#i have my playlist ready my deranged notes in front of me we're doing this

[plutoswritingplanet]

Strip Me Down And Paint Me Black (Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: ah shit, here we go again... A continuation of "It's A Special Death You Saved", but it can be read as a separate story. Title from "Cinnamon" by Marika Hackman

Warnings: Harkonnen-typical Violence, some Sexual Tension, some Kissing, Enemies to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers to Enemies to Lo...

Summary: As you struggle with your new role as the Na-Baron's wife, plans are set in place, which will shake the very foundations of your life. Good thing, your husband is there to support you, right?

He watches you. Constantly. 

You can feel his eyes moving over your body, soaking it in like a man parched. Every movement, every twitch of your muscles is noted, stored for later. It's like he's keeping a detailed record of your every reaction, as if he wants to keep it catalogued, create a mold of you in his mind. The furrowing of your brows and the squinting of your eyes, when the Black Sun of Giedi Prime first hits your vision. How your skin turns completely gray, devoid of any color, as you take your first step off the travelling ship. 

You shift uncomfortably under his gaze, refusing to meet it, as your eyes adjust to the sheer force of the swallowing black light. 

Touch is scarce and almost revered, when he lifts his hand to inspect a curl of your hair, the strand sliding between his fingers. He raises it towards the sun, admires it with silent appreciation, and somehow, instead of touching the softer parts of your being, this small gesture makes you want to scream. Because you know.

You understand, that this is what he wants to see. Black and white, and empty. No trace of the color before, only the bleakness and brutality of the Harkonnen. And you refuse, plain and simple. You refuse to be stuffed into this unforgiving planet, expected to bed yourself over to fit it. You value your Atreides lineage more than anything in life, and you'll sooner die, than discard it. 

No matter, how delicate he has been since your first night together, how much the heat of his alabaster skin has brought you comfort, you can feel in the pit of your stomach. That this is all some elaborate rouse to keep you docile. To keep you a perfect image of a wife, the future Na-Baroness. It can't be anything else, surely. 

So even now, as you admire the strangeness of this new planet, the blooming light that envelopes your skin, you force yourself to be on guard. Even as you look up at him, his sharp features and soft eyes, you bite down on any affection that might've reared its ugly head to the surface. This is not your home, and despite the ceremonies and the titles, this was not your husband. He was an impostor, a Devil sent from the Emperor himself to destroy your life. 

His lips flash in a mirthless smile, when his eyes lock with yours. The blackened teeth, the stained gums, you hated that mouth with all your being. You hated that it fit against yours, and that it didn't repulse you quite as much as you would've anticipated. And you hated his hands. The same ones capable of such ruthless brutality, and also more than capable of soothing your sore muscles, of toying with a lock of your hair, as if your entire being was made of the finest, most delicate glass.

A small, barely coherent voice whispers in your mind, reminding you of the rustling of the leaves when wind picked up, back home. You can't live like this, it supplies, you can't survive on hate alone. 

But you've always been stubborn, like a bull. And as his hand slides down to the dip of your waist, as he leads you from the spaceship to the shuttle, and then to the Palace, hate is all you can focus on. The swallowing pit of your stomach, much like the swallowing heat of the sun above you. It expands and pulsates within your veins, as your husband parades you like a prized trophy. Bald, white heads turn, salute the both of you, dissapear in a crowd of similar faces, similar blackened stares. 

It's like you're surrounded by an army of ghosts.

- Welcome home, wife - he whispers into your ear, and you don't know how you manage to stop tears from springing in your eyes. 

Not home. Never home. Your home had trees and oceans, and your Mother, your Father and your perfect Brother. Your home had Duncan, with his warm embrace and little scars littered all across his honey-colored skin. Your home had a sun that is warm and welcoming, that brings vibrancy to your life, and doesn't wash everything out, doesn't swallow all beauty. 

The clothes you wear, the clothes he wants you to wear, are nothing like what you're used to. They make your body feel foreign, like an accessory more than your own flesh. You hate the feeling of the sheer fabric clinging to your skin, like some suffocating membrane. The heavy jewelry, which reminds you more and more of a slave's collar. He put it on you with his own hands. Delicately fitting it around your neck, caressing it with the calloused pads of his fingers, a proud expression decorating his sharp featured like a war medal. 

You wonder what he sees, when he looks at you. Are your sentiments shared? Does he see you, as you see yourself, a doll dressed for his entertainment? A wife, should the politics require it? You're sure he does, there is no other way to describe the pitiful reflection in the mirror. Perhaps, in time, you might be able to fight back some semblance of dignity, to find a way of embracing these strange fabrics. Make this cold metal feel more like a necklace for a Baroness, rather than collar for cattle. Perhaps. 

