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"i'm team black" "i'm team green"
well i am neither because i choose my teams with my pussy and not my moral compass
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dune part 2 really is one of those films where everyone is like "this is the best thing ever" and you're like "it can't possibly be" and then you watch it and spend 2 hours and 46 minutes understanding why paul atreides has a cult the size of a planet
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It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader) pt.3
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a/n: so i lied about this being the last chapter, there's one more, i know im sorry....... also shout out to my friends, who were unbelievably helpful with the smut part because oh, there's smut here
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (yuuuh yuuuuuuh), Alcohol, like....a tiny bit of Humiliation.
Summary: The month-long courting comes to an end with a bang! As your engagement party commences, wine flows and darker feelings rise to the surface
Pt. 1, Pt.2
In the darkness of the night, he still comes to you in your dreams, knife in hand, body taunt and ready to strike. Every single morning, you awake with a gasp, as visions of your tormentor plague you. In some, he slits your throat, reveling in the way red cascades down your nightgown. Other times, it's a quick and brutal stabbing, your insides twisting as you wake. 
But then, there are those rare nights where you rise from your bed, sweat clinging to your skin, as you fight with the pressure in your stomach, try to rid yourself of the images, before making yourself presentable for breakfast. 
Those dreams, nightmares, are the worst. 
White, elegant fingers, grabbing, pulling, pinching every surface of your exposed skin. Defined arms around you, squeezing your pliant body in an embrace that is as tender and romantic, as a snake suffocating its victim. Deceivingly soft lips, mapping a trail down your front, pulling back to reveal teeth, which make that same trail visible, hurting.
In those dreams, he paints you with black. Taints you, until you're molded into his perverse image, until there's no telling where he ends, and you begin. He makes you into a sculpture, in a way that an artist cuts away pieces of clay, slowly robbing you of all agency, until there's only what he wants to see. And you let him, with a trembling smile on your lips, hands twisted into the stained sheets of your bed. 
Ignoring him has become an art form as well.
Since your faithful tangle at the training barracks, you did everything in your power, to never appear in the same room as him, or at least, never alone. You became a shadow in your own home, a whisper of the person you used to be. Shame is a powerful thing, and you wore it like a wedding veil over your face. Paul would always help you, silently. Never asking outright what had happened between you and the Harkonnen, but somehow always knowing. Your brother, your salvation, breaks your heart everytime he grabs your hand, and leads you away from the predator in the room.
The date of your engagement party has been set a week into the future. The nervous bustling of the court only heightening your already wracked thoughts, as the inevitability of your situation begins to haul you to the ground. 
Your Mother took most of the preparations on her back, directing the servants, the kitchen, the musicians. She picked out a dress for you, some flowing abomination, which hung in your closet, reminding you every morning, that you will have to wear it with a smile. You hoped, there will be wine at the feast, hope that it will be sweet enough to dull your insides. 
As the date of the feast comes closer and closer, you begin to spend more time outside. 
The air is crisp and smells of seawater, and you can't help but inhale fully, every time. You want it seared into your brain, so whenever you're taken away from your home, you can run back to this memory, to the feel of grass under your fingers. 
- You'll catch a cold, if you keep sitting here.
Paul's voice brings you back from your dark thoughts, and you look up, from your spot in the grass. He stands a couple paces back, hands folded behind his back in a manner, that is reminding you of your Father more and more every day. 
- Do you want to join me? - you ask, your lips quirking up into a small smile - Or would you prefer to stand there like a pillar of salt?
Your brother shakes his head, before coming closer and plopping down next to you, his skinny legs stretched out in front of him. The both of you sit in silence for a while, enjoying the breeze ruffling your hair, the smell of ocean and the waves crashing into the cliffs. There are seagulls flying over your heads, and you feel the moisture from the grass seep into your clothing. 
A wistful sigh escapes you, before you can stop it, and you let yourself fall, laying flat on the hill. 
Paul looks down at you, undescribable sadness swimming in his eyes, and an instinct of sister awakes in you, a need to comfort, despite being a wreck yourself. So, you offer him a smile, a tired one, but a smile nonetheless. 
- Do you think we could take the horses for a ride today? - your brother asks with naive hope, his eyes turning to the sea.
- Mother won't allow me to go, she wants me to spend my pondering the proper behavior during the feast - try as you might, you can't hide the bitterness in your voice - Besides, I could fall off and hurt the merchandising. 
Paul's hand finds yours, and he squeezes your fingers tightly. It's hard not to break, in moments like these. When you're forced to remember, you'll most likely never see your family again. 
- If I could do something, anything... - you recognize that feverish note in your brother's voice, it's devoid of reason, impulsive, too much like you.
- But you can't, so you won't.
A frustrated sound escapes his mouth, and he turns back to the sea. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, eyelashes falling heavily on your cheeks. He looks like a Duke, you conclude, and that thought feels strangely comforting. No matter where you'll be shipped off, no matter what life has in store for you in the future, somehow, you know your brother will persevere. 
- Do you remember that time Gurney made us train on the beach? - you ask, a sudden wave of nostalgia washing over you, as the clouds float in the sky above you - Cause of the... The balance. We had to try to balance in the sand.
Paul twists his head towards you, surprised at the turn of the conversation, before cracking a smile. 
- Yes, he slipped on the rocks, nearly broke his backbone - he starts to wave his hands around in a wonderful reenactment of your mentor's fall, before collapsing next to you in the grass.
Your laughter mingles with the sounds of the sea, as the both of you, the future of House Atriedes, share memories, scenes from the life you've lived together. The good and the bad. The horse races through plains and hills of Caladan, the many, many food fights. It's hard to tell, how much time you spend together, laying in the grass, but when you finally fall into silence, the air has become considerably more chilly. A sign, it's time to return to reality, to your duties. 
- You should've been me, and I you - Paul whispers suddenly, and you close your eyes in a pained expression. 
Perhaps it's true. Perhaps Lady Jessica made a mistake, and gave a Daughter where she should've given a Son. Now, it's no longer important. Your roles have been set in place, all you could do, is fulfill them. Somewhere back, in the direction of the Palace you can hear a voice calling your names. A reminder, that the world outside this grassy sanctuary exists, and can't wait any longer. 
You move to stand, Paul gathering himself up closely behind. Your clothes stick to your body, and you're shivering from the cold, but if you could spend just one more moment exactly like that, you would've taken that chance without question. 
An arm snakes around your elbow, and you lean onto your brother's shoulder, as you start to walk back, steps swaying like a pair of drunkards. Then, Paul tugs you closer, you can feel him tense suddenly, as he leans with a sullen expression on his pale face.
- I hate the way he looks at you - he confesses, waves upon waves of righteous Atriedes fury crashing in his voice.
You don't know how to respond to that, so you stay silent, giving his arm a reassuring tug.
That was the last conversation you've had with your brother.
*** While the House Atriedes is characterized by a rather mellow temper, there was one thing they took extremely seriously. And those, unfortunately for you, were engagement rituals. 
So, that's why you sit posed like a porcelain doll in a deep chair, next to your soon-to-be husband, at the foot of a long table, surrounded by music, and dancing, and food. There are ribbons hung from the high ceilings, and flickering lights float around them like little fireflies. You watch, as they dance above you, the ridiculous headdress placed on your hair digs into your skul. Color surrounds you, your own dress flowing like a waterfall, elegant, yet delicate. The pools of fabric gather around your legs, a chiffon monstrosity, that you know, is supposed to make you beautiful. 
And perhaps you would've felt beautiful, if this was any other occasion. A birthday feast, perhaps. Dare you say, and engagement party with someone you actually loved. 
Speaking of which, your betrothed sits beside you, sticking out like a sore thumb. He looks utterly bored, eyes following the celebrating masses, hand playing with a steak knife. Not enough blood for his tastes, you suppose. He's dressed in traditional Harkonnen attire, which you think, doesn't really look that much different from all the other outfits you've seen him in. Black, sleek, efficient. You must be a curious pair, a mass of colorful materials and a black-stone pillar. 
