Paul Atreides / Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen
Chapter 1 - 3,270 words - Masterlist
Summary: Paul Atreides had always known politics would dictate his life, but he didn’t expect it to come with formal attire, a Harkonnen husband, and the lingering fear of being rejected not for his name, but for who he really is. Now, freshly groomed, anxiety-cloaked, and armed with a dagger or two, he’s preparing to turn an arranged marriage into a survival exercise. He wants to prove his worth as a trans heir to a noble great house and possibly avoid another interstellar war. All before dessert is served at his wedding feast.
Tags: Strangers to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Possibly, Political Intrigue, Trans Male Character, Mix of Media (Books & Movies), Political Marriage, Supportive Husbands, Baron is the worst TM.
Huge ty to @peageetibbs-ab & @the-eyes-special-boy for being beta readers and listening to my ramblings.
The proposal had been accepted. In just a few short days, Paul would stand before the nobility of the Great Houses, marrying into one of the most infamous bloodlines in the Imperium. It should’ve thrilled him. His duty fulfilled, alliances sealed. But instead, his heart moved like a heavy pendulum, ticking with dread. He felt like a man climbing willingly into the jaws of a beast, and he had no one to blame but himself.
He’d said yes. He’d allowed it. No coercion, no pressure. If he had said no, his father wouldn’t have insisted. Leto Atreides was many things; ruler, warrior, leader, but a bad father was not one of them. He had stood by Paul through every storm, especially the quiet, private ones. Through his transition, through the scrutiny of the court and whispers of nobles, Leto had never once faltered. My son, he’d always said, no matter the looks cast behind their backs. Paul never forgot that.
Still, he wasn’t to marry a woman. Perhaps he might’ve been, had he been born male in the way others expected. But before he even drew breath, his path had been charted. Jessica Atreides had been instructed to bear a daughter. The Bene Gesserit had orchestrated it with cold precision. The perfect genetic union to bring forth their messianic Kwisatz Haderach. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had been chosen to be the genetic match.
But Paul had made other choices. He had carved himself out from the stone walls of expectation. And now, here he stood, no longer the woman the Sisterhood had designed, but a man on the precipice of a marriage no one had foreseen.
They hadn’t expected him to rewrite the role they’d assigned. And least of all, like this.
He hadn’t left Caladan much. His life had always been a tightrope between safety and surveillance. With the Atreides name came both admiration and danger. People bowed to the banner, but many would also see it burn. Paul had learned early that honor and inheritance were not shields, only burdens made of spice and blood.
This marriage would mend old feuds or plunge them deeper into fresh war. He’d been trained since childhood to be ready for either. Politics had always been a blade to him; always cold, always poised. But this felt different. This was personal.
He would be leaving Caladan, his ocean-washed home, his place of becoming. And in return, he’d be bound to the Harkonnens, the architects of his ancestors’ deaths. At the mercy of a man he had never met. At the whim of a house that might see him as nothing but a failed cog in the Imperium’s broken machine.
What if Feyd rejected him outright? Not the alliance, not the politics, but him. What if he looked into Paul’s face and saw something wrong, something less? The fear crept cold along his spine. Paul didn't seek approval easily, Leto's had always been enough, but something about Feyd stirred the raw nerves beneath his skin. A need to be seen and not merely tolerated. A dangerous hope.
He wore trousers now, the cut sharp, masculine, tailored to his form. His lean frame bore the Atreides sigil with quiet pride. His hair was cropped close in dark, soft curls. It wasn’t an illusion of masculinity. It was his truth, worn plainly, without apology. But he knew how others could see him. Half-formed. A compromise. A deviation from design.
One morning over breakfast, his father spoke, just as Paul's fork hesitated over untouched food.
“You know why I never married?” Leto said, his voice thoughtful and distant.
Paul blinked, drawn from the spiral of thought. He shook his head.
“It was because I never found anyone who could match what your mother gave me. If you don’t want to do this, you know you always have a place right here.” He paused then, swallowing thick emotion. “You’re my son. You will always be the future of this house. I don’t necessarily agree with you going through with this marriage… but if it’s what you want, you know I’ll stand by you. No matter the ground beneath your feet. Though I’d feel better knowing you were on home soil.”
Paul couldn’t meet his eyes. A lump caught in his throat like a pebble stuck between gears. The urge to embrace his father--to let himself be small again, if only for a moment--rose and fell like a crashing wave. But instead, Paul murmured a simple, “I know.”