Right now, however, as his Harpies dress you, you feel less like yourself and more like a toy, for your husband to enjoy. They can't really pin your hair properly, and you don't blame them, you really can't. When's the last time they were forced to care for someone in such a manner, if they ever were? Today, they're extra zealous, rubbing your skin raw with the chemically smelling oils. It makes your head swim, the scent of some unfamiliar paste. Your eyes water, and before you can blink the tears away, one of the Harpies soaks it up right from the corner of your eye with some flimsy tissue. 

She places the wet part against her tongue, and surprisingly, it doesn't bother you, as she tastes your tears, watching your reaction with completely black eyes. You meet her stare with a blank expression. At this moment, as she begins to slide another piece of sheer fabric over your body, you can't think of a way to be afraid of her, or her companion, which is fitting a pair of leather slippers over your feet. What lies ahead is so much more terrifying.

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has invited you for dinner. 

The news is delivered by a horrified servant, bald head bowed, seconds after you arrive in your marital room. Your husband doesn't even blink, immediately shedding his travel clothing, and disappearing somewhere out of your sight. The Harpies swarm into the room soon after, carrying various vials and bowls, and you already know the routine. 

The prospect of dining with your family's greatest enemy seems so outlandish, your body doesn't fully register the danger. Instead, you can feel yourself shut down, sink into yourself, between the constant expanding and contracting of your lungs, and the sound of your blood rushing through your skull. 

Only, when one of the Harpies turns you towards a polished piece of black obsidian, only when you can finally see yourself, do you react. A barely-there gasp escapes your mouth, because for the second time today, you're surprised with the brutal beauty of this place, and how easily you blend into it. The Harpy leans over your shoulders, stands on her toes to reach you, and before you can react, her teeth scrape over the shell of your ear. 

It doesn't hurt, and you turn your head towards her, faces inches from each other. Her head turns to the side, like some curious bird, and yet again, you can't fully decide whether you're looking at a human being, or some animalistic experiment. Your hand lifts itself on its own accord, fingers finding the Harpy's chin. Gently, but with enough force, you turn her face away from yourself. She doesn't recoil from your touch, doesn't react in any violent manner. If anything, her expression in the obsydian mirror looks almost bordering on proud. You try not to shiver at the thought. 

Then, your husband appears from the shadows, truly demon-like, and the women, or creatures, scurry out of the room, vials clanking against each other, as they gather them in their muscled arms. For just a second you're struck with the realization, that you miss their company, unsettling as it is.

- Don't be afraid of them - those are the first words coming from Feyd-Rautha you've heard since you've arrived. 

- I'm not - and truly, you mean it. 

He regards you with a long, dragging look, taking in the layers of fabric encapsulating the shape of your body. It's truly a hassle, to stop yourself from flinching, when the length of his body presses against your back. His chin finds purchase in the juncture between your shoulder and the column of your neck, and his head dips down to inhale the scent of your skin. You can't believe he's able to smell anything other than the strong chemicals his Harpies rubbed into you, but you don't argue. Instead, you sway in his hold, closing your eyes, and letting your imagination take you somewhere warmer, somewhere home. 

- I need you to be very careful tonight - he whispers into your skin, and you almost whine at being forced out of your daydream - My Uncle doesn't take kindly to insubordination, and although you are my wife, I won't be able to protect you from everything. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his skin, white and spotless, pressing into yours, marred with freckles and beauty spots. What a contrast you make against him. His mouth moves over your artery, nose dragging upwards, until he reaches the space behind your ear. He plants a kiss there, which immediately turns into a small bite, and your hands grip onto his forearms. 

- Careful, you sound almost concerned about my well-being - there's a limited amount of sarcasm one could convey with such a breathless tone, but you manage, eyes locked onto the silhouette of the both of you in the mirror. 

To that, he lifts his head, eyes locking with yours in the reflection. 

- I don't like when others break my toys - he answers with a shrug, and laughs quietly at your outraged expression. - I prefer to do it myself. 

Your muscles tense beneath his grip, and you turn to face him fully. Still, he doesn't let go, holding you close, smirking at you with that same self-satisfied expression. 

- Oh don't worry - your cheeks start to warm up at the teasing tone of his voice - I haven't even had the time to properly play with you.

- I ha-

- Hate me, I know. - he interrupts, one of his hands coming up to grab at your chin, tilting your head towards him - Tonight, try to hate me in the privacy of our bedroom. For your own sake.