The wine, thankfully, is sweet. It warms your face, and turns your insides into a pleasant mush. You should've eaten more, but then again, it was a celebration of your imprisonment, and if you wanted to get drunk, you would. And you did get drunk. Quickly. 
The dress moves with you, as you slowly slide down the chair, one leg resting up on the seat. A frightfully unbecoming sight, but you can't find it in yourself to care. Another, clumsy drink from your cup, and you sigh deeply, blinking a couple of times to rid yourself of sudden dizziness. 
Your betrothed gives you a look, whether it's of warning or amusement, you're not sure. And you don't care. Your nose scrunches in the general direction of his smooth head, and you take another sip, just to spite him.
- Shut up - you grumble, a slurr entering your words.
- I haven't said a word - he counters, and this time you can see him smile.
- You're thinking, it's annoying.
Feyd Rautha has an unpleasant laugh. 
Sharp and low, and very rough around the edges. It's like listening to an old spaceship try to take off, and you're sure you don't want to hear him laugh ever again. That's it, your goal in this, frankly, fucked up marriage, will be to never make your husband laugh. Although, it's best not to think about it so loudly, he might be a hidden mind reader, and would most likely laugh in your face every day, just to torture you. 
God. You were going to regret every sip come tomorrow morning.
- You're wrapped like a present - Feyd Rautha leans down with a smirk playing on his full lips, and you have to crane your neck to look him straight in the face - Shall I unwrap you here, while your family watches?
Despite the light tone, you shiver under his gaze. Something in the way his body seems relaxed yet tense at the same time tells you, this shameless man would do it in a heartbeat, if you as much as inclined your head. 
- Gross - you groan, hand untangling itself from the amassing of chiffon to push back at his face.
It's the first time, you've touched him out of your own volition, and even in your drunken daze, you note the sudden glint in his eyes. Fingers grab at your wrist, keeping you in place, as he leans further into your touch, turning his head slightly. Wine mixes with sudden embarrassment, as his lips brush against the meat of your palm. Then, black teeth shine and your heart jumps to your throat, as he bites down on your skin, hard enough to make you jump. Tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your thumb, before giving your fingertip a tiny nibble.
You tear your hand away from him, pressing it into your chest with an appalled expression. There are indents just below your thumb in the shape of his teeth, and the confounding feelings you've been trying to stoke for almost a month now, come crashing down upon you.
He looks satisfied with himself, returning back to his seat, and his steak knife. The utensil reflects the flowing lights, and despite yourself you swallow thickly, turning back to your cup, which is quickly becoming empty.
God, it was getting incessantly hot in this cursed dining hall. 
Whether it was the wine, or the sudden wave of knee-bending arousal washing through you, you couldn't tell. (It was both, you were fully aware it was both) And you're uncomfortable, terribly so. You fidget in your seat, almost painfully aware of the heat, which has now spread further down. The fabric of the dress slides against your body, skin becoming far too sensitive, too hungry for touch. You try to relieve some of your torment, legs squeezing and rubbing together. Treacherous tongues of self-awareness rear its ugly heads, and you look up, and...
Of course he noticed. 
Feyd Rautha places his chin in his hand, and he observes you with a knowing look, which turns dark and terrifying as soon as your eyes meet.
- Careful, lest the court starts talking - he warns you, his voice somehow becoming deeper than before, and you take a shuddering breath.
Dagnerous, this is dangerous.
 You're seated far away from your family, from any consolation, and even if they were close enough to intervene, the masses of dancing people, the sound of their laughter... Your heart stops, a snake curling itself around your insides. Truly, if that beast of a man wanted to, he could make do of his threat from earlier, and take you where you sit. Haunted by that thought, both terrifying and arousing, you down the rest of your wine. 
It doesn't taste as good anymore. Hell, it threatens to come back up, until you force it to sit in your stomach. 
Duncan, you need to find Duncan, or you'll do something incredibly stupid. You'll do something incredibly stupid either way, but at least the regret will be less biting. So, pulling yourself up on trembling arms, you shuffle out of your chair, your betrothed's heated gaze following you on your way through the hall. 
People don't even look at you, too enraptured with free food and drinks, and the music, which flows loudly through the air. Good, in any other case, the Duke's Daughter, stumbling drunk through corridors, would certainly lift some eyebrows. Your feet carry you towards the training barracks, a familiar route you've followed many times. Indulging in sex with your Father's most trusted advisor was not the healthiest form of regulating emotions, but you needed something, and God knows, you'd rather die than get it from anyone else. From Him especially.
The choice is made for you, however, as a strong hand wraps itself around your arm, just above your elbow, yanking you backwards, behind a stone column. The world spins in front of your eyes, and for a second you worry the company of wine warming your insides is about to abandon you along with breakfast. 
- Do you truly thought, you could sneak away from me?
Finally, your eyes focus on Fey Rautha's face, almost demonic in the low light of the corridor. Shadows play on his expression, falling heavily over his eyes, and you try to wrench yourself from his grasp.
- What I do is none of your business - you slurr out, wringing your arm every which way, his fingers digging painfully into your flesh - Let go of me.
The Harkonnen presses himself closer to you, trapping your body between the stone and himself. His nose nearly crushes itself into the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, taking a disturbing long whiff. You can feel his chest vibrate against your own, as he groans deep within his throat. It sobers you up in record speed, and you start to thrash in his hold. He subdues your outburst, as if he was made for it, before dragging his nose up, towards your hair. You snarl like a wild animal.
- Let me go. 
His body moves on its own accord, tearing itself away from you in an instant, legs tripping over themselves, to put distance between your bodies. He looks up at you, muscles tense and an expression of shock painted across his pale face. 
The ability to use the Voice was something you rarely took part in. Training sessions with your Mother went well, as expected of a woman, but you still had a lot of work ahead of you. You blink forcefully, steadying yourself against the wall behind you. Then, you notice the borderline murderous look on your soon-to-be husband's face.
- Witch - he spits out, baring his blackened teeth at you.
- I am the Daughter of Duke Atriedes - your voice carries a note of righteous pride, despite dread climbing up your spine - And you will treat me with respect, wedded or not.
He straightens himself with petrifying speed, and as he takes a step towards you, actions overtake reflection. Your hand winds back, and you bring a resounding slap across his sharp cheekbone. While your palm blooms with pain, he seems to barely react, closing the distance between the two of you after a tense beat. Before you have a chance to react again, his hands grab at your face, and his lips crash against yours in a punishing kiss.
Teeth clink together and the momentum of the kiss makes your head collide with the stone pillar behind you. He's fingers dig into your cheeks and your jaw, as he devours you completely, bringing down all your defences in one swoop. You kiss him back, almost immediately, opening your mouth to let him in, to meet his tongue halfway. It's almost grotesque, how much you hate and love this at the same time, the buzzing of the wine mixing with the sound of your racing heart, with the sound of his unabashed sounds of pleasure. 
Hands flail at your sides, as you grab all you can take, pulling him even closer by the thick fabric of his tunic. 
His hands however, know exactly what they want, and as he lets go of your face, they both sink down. Fingers hook into the neckline of your dress, and he tears it down, your entire body swaying with the force of his movement. Your breasts are freed for only just a moment, cold air hitting them in a way that would be uncomfortable, if they weren't immediately covered by your betrothed's large palm. He palms at your chest, as if he wants to crush it, and you bite back a whine, which threatens to spill from your abused lips. 
- Don't - he growls a warning, unoccupied hand tangling itself within your hair - Sing.
And you do. As his mouth descends upon your neglected breast, where he alternates between licks and bites that make your back fly off the wall. Once again you don't know what to do with your hands, finding them entirely useless in the Harkonnen's overpowering grasp. One, grabs at his shoulder, undecided on whether to push him off, or pull him in closer. The other one scratches four lines into his skull, as he sucks on the sensitive skin under your ribs. 
