Blood & Marriage🩸Feyd Rautha x f! Reader

17;

There was no other plausible explanation except he enjoyed you dirty and sand—burnt and a TOTAL RADIOACTIVE MESS, more so than any Baronessly appearance.

So into it you didn't say a word, tolerating the steamy breaths and torchy eyes plundering your skin only covered with a hair thick chemise.

He'd removed the majority of your armour, putting it respectfully on a dais, experienced, too, the hooks and chains and knobs and buttons not a problem, only once did his hairless brow raise, at the eagle crest necklace hanging just above your breast.

"Let me see," he ordered when he caught sight of five inch slice on your right inner thigh, a little too high up for comfortably revealing.

You squeezed your legs together, "that's fine I can—."

"It wasn't a request," Feyd parted them, hands on your knees. "Do as I bid for once."

With a slight nod, too tired to protest, you obeyed, letting him spread them wide as they'd go. It wasn't lost that his entire, solid form existed in the very place he was meant to be since before you were born, pale fingers roaming around the grizzly hack.

"Does it hurt?" He asked lowly, head tilted, turning PRIMAL. "You can be honest with me."

COULD YOU? THIS WAS A CONUNDRUM, a real choice that could have consequences.

"Y—yes," you attempted to back up, to slither from the grip he had on your legs, he only hooked your knees under his arms to SLIDE you back, core thumping his taught stomach. "But only as much as it'd hurt you, too."

You felt the need to apologise, looking up at the ceiling.

"I've conquered pain," he spoke, shooing sticky hair from your shoulders, FRIGHTENINGLY INTENSE as he opened a gold fringed draw just beside his ass. "Sometimes I even enjoy it."

OH, MAKER, yeah that wasn't hard to believe. "Oh."

And he retrieved a sickening contraption, a long, see through tube attached to what looked like the pump on a perfume bottle.

Gold and black, thick as a tarantula abdomen, filled with a ghastly green liquid, your reflex to fight kicked in, hands on his chest, "Fe—."

"Hush," you instantly did, no malice seeping from him, his eyes pitch voids as he settled a thumb on your cupids bow, "don't be afraid, little Atreides."

"That's it, good girl." Rautha was pleased, tracing down your throat, casting a rough finger pad across your bruised collar bone, "savagery, as you call it," and the callus tip danced to the hem of the chemise hiding your breasts, "is a part of me, I was born into it, I could be nothing else," he stopped at the swell, marvelling at the eruption of chicken—skin, inhaling your iron smell deeply, "but I don't want to hurt you, Atr—woman."

Still, as if a blink could make him strike, you wondered why he seemed puzzled at the admission, pulling the safety tag from the medical device. "In fact, right now, I'd prefer to please you."

He picked up your wounded leg, balancing it over his elbow, "but first things first."

THE FUCKING TUBE INSERTED INTO THE WOUND,  naturally, high suction on repeat, cleansing and sucking and foaming and spraying, until the cut was sparkling, dead skin and sand debris in a pool in the sink.

Had he been inconsiderate? Yes. Had it stung like a bitch? Yes. Would you have preferred to have laid on a decorative pillow while he fed you Bon Bon's? No. Was this a bonding moment? YES.

"All done, wife." While you sagged against the vanity cupboard, about to make this marble countertop your new camp, Feyd knelt, wrapping a clean crepe bandage around it, tying the knot with a practiced finesse. "Now you need rest."