His head dips down, lips slotting against yours easily, and although you fight hard against the pull, soon, your mouth moves against his in a kiss that is entirely too gentle for the nature of your relationship. He whispers something in that godawful Harkonnen language, tilting his chin to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw. Then, satisfied, he lets you go, and you encircle yourself with your own arms, refusing to admit, that you're cold without him. 

Making a mental note to ask for tutorship on the language, you allow him to lead you out of the safety of your shared bedroom, down the winding, black corridors, towards your first, and biggest challenge. 

- With courage and grandiose... - you whisper, as the door to the dining hall slides open, and ignore with all your might, the way your husband's hand twitches around your waist. 

The first member of the court you meet, is not the Baron. 

Instead, a man of slender stature comes out to greet the both of you, a polite smile plastered on his tattooed lips. His eyes flicker between you and your husband, and absentmindedly, they remind you of little black beetles. 

- Piter de Vries - he introduces himself, grabbing your hand with graceful movement - Mentat of the court. 

He places a kiss over your knuckles, and something scarily close to disgust rises in your gut. 

- The holotapes don't reflect your beauty, my lady - his voice is unsettlingly quiet, and it worms itself into your ears like an unwelcome guest. 

Still, your husband's thumb moves against your back, rubbing up and down your spine, and you swallow thickly before replying.

- I'm honored to meet you.

He can see through the lie like you're made of glass, but you can't find it in you to care. This is not the man you're supposed to convince, and even if this Mentat is a constant whisper in the Baron's ear, let him know there's character to you still. 

- I assure you, the honor is mine - his eyes glide over your features greedily, and you wonder if this hunger is a characteristic of all inhabitants of this planet - It's not everyday you meet Lady Jessica's Daughter. 

Blood freezes in your veins at the comment, and not even the ever-present touch of your husband can stop your expression from changing. Ice and steel overtake, as you fix the Mentat in front of you with a hard stare. There is something in his gaze, something slimy and dangerous, that makes a pit form in your stomach. Still, tied to court's intricate pleasantries, you twist your face into a forced smile. 

- You know my Mother? - the question slips out from between your teeth.

The man nods, a perverted version of a curtsy that makes you want to turn on your heel, and haul yourself back into your room. Damn your husband and all the uncomfortable ways he makes you squirm, you'll take it all if it meant never talking to this Mentat ever again. 

- In a way - the answer does nothing to calm your nerves - Her talents are known throughout the whole galaxy. 

- Yes, I'm sure they are - the barely noticable note of sarcasm some how registers in your husband's brain, and with a guiding hand, he pushes you forward, towards the dining hall.

Before you can get away from the Mentat, his unnaturally cold hand wraps itself around your wrist, keeping you in place with light pressure. 

- I'm desperately interested in what you may offer the court - he says, voice low and bordering on ominous, and the pit in your stomach trurns into a boulder.

Lips curling in disgust, you wrench your hand away, but as you wind your palm back to deliver a slap across the smirking man's face, something white enters your vision. From behind your back, Feyd Rautha delivers a resounding hit to the Mentat's cheek, with enough force to send him stumbling to the floor. Your mouth hangs agape, as that same hand curls around your waist, and pushes forward, until you're forced to take a step, and then another. 

Whipping your head around to look at him, all you can see, is that same passively bored expression he has worn, since your arrival to the planet. Not even a muscle twitches, not until the door closes behind you in the dining hall. Eyes trained forward, the hand guiding you slides up your spine right to the base of your head, where he grabs a loose fistful of your hair, and pries you away from him, setting your face forward. 

Like a doll, your mind supplies, but all further thoughts get swallowed by a thundering wave of anxiety, as your eyes fall onto the only other man present in the dining hall. 

You can't fully comprehend where the floor ends and the walls begin, the whole room looking more like an endless void of black, polished stone. The table is obscenely long, but narrow, and filled with various foods, none of which you recognize. Your breath catches, as you notice a macabre center piece right in the middle of the table. A beautiful female deer stands surrounded by black flowers, it's limbs kept immobile by some invisible force. It's eyes move though, skittering around the place, revealing that this poor creature used as some messed up decoration, is in fact alive. 

- Welcome, my dear nephew - a low, slightly slurred voice rings out throughout the empty space, and finally, you can feel real dread. 

- Uncle. - Feyd Rautha inclines his head, before all but pushing you forward into the belly of the beast.

And what a terrifying belly it is. 

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen towers over the end of the table, his frame as difficult to comprehend as the rest of the dining hall. He smiles at your husband, a show of black teeth against greying skin, and then his eyes move towards you. He doesn't hide the cruel, twisted expression, that flashes across his face, contorted in the low, floating lights. Then, as if a mask slipped onto him while you were blinking, he looks decievingly kind, like an image of a caretaker, distorted in a nightmare. 