Finally, he detaches from you completely, standing straight and regarding you with a look so intensely ravenous, it shakes you to your core. Your exposed chest rises and falls in tandem with your heaving breaths, and you shiver, as cold air hits your skin. His gaze drinks in your dissheveled hair, the way your lips are puffy and red. A beautiful sight for his blackened eyes. 
- I know who you went looking for - he starts, stalking towards you once again - Can't have that, can I?
You debate feigning confusion, outrage at such accusation, which hasn't really been uttered yet. But, as Feyd Rautha stops just short of the bottom hem of your dress, you suddenly find yourself unable to speak. Instead, as a last ditched effort to rid yourself of him, your hand extends, a half-hazard attempt at liberation. He swats it away, as one would a mere fly, before sinking to his knees in front of you. 
- Lift up your dress, Viper - his voice is like thunder in your ears, and you bite your lips at the sight of his eyes, dark and surprisingly eager.
Hands move clumsily in an effort to gather all those translucent layers. You nearly trip over yourself, earning a rather nasty chuckle from below. As soon, as your legs are visible, he dives between the chiffon, his head dissapearing from sight. You can feel his lips, traveling up the expanse of your calf, giving a light bite under your knee. 
Anticipation siezes your gut, and you grab onto the wall, as if that would save you. His hands grab your leg, skin incredibly warm to the touch for someone who looks so cold, and then, with forceful tugs, he starts to manouver you. 
You let out an unbecoming squeak, as he yanks your leg over his shoulder. Strong hands keep you in place, and he reaches out around the upper part of your thigh to all but tear your undergarments off of your core. The force of this action makes you jump in place on your one available leg, just to hold your balance, and for a second you consider swatting at him. 
That thought leaves you almost immediately after it appears, as an onslaugh of kitten licks unleashes downward. A vague, head like shape moves under your dress, the chiffon floating from place to place like a hypnotizing river. The wine must've heightened your senses to an alarming degree, because as soon as Feyd Rautha begins his ministrations, you're a mess. 
It's honestly humiliating, the way you fight for any purchase on the wall behind you, as he begins to lick in earnes, parting your legs further with one hand, while the other wraps securely around your used leg. While there, he cops a feel of your behind, fingers biting into the soft flesh, and you lock your lower lip between your teeth so hard, you can taste blood on your tongue.
As if he's developed some new telepathic talents, his hand leaves your ass, in favor of winding up, and slapping it harshly. The action makes your jump in place once again, a sound stuck between outrage and glee fleeing your throat, before you have the chance to stop it. Right, "sing", you remind yourself, and immediately feel him change his tactics. 
Your bundle of nerves opens new possibilities of torment, and as his lips close around the bud, you can't help the whine, escaping through your lips. The music is loud, you remind yourself. They won't hear, no one will hear. His hand pushes your dangling leg further up your shoulder, and your back arches from the stone. You will be sore as all hell after this is done, but for now, it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters, except the way your betrothed eats you out, like a man who's been starved for decades.
- Oh shit - you curse, hands flailing uselessly - Oh fuck!
All of a sudden, everything stops, and your building peak subsides into a dissatisfactory simmer. Feyd Rautha's head emerges from under the fabric, a terrible, shit-eating grin on his wet lips.
- Such language? - he teases, tongue darting out to lap at your arousal - So unbecoming of a-...
- Fucking don't stop! - there's panic in your movements, as you grab the back of his head, and shove him right under your dress again.
The laughter should be unsettling for you, but he returns to his post with twice as much motivation, and however more strength, and before you know it, your orgasm sneaks upon you. A sudden tightness in your core is all the warning you get, before the coil snaps, and your entire body starts to spasm in pleasure. 
It's good. Incredibly so. You'd risk saying it's the most intense you've ever came, but never out loud, never to him. That shameful secret was between you and whatever God that was listening. Stars erupt behind your eyelids, your breathing stopping for just a moment. 
And then you go deliciously limp, legs giving out completely. 
To his credit, the Harkonnen catches you before you hit the floor, the arm curling around your leg proving to be an unmeasurable support. His head emerges from under the dress once again, and he lets you slide down the wall, until you're seated. He sways on the balls of his feet, still towering you, even as he crouches. 
You swallow, throat slightly raw from all the noise you've done moments ago, and he follows the movements of your neck muscles with greedy eyes. Still greedy, after taking so much. Truly, he was a Harkonnen. And before you can stop yourself, a thought materializes in your brain, a treacherous little information, which would shake you to the core, if your muscles weren't currently made of taffy.
He blushes pink. Your betrothed blushes pink, from the exercise of making you cum on his tongue alone. God, what a precious sight.
He must've noticed the serene smile playing upon your lips, and his nature to ruin comes to light. His hand reaches back, and you freeze in your spot, as you recognize that damned golden steak knife. The blade shines in the dimly lit corridor, making your breathing faster, questions swimming behind your eyes. You don't really want to fight him in this state, but you fucking will, if he tries anything. 
- An engagement present, for you, Viper. - he rasps, licking his reddened lips in an obscene display, which doesn't repulse you quite as much as it should. 
- I have nothing to give in return - your voice is stern, and your betrothed flashes you an evil grin.
Then, he presents you the tip of the knife, golden utensil hanging between his slender fingers, and you look up at him, not understanding what is expected of you. Placing one knee on the floor, Feyd Rautha lowers himself to your eye level, for the hundredth of times surprising you with the sheer grace in his movements. 
- Kiss - he whispers, into the space between the both of you.
Your eyes fall to the knife, then, to him and you take a long, deep breath. Pride, your biggest flaw, takes a deadly hit, as the man twists the knife in his fingers, looking at you expectedly. You hate him, truly and deeply, and it must be showing on your face, because he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, as soon as your eyes meet. 
Swallowing your pride, you keep his gaze, leaning towards the blade. Your lips press delicately against the cool metal and the Harkonnen flashes you a nasty, self-satisfied smirk, before slipping the knife up his sleeve and standing up. 
- I'll see you back at the feast - he gives you a small bow, and you press your lips tightly together.
- Fuck you.
- After the wedding, my Viper.
And with that, he turns around.
 You're left there, on the floor, your dignity in shambles, the exertion catching up to you all at once, as if his presence alone was the only thing keeping you from feeling pain. A stupid thought, you chastize yourself, before slowly pulling yourself from the cold tiles. 
It takes you a couple of shameful minutes, trying to put yourself back together again. The ridiculous headdress, which has slipped all the way down from your hair, will probably never look the same, as when your Mother has styled it, but you can't find it in yourself to care. 
The music still plays, as you enter the hall, and thankfully, no one notices your arrival. No one but your betrothed, who raises his drinking cup in your direction, as if nothing had happened. His face is annoying, you conclude, and turn away, your aching legs taking you towards the center of the room, where people danced and sang in celebration of your engagement. What a lovely sight, what a lovely couple. Opposites attract, right?
Bitter, aching and humiliated, you throw yourself into the crowd, let it sway you from place to place, as you dance away this whole wretched week. The whole month-long courting rituals, which were just a bullshit attempt at torture. 
It's said, that when Death comes to take your soul, you're allowed one more dance before the eternal void. 
So you dance. 
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It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha x Female!Reader)
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a/n: re-uploaded cause tumblr wouldn't show it in the tags for some reason Cross-Posted on AO3
Warnings: Dub-Con, Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atriedes, Horny Violence, and some angsty family relations (lmao)
Summary: The courting becomes more and more complicated, as both you and the Na-Baron discover something about each other.
Part.1
- He's a beast.
Lady Jessica stops in her tracks, her hands sliding gently across the fabric of your nightgown. It's your Mother, that puts it out on the table next to your bed. But the person, who turns back towards you with an unreadable expression, is most definitely not her. You're talking to a Bene Gesserit sister now. A freezing chill runs up your spine, and you start picking at the skin around your fingernails, a nervous habit you've picked up a long time ago.
