obstinate chore."

Mouth chalky, straining against him, you noticed the dab of blood leaking from his shoulder from the wound you'd inflicted earlier. "And you'd enjoy it, wouldn't you? Hurting me?"

"I—." He made a small sound, frowning, releasing you quickly, "you're my wife," and his head shook, prominent ears twitching, "my obligation, mine to defend."

YOU JUST WISHED HE WOULD TOUCH YOU as he restrained himself from reaching out. "Stubborn, insufferable child."

"We're the same age." Back to the mirror, you piled your hair, tucking it tight into a top knot. "Do you even know my name?"

"What?"

TAKE THAT AS A NO, "tsk, the mess of that," he amused himself by fixing the looseness of your chest piece, manipulating the armour plates closer to your heart, one palm skating across your stomach.

It was the closest, the most he'd ever touched you, scent of imported sauce on his breath, avoiding your eyes while tugging at the leather pulls.

"My name." You asked again, irresponsibly staring, leaning into the hands on your back as his little shocked expression made your eyes roll. "What is it?"

Lashes batted, cold, just—washed hands with their fat, squiggle veins lingering, "enough, Atreides." He ceased all contact, "I would have taken you tonight, but you don't deserve the pleasure."

Miserable grump, being sooooo hard to get, whatever erotic tension there'd been draining away as he turned into some callous old man, just grunting audibly and being an authentic bad husband.

He needed his ass kicked in the Weirding Way, too melancholic to have any fun.

"You don't actually have to touch me to impregnate me," FUCK IT, you sorted your boots yourself, throwing up the well—worn combats to lace them harshly, "I'm sure you can get off in the mirror and I'll do the rest myself, besides," you threw up your other foot on the stool, "I can always take a spare lover that likes touching me."

"Silence." Plump lips patted, some wince in his left eye, voice a DANGEROUS TONE, kinda looked like he wanted to shank your abdomen and kiss you at the same time, "I find you doing that and I'll cleave out their heart while you watch."

WOULD HE MAKE UP HIS MIND? Lump in your throat, suited up for the show, Feyd stopped you as you went to pass, sweeping you in front of him. "Why? Why fight?"

Ah yes some positive communication, your head dipped at the proximity of his. "You and your people think of me as a weak, spoilt child that can't handle a headache, I need to prove myself, show them I'm not some forest nymph."

"Mmm." Feyd seemed to understand, gears turning, AND YEAH he was moving in, hand on the back of your head, crouching to meet your height. "For your honour?"

WHAT ELSE? The good of your mental health? Weirdo.

"Of coooohpf," tampering with your dignity, his lips were too thick to keep up with, striking lightning quick, nudging your heavily structured chest in a threat to behave, more into it by the second as he nipped your lip and pulled, very beneficial to familial harmony.

The highly intelligent sociopath clung from your lips, pestering for more as he bumped your noses, taking full advantage of the size difference, a low groan slipping out seditiously.

"Na—Baroness," FUCKING Hakim, nobody liked her, you pulled away with a sucking noise, SHOCKED and feeling shameful, steely cold armoured wrist swiping your lip clean.

Rautha wasn't disturbed, wearing the spitty gloss on his lips proudly, facing the regimen of soldiers come to retrieve you.

"Wife," he was quieter than usual, "one last touch," finger rubbing at the slightly damp blood that had seeped from his wound, painting the scarlet across your forehead before activating your shield, "don't die, I'd be disappointed."