- Lady Atreides - his voice bellows, and despite every muscle in your body screaming at you to run, you take a step forward, before taking a shallow bow - A spitting image of your Father. I'm delighted to have you here, on my planet. 

Swallowing hard, you risk a glance at your husband. He has abandoned you in favor of taking a seat in the only one of two available chairs. Blue eyes flash towards you, a hidden warning, and dare you say, a hint of concern. The deer on the table is breathing rapidly, you've just noticed. 

- My Baron - your voice doesn't shake, a small blessing - I'm honored to meet you. 

The rehearsed line seems hallow in the booming echo of the dining room, and you pray that it's enough. 

The Baron gives you no answer, as he wordlessly gestures towards the table, and after a second your body jerks in the direction of the chair. With stiff movements, you sit down, your dress digging uncomfortably under your ribs. The deer looks at you, it's eyes wide, nose contracting rapidly as it inhales. You want to grab it into your hands, tear it away from the force keeping it trapped, and set it free, so it can run into the fields of Caladan. Your husband takes a long sip from his chalice, and you mirror his movements. 

The liquid is sickly sweet, with a strong, chemical taste that coats your entire mouth. Fighting with the urge to spit it out, your neck strains as you swallow, feeling it travel down your throat, and into the pit of your stomach. 

Are you supposed to be the deer in this place? 

Feyd Rautha reaches for a vase of something vaguely resembling meat, and doesn't bother with his plate, taking the leg into his hand, and biting into it with reckless abandon. Some dark liquid spills over his mouth, down to his chin, and you have to look away, as he captures your gaze in an entirely too heated stare. This is not the time, you want to scream at him, but take another sip from the chalice instead. 

- A monumental moment in history is happening right in front of my eyes - the Baron starts, and your hand freezes half-way towards your lips. - The union of House Harkonnen and House Atreides. The Emperor truly is a wise man. 

- Of course - you agree, tying sarcasm to the back of your throat like an angry dog - I'm ever so grateful.

- I'm sure you are. 

The Emperror wants you dead, there is no other explanation. You can't move, can't look anywhere but the eyes of the deer, seeing yourself in the reflection of it's glossy iris. Save yourself, it seems to scream at you, and your throat constricts around your airwave. Save yourself, because I couldn't.

- Your cousin will be joining us shortly - the Baron directs his gaze towards Feyd-Rautha, and your husband immediately straightens his back against the chair. 

- Rabban? Shouldn't he be on Arrakis? - you don't remember when you've become so in-tune with your husband, but you sense his interest peaking immediately.

Something's wrong, something's terribly wrong, you can feel it. This slow dread climbs up your back like a snake, before sinking it's teeth into your nape. Eyes searching your husband's your fingers tighten around the chalice, around cold, black metal. You try to remember what your Mother would've done in a situation such as this. How she would comfort herself. Fear is the mind-killer, is the only thing that arrives, and the thought is as comforting, as a cold shower.

- By the Emperor's decree, our House has been ordained to leave Arrakis in favor of it's new stewardship.

You know what words are going to fall next, before they fall, and you close your eyes to brace for impact. 

- The stewardship of your Father. Of House Atreides. 

Someone save you, please. Your eyelids flutter open, gaze falling over your husband, as he watches you with a myriad of emotions running through his expression. You pray it doesn't settle on anger, and your prayers are heard. There is a cruel, twisting smirk in the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to look at his Uncle, with a silent question. The Baron inclines his head ever so slightly, you can see movement in the corner of your eye, but the deer is still breathing, and for some reason you have to keep an eye on it, you have to know it's still alive. 

You are not stupid. You've been trained to not be stupid, in life and in politics. It doesn't take too keen of a mind to understand the gravity of the situation. The steady flow of immense wealth the Harkonnens were known for, is suddenly cut short. Given to a rival House. This was not some beautiful gift of appreciation, this was a stoker shoved right into the burning flames. 

- I'm honored - you repeat, like a bell in a church tower, and somewhere to your left, the Baron laughs. 

- There will be celebrations, later this week - he continues, as if he hasn't just delivered life shattering news - We will honor your marriage in the traditions of our ancestors. 

- Which is? - you don't really care anymore if the shift in your tone is registered as offensive. 

Feyd Rautha actually, without a doubt kicks you under the table. You shoot him a look bordering on pure shock and outrage, and all you get in response is an arched eyebrow. 