- Have you forgotten all that I have taught you? - she asks, turning to face you fully, in the dimly lit space of your bedroom
Subconsciously you retreat into yourself, body leaning further away from her, as if that distance might save you from whatever unpleasant revelation will most likely fall upon you. Lady Jessica takes a deep breath, her lips pulling back into an easy, soothing smile. In the past, you would look for expressions such as this, fish them out for comfort. Now, as you look upon your Mother's face, it all seems to be a trap made specifically for you.
- Men like him, beastly men, are the weakest ones - she explains, taking slow steps towards your hunched form - They need the power and the blood to feel worthy of existing, which makes them easy to manipulate. Keep them pliant under your hands like fresh dough. 
She sits beside you, your mattress dipping under her weight, and your eyes are immediately drawn to your Mother's elegant hands, folded neatly in her lap. You wish you could put your head there. Have her pull your running thoughts out with gentle caresses. A hairbrush lays abandoned on the vanity in front of you, and silently you contemplate, whether you'll ever have the opportunity to have your hair brushed by her. 
- You must find his weakness, what drives him to do what he does. And then control it.
- I don't want to control my husband - the words spill out of your lips, before you have the chance to stop them - I want to love him, to support him. To give him children he'll love, children I'll love. 
Tears fall in heavy waterfalls down your cheeks. You haven't had the luxury of a good cry since your betrothed had arrived, and it feels divine. Letting your body shake and shiver, wrecked by uninhibited sobs, as your Mother looks down upon you, torn between the two roles she must fulfill. 
The more you've thought about your situation, the more hopeless you felt. The Harkonnens will never let you see your family again, you're sure of it. You'll have to deal with all the horrors of Giedi Prime entirely on your own, with no support from your husband, no friends, no family. And your children, as they are sure to come, will be taken away from you. Thrown into the black and white, until there's no love left in them. 
The Emperror is a cruel man, you think. An execution would've been a kinder end. 
- Why did you have to make me a Daughter? - the way your voice breaks in desperation fills you with shame - Why couldn't you give Father another Son?
You know you've overstepped, as soon as the accusatory tone registers in your brain. It is far too late by then, and the hands, which just moments before you've fantasized about running through your hair, grip you tightly. Your Mother's face, a constant image of beauty, twists into something darker, something you don't recognize, and you gasp, as her dull fingernails dig into the skin of your wrist.
- Your Father has Paul - her voice is barely above a whisper, blue eyes stabbing you with the intensity of her gaze - I gave him a son, because he asked for a son. Because I loved him enough to give him one. And he can have him. He can fill him with lessons of male leadership, of short-sighted plans. You. You are my Daughter. You are mine, and I've trained you well enough to conquer this task.
A hopeless pit settles itself in the void of your stomach.
You've always known your destiny would be to marry well, to further House Atreides' legacy. And yet, somehow, there was a sliver of hope, treacherously worming itself into your brain. Your Father had Paul, the perfect heir. Surely, he could send him off for the greater good and leave you to your own devices. Let you find someone to care for you, someone you'd do anything for. The thought sits in the pit of your stomach, turning your insides in shame. Still, you can't shake the sinking feeling, that if the universe was kind, you would've been born a Son. 
Your Mother, or more likely, the Bene Gesserit, stands up, a cold chill filling the space where her body used to sit. She regards you once, a stern, unwavering gaze.
- Wear black tomorrow.
Perhaps, you'll die in your sleep tonight. Perhaps the universe will bring you this small mercy.
*** Perhaps you did die. 
Through the haze of dreams, you can see him. Bare, as the day he was born, body gleaming white in the darkness of your room.
You can't move, can't see his face, and when he approaches, every single one of your muscles tense. You shift under the covers, cold tendrills of fear engulfing you entirely. He comes closer, moves like a wild cat, stands at the foot of your bed. 
The need to run is overwhelming, but your body refuses to listen, as slowly, torturously slowly, he climbs on top of you, defined muscles moving under his skin in a way that reminds you of some cursed demon, rather than a man. His scent fills your nostrils, a mixture of something heady and metalic, and, like a little child scared of the dark, you try to hide your face under the covers. 
This demon version of your betrothed sits down, sculpted thighs squeezing around your sides, and with rising panic you realize, he's slowly choking the life out of you. A fitting end, a welcomed one. Perhaps it would be better to die right now, before you discover what atrocities he plans to commit on your body and mind, after you're wedded. 
Then, his hand reaches behind his back, full lips pull upwards, exposing blackened out teeth. You barely register the glint of his sword, not until he holds it high up, above his hand. You're not allowed a moment to wallow in your confusion, as your future husband brings the weapon down, sinking it with brutal force into your beating heart.
You awake screaming.
***
In the morning, you pull a black tunic over your head, remnants of your dream clinging to you like an unwanted shadow. 
Every move of the silky fabric against your skin feels like a small defeat, and with your head hung low, you make your way towards the dining hall. Truly, you're not hungry, stomach turning and twisting, a steady presence of nerves keeping your body on edge. Your attendance is required however, such are customs, and it is entirely too eaarly for another lecture about your behaviour. 
As you enter the room, your mask of tired indifference slips just for a second, a mixture of fear and anger flickering in, and out of existence.
 There, opposite of your Father you can see him. Your future husband, the love of your miserable, ending life. Slow horror washes over you, as you suddenly realize that this demonic, otherwordly version of him, which visited you in your nightmares is just how he looks. He greets you with a polite inclination of his smooth head, and you consider not showing any outward sign of repulsion, a small victory on your part. Your Mother doesn't think so, but you dodge her sharp eyes in favor of greeting your brother.
It doesn't go unnoticed, the way Feyd Rautha's eyes drink in greedily the sight of you embracing Paul. His gaze lingers on your smile, and he raises his cup to his lips, scrunching his nose ever so slightly at the unfamiliar drink he's been offered. You want to ask, if they have coffee on Giedi Prime, but the question is forcefully swallowed down. You will not talk to this man. He will never know anything more than contempt from you. Curse your Mother's words, you'll fight this battle every day, on your own, if you have to. 
- My Daughter will show you around the training barracks after breakfast - Duke Leto announces, and you freeze with a cup of coffee half-way to your lips.
- Will I? - you ask, trying to control the edge in your voice. 
- Na-Baron has made inquires about a place to train - your Father explains, giving you a meaningful side eye - You'll accompany him. 
The coffee tastes like rot in your mouth, and you place your cup down with a note of finality. You won't look at him, you don't have to. That knowing smirk could be felt through the very particles flowing in the air, every single one laughing at your predicament. 
Despite your best efforts, the breakfast comes to an end, your family slowly rising to attend to their duties. Your Father, ever the cordial man, bids his farewells to the unwelcomed guest. Your Mother does the same, albeit sounding more honest. Paul lingers as long as Lady Jessica allows him, until he is forced to retreat by a slender hand tugging mercilessly on his elbow. A gesture both of you know intimately from your childhoods. 
Before you know it, you're left alone with the pale imitation of a man. He arises slowly from his seat, smoothly making his way towards you, each of his footsteps echoing in the dining room. 
- Shall we, my Lady? 
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his offered hand, like a white spider living just outside of your vision. With a shudder, you slip out of your chair, trying very hard not to touch him, and failing immediately, when his broad chest nearly pushes you back into your seat. 
He smells nice, your brain betrays you, the scent bringing back images from your night terror, causing an involuntary shiver to run up your spine. With averted gaze, you turn to leave, ignoring his still extended hand. He follows you like a shadow, catching up to you in no time, as you slide through the corridors of the Palace. It's uncomfortable, to say the least, walking with him behind your back. His eyes bear into you, a prickly feeling at the base of your neck making you roll your shoulders.
It follows you, as he follows, right to the very destination. All in blessed silence, a small miracle to save this already dreadful morning.
The men, launging about at the training barracks freeze in their spots, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, when Duncan Idaho catches your eyes. His skin has a beautiful, warm tone, highlighted by the morning sun flowing into the room through the windows. You nod, he nods back, an unspoken understanding blooming between the two of you. There could be no suspicion of any closer bond, lest this engagement would be called off. A result, perhaps favorable to you personally, but your family would never live down the shame. And you would never jeopardize Paul's future, no matter how hollow yours looked.
- You have a warrior's body - your betrothed comments, as he inspects the blades laid out on a small table - Do you train here as well?
Small talk, you could do small talk. With a sigh, you tear your gaze away from Duncan, and turn to the Harkonnen, forcing something resembling a polite smile to bloom onto your features. 
- Yes, I do - you answer curtly, eyes falling onto elegant, white fingers, sliding over a shiny metal blade. 
- It is not a common practice here, is it? - he looks at you, eyes gliding over your stature - Women being trained to fight?
Suddenly very much aware of your body, you cross your arms on your chest, hugging yourself tightly. You don't miss the way his gaze seems to linger on the low neckline of your tunic, and with bitterness on your tongue you wonder, has this man ever felt ashamed. 
- Not common, but it does happen - your voice betrays your emotions, a sharp edge settling over your tone, causing the man to arch an eyebrow.
Finally, he settles onto a chosen blade, bringing it up to the light and with laser focus observing the way particles dance on the steel surface. Then, he looks back at you, catching you in the act of observing the prominent, lean muscles on his neck. You ignore the knowing smirk and will your blushing cheeks to suddenly become devoid of color.
They don't, of course, and you scurry to the side of the table, to fiddle with the rest of the weaponry. Your favorite training blade is there, and instinctually, your hand reaches for it. 
- Train with me.
The request catches you off guard, and you shoot him a questioning look, one he deflects with a nonchalant shrug. 
Your muscles flinch, as you drag your hand back from the blade. 
- It would hardly be appropriate - you counter, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your tunic.
To that, he tilts his head, light eyes studying you for a longer moment, until you truly feel uncomfortable under such scrutiny. 
- And suddenly you're worried about what the court says? - he cuts you off, before you have the chance to ask, just what exactly does he mean by that - Perhaps you're too soft to fight me.
- I know what you're doing - you point an accusatory finger at his chest, and the man smiles, blackened teeth peaking between his full lips.
- And what am I doing? - it's hard to ignore the teasing timbre in his voice, and you swallow thickly.
- You're trying to get under my skin.
Shivering under the expected cruel glint in his eye, as another, most likely filthy innuendo purses his lips, you turn to him fully, a serious expression on your features.
- I've seen you fight, Na-Baron - his jaw tightens at the sound of your voice curling around his title - I know you're a force to be reckoned with, I'm not scared to admit that.
He straightens, regards you with furrowed brows for a longer second, until, yet again you start to fidget under his gaze.
- Perhaps then, you're scared you'll hurt me - the mere idea is so preposterous, your head snaps in his direction - If I had known, you liked me that much...
- That is entirely not true, and you know it - you deflect again, although annoyance begins to paint your voice.
Then, his hand shoots out, gripping your arm and pulling you closer. Air seems to thicken around you, as you look up at him, with surprise quickly morphing into outrage. His breath mingles with yours, and you can't seem to look away from his eyes, pupils nearly drowned in the overwhelming blue of his irises.
- Stop hiding, my viper. Fight me.
The command, spoken in a harsh whisper just shy of your lips, turns your insides into molasses. 
His taller form leans down to tower over yours, an intense expression settling over his sharp features. Close to excitement, much too close to desire, even closer to a murderous curiosity. Your throat feels entirely too dry, and before you can stop yourself, you swallow thickly, tongue darting out to lick your lips. His eyes snap almost immediately downwards, and your heart stops beating. You can't see anymore blue in his irises, only black. Darkness covers his eyes reflecting his thoughts, and you feel like you have to flee right now, before something terrible happens to you. 
So you do just that. Ripping yourself away from his closeness, you return to the table, hand finding your chosen blade without really looking. 
Another flash of black teeth, as the Na-Baron realizes what you're doing, and the both of you enable the shields surrounding your bodies. 
The gathered soldiers watch on, as you march towards the center of the room, determination filling every step to the brim. Duncan gives you a look, which you choose to ignore. You can't think about him now, not when you have your honor to defend against this Harkonnen monster of a man. 
Feyd Rautha rolls his shoulders, discards the thin fabric of his dress shirt, and once again you are stricken with his almost god-like physique. The blade looks like an extension of his hand, as he weighs it and slashes the air in front of him. Then, he fixes you with a challenging expression, as if he expects you to do the same, to try and best him at some shameless display.
You decide to keep your clothes on, blade held high, ready to strike. 
He jumps from one leg to another, and immediately an orchestra of alarm bells rings out in your brain. Should a man really be this excited at the prospect of fighting his future wife? Should you be this excited? Questions without answers, and before any of you make a move, another one absent-midedly floats to the surface. Just how much can you hurt each other, before the wedding is concluded? How much you'll inevitably hurt each other after?
The darkness he has brought on the ship with him must be contagious, because despite your better judgement, you smile. A sharp smirk, that makes your eyes look less like a human and more like a wild animal. And he drinks it all in, as he begins to circle you.
You'd never show him your back, never again. He's a tried and true predator, the only instinct he has, is a killer one. A fact you quickly get aquatinted with, as he unleashes a series of lightning fast strikes your way. 
Immediately you realize, that small show of cruelty he organized at your grandfather's theatre was nothing, compared to what he could truly do. And still, you suspect he's holding back, as you barely dodge a nasty stab, right under your ribs. Another one is blocked against your sheild, and before you have a chance to collect yourself, third one sends you back a couple of steps. 
He doesn't let you get away, with confident steps pushing you further and further out of the center of the training floor.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Duncan Idaho stand up from his place. Thinking back to your last training session, you shudder bitterly. "Never fight in anger" is easy to say, when you're not forced to marry, bed and sunsequently give children to the man you're fighting. 
Panting and sweating, you give Feyd Rautha your all, twirling in place, sliding on your feet. A different kind of choreography, which seems to work surprisingly well, with his almost animalistic force. Gurney taught you how to be powerful, how to land strikes which were as effective, as they were cunning. Duncan, on the other hand, taught you how to dance. So that's what you do.
Finally, you manage to grab at his free hand, locking your feet between his and bringing him closer to your blade. It stops just short of his artery, blocked by his dagger, the clash of metal reverberating through the halls. 
The smirk he gives you is beyond nasty, and forcefully, you push away from him, as if the very idea of skin to skin contact repulsed you. And it does, it truly does, especially now that adrenaline mixed with frustration boils in your head. 
- Again - you snarl his way, assuming your fighting stance.
- As my Lady commands - his voice has a natural growl to it, made even more prominent by the exertion of the fight, and he twists his body into a perversion of a curtsy.
This time you're the one to attack first, ignoring your menthor's words and relying on pure rage to guide your steps. A stab to his thigh, which he deflects with seemingly childish ease. Your tunic slips through his fingers, as you slide under his arm. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his blade, when he hides it into his belt. Confusion hits you suddenly. Was he giving up, why was he hiding his weapon? None of the questions get answered, as a foot curls itself around your ankle.
Your balance leaves you with a gasp of surprise, and soon, your back is on the floor, Feyd Rautha following closely behind. Your heated gaze meets his, as one hand wrenches the blade from your grasp and pins both your arms above your head. The other one supports his weight, as he hovers above you, light bleeding behind him in an unfitting image of a halo. 
Your chest heaves, sweat rolling down your collarbones, and the Harkonnen doesn't even try to hide the way his gaze follows a stray drop of salt, as it disappears between your breasts. 
- You fought well - he complements in a hushed tone, and you writhe desperately under his body.