Something rattles below you, a tell-tale sound of machinery whirling to life. It gives you only one second to register, but as soon as it does, your heart jumps up into your throat. Paper thin panes of glass shoot out from under the table. The deer gives a pathetic squeak, as it's body is cut into equal pieces. No blood is shed, the whole operation barely moves the air in the dining room, and you watch the life drain from the deer's eyes, as the panes begin to move. 

They separate each piece, creating a cross-section of it's insides. The chemical wine threatens to rush back out of you, and your dig your nails into your palms. Your husbands shoe settles in constant, grounding pressure against your ankle, and although you would never admit it, it's the only thing keeping you from shattering. Whether it's a threat or a promise, you can't be sure, but there is frost in your veins, and fire in your eyes, as you slowly turn your head towards the Baron. 

He's wrong. All of them are wrong. You're not some deer, some lost shivering thing, made for a display of cruelty. You will not be brough down to some decoration, and so, you raise your chin higher, and hold the Baron's gaze. His eyes, gleaming with violent delight, jump around your face, this strange battle coming to a sudden end, as the corner of his mouth quirks up.

He moves his hand in the air dismisively, and your husband stands up, a laziness to his movements. You stand up too, your chair shuffling against the polished floor, stiff limbs fighting for an illusion of graceful movements. Wishing you could drive your point further, you bow again, this time, your eyes remain glued to the black beads of irises, shining in the amassing of flesh that is the Baron's face. 

And then you're off, heels clicking on the floor, as you bypass your husband and all but storm out of the dining hall. He follows you, you can feel his pressence on your back, but there's too many emotions running through your head to find it unsettling. The silence of it all, the calmness. Perhaps you would've preferred if he had been angry with you, if you could pinpoint his reaction, bottle it up to hate it later. 

Right now, you can't do much, other than run to your shared rooms, pretend like they are a solice, a safe space for you to exist, when in reality, they're anything but. The unsettling realization, that you navigate these corridors like a natural born Harkonnen will hit you later today, but as such, you are blinded by your own anger.

 - Did you know? - the question sounds more like a demand, as soon as the door closes behind you.

Back turned, you stand in the middle of the bedroom, finally granting yourself the luxury of outrage. Shoulders rise and fall in tandem with your labored breaths, and your nails have bitten crescent moons into your palms. 

- Yes. - you've anticipated his answer, and still, it shocks you to the very core of your being.

Hair whips around your face, as you turn to face him., strands all but slipping from the inexperienced updo. He holds  your gaze with steady eyes, crosses his arms on his chest, but has the decency of looking on edge. 

- How long?

- The news came right after the engagement began.

That, admittedly, knocks the wind out of your lungs, and you take a step back, until your behind collides with the obsidian desk. Hiding your face in your hands, you rub your palms against your temples, tug at the roots of your hair in the process. 

- So, what now? - you ask, sounding so drained, so tired, you almost don't recognize your voice.

His shoes invade your vision, as he steps closer. Your husband, your Bull. You don't want to look up at his face, scared of what you'll find there. He doesn't share the same sentiment, apparently, as he lifts your chin with his fingers, until you meet him with a withering expression. 

Feyd Rautha leans down, capturing your lips with his. Not really in the mood for kissing, as your head races with a myriad of terrible thought, you push against him. Should've known better, he loves a fight. Tongue slipping through the barrier of your teeth, you can taste the strangely chemical wine on his breath. His hands grab what they can of your body, until they settle on the sides of your face, where he tugs you up onto your tippy toes, taking a drink of you, like he did from the chalice. 

Breathless and confusingly aroused, your fingers twist into the material of his dress shirt, but before you can truly let go, he pulls away. Hands still on your face, you are suddenly pulled forwards, as he drags you in front of the mirror. Thrown off guard by this change of pace, you try to writhe yourself away, only to be gripped even tighter, so hard, you can feel something shift under the skin of your jaw. 

There are dark stains all around your lips, stains that taste just like the wine. Feyd Rautha stands behind you, much like he did before the dinner, but all comfort from that moment is trampled under his foot, as he slides his arms around you. 

- Now, I must make you into a Harkonnen - he rasps into the base of your neck.

Then, reaching towards your lips, he wedges his fingers inside, pulls until you can see your teeth in the reflection. Black, thick liquid covers them completely, staining your mouth in the process. The wine, you realize, but before you can rationalise any more, tears spring in the corners of your mouth. Disgust bubbles in your stomach like an awoken volcano. Disgust and anger, so much anger. 

Your husband humms softly behind you, cranes your head back. 

Your body feels foreign again, as he kisses your tears off of your skin.