The night terror rears its ugly head again, as you feel his tighs press onto your sides, almost as if he wants to shape your flesh into the imprint of his body.
- I think I prefer you like this - he whispers, face coming closer to the exposed column of your neck - You belong under me. 
That's what does it. Your face twists into an expression of equal parts disgust, and fury. You won't give him this victory, you'd rather die. Legs tangle themselves around his calves, and you use all your strength fueled by the burning need to fucking hurt him. 
The world spins, two bodies rolling on the floor, and suddenly you're on top of him, legs biting into his hip bones. While one hand supports your weight on his naked shoulder, the other finds the dagger hidden in his belt. The surprised gasp, which leaves his lips feels like music to your ears, and you don't even try to fight the awful smirk splitting your mouth.
The shield on his neck glows an angry red, as you press the tip of the blade down, right under his bobbing Adam's apple. He swallows, for just a second letting you see the mask of self confidence slip. He has quite long eyelashes, you notice, as his eyelids flutter, a low hum reverbating through his chest. Eyes that are neither blue nor completely black drink in the sight of you. The halo of your hair, the snarl on your lips, the curve of your waist, where one of his hands settle. 
Missing all of this, too enraptured by your own fury, you push the blade further down until it pricks his alabaster skin. He hisses through his blackened teeth and you want more, you want him to scream. A thin streak of red begins to flow down his neck, and God help you, it looks like art. 
His grip on your waist tightens, all five fingers digging into your flesh through the thin tunic. Feyd Rautha bares his teeth at you in a cruel smile, one that makes you question whether you're the one in control.
And then his hips roll upwards. 
A barely noticable movement, easily mistaken for a spasm of the muscles, but you know better. You can read it all from his expression, his pupils blown wide, the quickened breaths of air slipping past his lips. From the quickly hardening length pressing against your inner thigh. 
Your stomach flutters with a well known feeling, and that terrifies you more than any pain-motivated erection ever could. Because he sees it, he sees the beginning flames of desire taking root in your center, and the realization looks like ecstasy on his face. Humiliation washes through you, fills you completely. There is no awkward blush on your face, no. All you feel is white, freezing terror, as all your defences seem to crumble all at once.
Like a scared animal, you're off of him in a split-second, and he doesn't chase you, as you all but run from the training barracks. Doesn't have to, he already has everything he needs. 
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Text
It's A Special Death You Saved (Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x Female!Reader) pt.1
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a/n: i had a "no bald men" rule before he licked a knife... so y'all know my priorities are in order. Cross-Posted on AO3
Warnings: Dub-Con (as per usual), Arranged Marriage, Reader is an Atreides (it's just such a good prompt i couldn't help myself),
Summary: A month-long engagement to the na-Baron Harkonnen makes you question, whether a marriage can bloom on the grounds of hate. Loosely based on "Special Death" by Mirah.
Pt.2
The message comes from the Emperor himself. An indisputable order that renders your Father speechless. You've never seen him quite as distraught, as when he has visited you in your chambers to deliver the news. Hands fidgeting, eyes refusing to meet yours, heavy shadows falling across his face. He seems to expect your reaction, not giving you as much as a flinch, when you scream your protests at him. And he should've expected as much, you were always the more impulsive of Duke Leto's children. 
- But the Harkonnens are beasts - you argue, voice breaking - You've said it yourself, many times.
- Actually, I think that was Gurney...
- You've never denied it!
And he doesn't deny it now, head hung low. Never, not once in your life, have you seen your Father give up. Until today. 
Your Mother enters just a few seconds after him, her dress flowing around her ankles as if she had floated in on a cloud. She stands to the side of your bed, hands folded, and an impassive expression embedded onto her features. And the more she speaks of the centuries of breeding, the importance of an union and the powers beyond your understanding, the less you see of your mother. What stands before you, instead, is a Bene Gesserit sister, veiled in schemes and dark plans, which were in the making before you were even born. You curse yourself for not noticing this stranger sooner, and storm off, out of your room, your shawl blowing out behind you like bat wings.
Paul doesn't visit you, but you can hear him, even through the effort of swallowing down your tears. He fights for you against your Father. He would fight for you against the whole Empire if he had to, and your heart swells, as he throws a particularly nasty curse into the air of your Father's study. It doesn't change anything. According to the decree of the Emperror, the oldest daughter of the Duke Leto Atreides will marry Feyd Rautha, an heir to the Baron Harkonnen. A centuries long dispute is about to be put to an end, and all thanks to the small sacrifice, which is your life. All would be well in the galaxy. Really, you should be honored, to be tasked with such a monumental peace treaty.
Everyone in the court seems to know about your situation. Mournful looks follow you, as you walk into the training barracks, ridding yourself of layers upon layers of flowing fabrics, leaving you in a rather tight costume, light enough to beat your frustrations out on someone.
Duncan Idaho meets your searching eyes, and you know he is aware as well. All it takes is one inclination of your chin, and he's up on his feet, sword in hand. Loyal as ever, he stands in front of you, watches with mixed feelings as you enable your shield, no questions asked. None needed. 
He barely has time to put his defenses up, when you charge at him, fury and despair pushing your movements into stances which are clumsy and ill though out. Still, there's power within your strikes, a strength of someone who needs to move, unless they break. So he lets you, for a couple of minutes. He dodges your attacks, pairing some of them, never moving quite into the offense.
The rest of the soldiers scurry off somewhere, for which you will be thankful in the future. They might hear your cries of anger, but they will not see you break. They will not see the way your blade smashes into Duncan's shield over and over again, with no regard for the slow attacks, which would penetrate it. Likewise, they don't see your sparring partner fall to his knees and swipe you off your feet in a split-second movement, making you hit the floor with a frustrated snarl. And they don't see you finally give up, and cry, hugging your blade to your chest, the severity of your circumstance falling onto you, crushing you down.
- Never fight in anger, Princess - Duncan reminds you, voice cautious, and you growl at him like a wild animal - It dulls your instincts, makes you distracted.
- Did you know? - you demand, your sharp voice cutting through his half-assed lecture.
For a moment he looks truly remorseful. His eyes float around the room, and your heart sinks when he sighs deeply.
- I found out not long ago - he confesses - Your Father told me. 
Your blade slides against the floor as you throw it, a raw scream tearing through your throat. Duncan takes a step towards you, hand extended towards your shaking form. But, before he can attempt to touch you, you're up, rolling your shoulders forcefully. Tears stain your cheeks, and you wipe them roughly with the back of your hand, skin becoming irritated almost instantly. There are swords laid out on a small table, just beside you,  your fingers grip the cold handle so hard, your knuckles seem to creak under the pressure. Duncan readies himself as well, dusting off his trousers. 
He's not good at comforting, but he's the best at fighting, and if that's what you need in this cold morning, he'll oblige. 
- You'll make it through, you know - he says, his voice genuine, and you laugh without any mirth.
Your blades clash, faces coming closer as you absentmindedly notice small scars adorning his cheeks.
- You can adapt to anything - you strike against his shoulder, the shield pushes your blade away - We could send you to Arrakis right now, and a week later you'd be riding a damned Sandworm into battle.
To that, you laugh, this time your smile reaching your eyes. The idea is preposterous, but it renders your footsteps lighter, and you twist to dodge a nasty blow to the right arm. Duncan huffs a laugh as well, as you slip through his fingers. He points his blade in your direction, a smirk playing across his lips, and you bare your teeth in a playful display of wildness.
- Careful, Princess, you might scare your betrothed away - Duncan teases, as you roll your dagger in your hand.
- Scare a damned Harkonnen? Do you find me that intimidating? - the idea thrills you just a little bit, you're woman enough to admit it.
- I think you're fucking terrifying.
- Duncan Idaho, you better not be swearing at my Daughter.
Your face falls immediately, as your Father approaches the two of you, shooting Duncan a stern gaze which holds no real threat. Still, your sparring partner raises his hands, his blade tucked away safely into his belt. There's sweat clinging to your skin from all the training, mingling with drying tears on your cheeks, and Duke Leto tries very hard not to comment on your choice of processing recent events. Still, he nods at you, and like a good daughter, you put your blade away, walking from the barracks after him. 
***
The Emperor has called for a traditional, Atreides engagement. A mercy, which you're eternally grateful for. You're not too aware of Harkonnen customs regarding marriage, but given the House's reputation, it couldn't have been pleasant. House Atreides however, took to such matters much more ceremonially, old-fashioned to some. 
Soon, a ship is arriving, with your betrothed onboard, and a month-long courting period willcommence. After that, official engagement and soon after, a wedding. Then, you will be transported back on Geidis Prime, where a life of misery awaits. That's all the time you have. A month.  
The dress, which was picked out for you, is uncomfortable and shows both too much and too little skin at the same time. While your legs are bare and exposed to an almost scandalous degree, a high, stiff collar nearly chokes the life out of you. This whole getup was the idea of your mother, as an attempt to highlight your best features and hide all that might be considered less desirable. 
You have no idea what's wrong with your neck. Perhaps, by cutting off your airflow, your mother aimed to keep you docile. 
She frowns deeply as you tug on the fabric, nerves climbing up your spine, growing more desperate every second. She swats at your hand, and you throw her a look. Out of the corner of your eye Paul smiles at your antics, your only consolation in this hopeless place. 
- Stop fidgeting, you'll tear the dress - Lady Jessica scolds you, and you can sense actual worry underlining her stern voice.
The Harkonnen ship slowly glides into the atmosphere of your home planet, a black, awful thing. Like all things on Geidis Prime, dark and miserable. Soon, you'll join them, adorned in equally black and lifeless clothing, never to see your family again. Never to see the Ocean. Your nails bite into the collar of the dress, you can hear a stitch tear.
- Stop that.
Your hands fall uselessly against your body, as your mother uses the Voice on you. Wouldn't be the first time, you were quite the unruly daughter and Lady Jessica was determined to make a Lady out of you no matter the means. Still, this time, the unnatural tone feels more like a panicked plea,  than a light-hearted scolding. 
- Relax Mother - your voice is sharp, despite the slight tremble - In a months time I'll be gone from here forever, stuck in some blackened cell, wistfully sighing "ooh" "aah".
You place your hand on your forehead in a dramatic display of doubtful acting abilities. When you were younger, your mother would laugh at you, as you enacted scenes from romance books. You would throw yourself at a nearby piece of furniture, pretending to be some wronged lover, or an unhappy bride waiting for someone to liberate her. And your mother would clap her hands, thoroughly entertained.
Today however, she doesn't even crack a smile.
- I don't expect you to be happy about all this - she whispers - But I do expect you to wear your grief with some grace.
A slap would've been kinder, you think, and stare ahead, as the Harkonnen ship opens, and a group of people dressed in black spill out of it like ants from a drowning anthill. Your heart is thrumming hard in your chest, and your hand reaches out, despite all your apprehension, towards your mother. A force of habit, to search consolation within her disregarding the fact, that it was her meddling that put you here. 
Her fingers lace with yours, thumb stroking your palm in an attempt to soothe you. 
Immediately, you know which one of the bald headed Harkonnen is your betrothed. 
He's much taller than you, an imposing figure even despite his rather lean built. His skin is almost completely white, as expected, his teeth are blackened out, as expected as well, and his eyes are bearing into you with an intensity so oppressing, you almost look away. Almost. 
- I present to you, Feyd Rautha, the na-Baron of House Harkonnen. 
The pale man steps forward, releasing you from his gaze for only just a moment, to trade pleasantries with your Father, who looks beyond miserable as he fixes your soon-to-be husband with a tired look. Then, Feyd Rautha is brought before you.
There's grace to his movements you did not expect, as he pushes his black cloak aside, and kneels in front of you. Harkonnen were known for their bulky ruthlessness, but this one... This one reminded you of a panther, the way his eyes travelled the length of your body, full lips pulling upward into a barely noticable smirk. 
Customs, you remind yourself, as your mother's hand squeezes your fingers. You don't want to let her go, but you do, slowly, with so many mixed thoughts rattling around your brain, it makes your head swim. 
Feyd Rautha grabs your extended hand in such a gentle manner, you're almost convinced the Harkonnens have shaved some poor bastard and dropped him off instead of the real na-Baron. Then, he lifts your palm up, until his lips press against your fingertips, a gesture so tender, your heart does a flip in your chest. And then, it stops all together, when his grip on your palm tightens, and he pulls your hand closer, to kiss it properly. As if he can't help himself, he looks up at you, and you realize. 
You almost got yourself caught, but reading people's intentions have been taught to you as fervently as reading texts, and you can see right through this facade of chivalry. There's darkness in this man, a swirling void, which brings a wave of cold fear upon you. This cunning, depraved creature will soon enough become your husband, and you'll be stuck with him forever. How long will he keep up this impeccable appearence? Was this performence for you, your Father, his own twisted fun, or all the things combined?
With a furrowed brow, you tear your hand out of his grasp, a full body shiver running up your spine at the sight of his self-satisfied smirk. He drinks up your reactions like a man parched, and you fight hard to put on a mask of indifference, as he rises from his knees to stand before you in all his imposing glory.
***
You can feel his eyes follow you, as the welcome committee retreats into the Palace. He doesn't let you out of his sight throughout the feast, which takes place immediately after his arrival, and even now, as he gets ready to "entertain" the court by indulging in some barbaric ceremony of his, his eyes are trained only on you. 
It's uncomfortable, to say the least, having him stare at you, while you sit surrounded by your family, who, for the most part, say nothing. Except Paul. Your dear baby brother, your protector in all this madness. As Feyd Rautha throws his coat to the side, showing off his (admittedly impressive) muscles, Paul leans towards you.
- He looks like a hard boiled egg, don't you think sister? - he whispers and subsequently ends your vow of silence. 
The giggle you let out is caught quickly by everyone around, your betrothed included, before you press an open palm against your lips. 
- Behave - your mother warns, and you try, you really do.
But in the serene light of the fading sun, your soon-to-be husband's head does look frighteningly egg-ish. God, you'll get yourself killed, before the wedding ceremony is even resolved if you keep this up.
You're seated high in an outdoor theater. One of your grandfather's favorite places, where he used to dance with bulls for sport. Where he met his demise.
Feyd Rautha presents his knives to you and your family, their blades glint ominously in the setting sun. Again, you are struck with the sheer grace this man exudes. His movements, despite being forceful and wild, have a beauty to them, as if he was rehearsing ancient dance moves, rather than killing blows.
And, despite your brother's earlier comment, there is something enticing in the way his pale skin catches the rays of bleeding sunshine, slowly creeping towards the horizon. He's almost beautiful, almost handsome enough to consider. 
The thought leaves your head almost immediately, as the Harkonnen servants bring in his apparent opponent. Your heart drops to your stomach at the sight of a beaten, dark skinned warrior. Immediately you recognize a Fremen, you've read so much about them in your free time. You know how they filter water, what they eat, how they move through the sands, and despite your knowledge you can't fathom, why this poor man has been brought here. 
At your side, Paul shifts in his seat, all jokes leaving him in a hurry. The both of you watch, as the man you're promised to toys with a clearly drugged victim. Slashes bloom on the prisoners skin, blood sprays in the air. You refuse to look away, to show such weakness, even as Feyd Rautha grabs the poor man by his hair and with a forceful push impales his throat on the blade. Blood pours down onto the sand, paints the Harkonnen's face and chest a deep shade of red.
It's a brutal display of power, of cruelty and wildness the Harkonnens are known for. Suddenly, everything Gurney has warned you about, while training your fighting skills, rings like a thousand of bells in your ears. This is who you will marry, who you will spend your entire life with. 
You swallow down an urge to throw up, and stand up from your seat. 
The show must go on, you think, throwing your Mother one, venomous look, trying to force her to understand your pain. Then, you lock eyes with your betrothed, who watches you from below with a cruel smile, blackened teeth on full display. You meant to congratulate him, to play the part as instructed, but you can do nothing of the sort. Instead, you stare back at him, disgust flowing from your features like a broken faucet. 
Lady Jessica opens her mouth, but before she can, without a doubt, scold you again, you're out of the seating area, your footsteps echoing in the halls. 
Once you're sufficiently tucked away from prying eyes, your back hits the wall, and you allow yourself feel the luxury of unbridled panic. Your breathing comes out in fast, shallow pants, as cold sweat forms on your forehead. Thoughts racing, your fingers tangle into your hair, tugging at the roots. This is your future, the only future waiting for you, and it's filled wth pain and blood.
- Have you enjoyed the fight, my Lady? - you immediately know it's him, despite not hearing him speak before.
A gasp of surprise leaves you before you can catch it, and your back straightens almost painfully fast. 
There he stands, tall and lean, and terrifying. Blood still decorates his torso creating a contrast that is both terrifying and hypnotizing. He watches you, curiosity and humor swirling behind his eyes. You can't decide whether they are completely blackened out, or if they hold a blue, almost serene hue. 
- No - you answer, finding your voice entirely too shaky for your liking - I did not enjoy it.
He laughs, a guttural, low sound that makes the hair stand at the back of your neck. You know he wouldn't dare try anything here, right under your Father's nose while the engagement is still in the making. Yet, as you stand frozen, just you, him and the marble walls around you, dread finds home in the pit of your stomach.
- Was that man Fremen? - you ask, partially to fill the silence, partially because you're genuinely curious.
The man shrugs, you can see muscles moving under his white skin. He takes a step towards you and you will yourself not to run.
- Sometimes we bring a couple of captured desert rats home - he explains with a nonchalant tone - Mostly for entertainment.
The almost bored intonation he uses to describe this barbaric ritual makes something boil deep inside you. 
- That's cruel - you counter, emotions flowing freely onto your face, much to the man's delight - To deny those men the honor of dying on their home planet. To drag them into a completely foreign place, just to kill them for sport, like some animals... It's...
- Some of them live - he cuts you off, taking another couple of steps towards you, but in your growing outrage, you barely notice - Our brothels are filled with Fremen whores.
Your face twist into an expression of utter repulsion, and Feyd Rautha raises his eyebrows in a pathetic mask of confusion, almost childlike giddiness lighting up his eyes as he looks down at you.
- Oh, don't give me that look, my Lady. - he cooes, and you've never felt a stronger urge to slap the daylights out of someone - I know for a fact there are brothels on your planet filled with hungry soldiers.
- Yes - you bark back at him - but the people there are working prostitutes, not slaves!
He shrugs, looking somewhere to the side of your face.
- A waste of money, if you'd ask me.
- Good thing no one has - there's venom in your voice, and your betrothed sucks a breath through his teeth.
You curse yourself for leaving your dagger, for not concealing it somewhere in this ridiculous dress, because the way the Harkonnen's expression shifts freezes blood right in your veins. 
He looks at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips, while something much darker lurks in his eyes. His bloodied hand comes up, finger making contact with the exposed skin of your shoulder. You can feel the thick liquid stick to your flesh, as he drags his hand down, painting you, marking you.
- You're quite the little viper, my Lady.
Watching him silently, you don't respond. Don't know how to, when he closes the distance between your bodies enough to make you feel the heat radiating off of his chest, while the smell of blood and sweat completely assaults your senses. It's sickening, the way he looks at you, like you're a new toy, just waiting to be unpacked and destroyed by too eager hands. 
- My Uncle, the Baron, has instructed me, to be the utmost gentleman to you. To woo you completely - his voice is low, barely above a whisper, as he grins down at you - But I just can't lie to my future wife like that, can I?
He leans closer and finally, you take a step back, sliding out of his space, assessing a cautious stance. His hand almost follows you, the skin of your shoulder feels conflictingly cold without him.
- Once we're wed, I will possess you completely - this time you stand your ground, as he approaches, circling you like a lion stalking it's prey - And then...
He leans down beside you, shoulder to your shoulder, close enough for you to feel his hot breath graze your ear.
- Like the bull that took your grandfather's life, I shall pierce you.
The violent innuendo doesn't slip past you, and with hatred brewing behind your eyes, you look straight at him, forcing your fear to lay dormant. 
- You're disgusting.
- And you're blushing like a lovely, virgin bride should - he concludes, sending an awful wink your way, before withdrawing from you completely. 
Your veins burn hot, as you watch him leave, a selfish confidence painting his steps, and you beg every God in existence to grant you a sword in your hand. Or a dagger. A kitchen knife would do as well. Anything, that would help you cut this unbeatable, patronizing, infuriatingly handsome smirk from Feyd Rauthas face.
Alas, you're left with nothing, only a small glimmer of hope dangling in front of you, after your damned betrothed's words fully register in your brain.
A bride you might be, but certainly not a virgin one. Duncan Idaho made sure of that many years ago. The thought makes you smile, despite nerves wreaking havoc in your body. At least that's the one thing Feyd Rautha won't be able to take from you.
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You know the biggest loss of the decline of physical media and the rise of streaming? DVD special features.
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the pillars holding up society:
people who film bootlegs of stage shows
people who write transcripts/captions for media that was released without them
wikipedia editors
people who translate funny tiktoks
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🍉Data sources under the cut🍉
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He is in fact, the ideal man.
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JASON SEGEL as NICK ANDOPOLIS Freaks and Geeks | 1999-2000
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Evidence that the showrunners have a clear Alicent favoritism: stealing Rhaenyra’s book canon moment in the spotlight and giving it to Alicent.
In the book, Rhaenyra (age 14) showed up at her father’s wedding anniversary, dressed in magnificent Targaryen red and black, outshining Alicent.
HBO decided to take Rhaenyra’s moment and give it to Alicent, so she could show up at Rhaenyra’s wedding in a green dress and indirectly declare war…for no good reason whatsoever.
Rhaenyra was the Crown Princess, and her statement made a great deal of sense in the book. She was the future of House Targaryen and no Hightower upstart would take that away from her.
Alicent’s “statement” in the show was that she was a petty and hypocritical skank who got a taste of power and kind of forgot where she came from and who she was before marrying Viserys.
I see a pattern here: whenever the showrunners try to make Alicent more sympathetic or “impressive”, it kind of backfires and damages the character even more.
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Israel wipes out entire families, this is not self defense. This is genocide of the highest degree.
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The sadness and despair in those eyes...
There are no innocent soldiers in iof, including the women. I've seen female soldiers laughing and dancing at the misery of Palestinian people and doing heinous acts just like their male counterparts.
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RYAN GOSLING "I'm Just Ken" wins Best Original Song at the 29th Annual Critics' Choice Awards (January 14, 2024)
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In WWII, in 6 years, 67 journalists were killed
In the Vietnam war, in 20 years, 63 journalists were killed
In Gaza, in 70 days, 89 journalists were killed
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To anyone wondering if it's worth it to tear down fascist posters or whatever. I spent a few months last year engaged in silent battle with another student at my school who was putting anti trans stickers up everywhere. I had it down to a system where every night I would walk the five block radius they went up in, and tear down all the ones I could reach, and use a stick to put duct tape over the others. Like, within hours of the stickers going up, I would have already purged the whole zone. I knew the basic schedule of whoever put them up based on when and where the stickers appeared. I probably could have found them in person if I'd wanted to. And I told all my classmates and friends what the stickers looked like and got them to rip them down too. And after a few months of this, the stickers slowed, and then stopped forever.
My point is, a lot of this fashy or right wing stuff is one local weirdo. And if you pay attention, and do a little light organizing with your friends, you can basically make their efforts into a giant sisyphisean exercise in misery. You control your streets!
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