His chest ached with the weight of things unspoken. He hadn’t wanted a wedding. He hadn’t wanted a stranger for a spouse. This was an alliance they needed to change everything. But the constant talk, the unstoppable march toward ceremony, made resistance feel like sinking sand. This was happening. Every glance, every whispered word reminded him of it.
And somewhere in all the chaos, the truth he didn’t dare name hovered just beyond his lips: What if Feyd hates me? What if this whole thing falls apart because I wasn’t born the person they wanted me to be?
He barely remembered walking to his last training session. The stone beneath his boots felt colder than usual, and the salty wind off Caladan’s sea shoved at his collar like a restless hand trying to turn him back. The sky overhead was clear, cruelly so, as if mocking the weight that sat heavy in his chest. Each step felt detached, mechanical, his mind lagging several paces behind his body.
He was tired. Not from lack of sleep, but from the endless turning of thoughts. The ceremony. The expectations. The name Harkonnen ringing in his ears, like an alarm that refused to be silenced. He was supposed to become something like a diplomat now, a symbol of union. But all he could feel was the slow, rising pressure of panic, like a tide that never receded.
“You ready, pup?”
Gurney’s voice cut across the courtyard, gravelly and casual as always. Paul didn’t look up right away.
“I’m not really feeling it today, Gurney,” he muttered, and even to his own ears it sounded hollow.
Gurney gave no room for self-pity. A blade shrieked through the air and buried itself into the table beside him with a metallic thunk. Another whistled in its wake. Paul’s body moved before his brain did, twisting away from the path of the second, hand reaching out in reflex. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of the embedded dagger and drew it free in one fluid movement.
And just like that, the dance began.
They collided in the center of the training yard, breath short and sharp. The spar was fast, intense, every swing a conversation in its own language. Paul’s muscles burned with remembered rhythm. He ducked under a wide slash, stepped into Gurney’s space, and struck out with precision.
“I got you,” Paul panted, a flicker of satisfaction lighting his face. It was one of the few pure emotions he’d felt all week.
Gurney gave him a knowing smirk, then glanced down. “Aye, you did. But look, my Lord.” He nodded to the spot just beneath Paul’s ribs, where Gurney’s blade had slipped inside his guard. The energy shield still pulsed angry red where it had made contact. “You’d have joined me in death.”
Paul clenched his jaw and nodded, filing the lesson away alongside a hundred others. There was always more to learn. Always something he’d missed.
After the bout, Gurney grabbed his forearm and pulled him up with the strength of a man who had hauled comrades out of trenches. He gave Paul a firm pat on the back, the kind that rattled your lungs but reminded one that they were still here. They put the weapons away side by side, their movements slower now, quieter. The usual ritual, except this wasn’t usual. This was the last one.
Paul lingered at the edge of the weapons table, heart heavy in his chest. He didn’t want to leave the yard yet, didn’t want to leave him. There was something final about this moment, and his body knew it even if he hadn’t admitted it aloud. The stone beneath his boots felt like parting ground.
When he turned to say goodbye, Gurney was already watching him. His posture had shifted just enough to betray the thoughtfulness beneath the usual bluster. His hand flexed at his side, that telltale twitch that always came before he said something real.
So he wasn’t the only one feeling it.
“You got any tips for me?” Paul asked, hoping the light tone would cover the quiet desperation in the question.
Gurney’s lips curled, but not into a smile. “Keep a knife on you at all times,” he said. No hesitation. No irony.
It was his way of saying I’m worried for you without ever letting the words cross his mouth. That was the kind of man Gurney was. Gruff, scarred, incapable of softness unless it was disguised behind hard truths.
“You’ll know what to do when the time comes,” he added, quieter.
Paul wondered. Kill the Baron? Kill Feyd first? Kill myself if I have to? The thought made his stomach churn. He nodded his head slightly, brushing the shadow away.
“Thanks for the tip,” he said instead, forcing a smile, trying to break the ice that was building inside him. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Gurney raised one finger in a mock salute and then fished something from his pocket. He crossed the space between them and pressed a small device into Paul’s hand, no ceremony, no explanation, just here. Paul turned it over. A recording device.
He looked up, questions forming, but Gurney was already speaking.
“It ain’t nothin’ big or anything,” he said, voice lighter now. “Just a few songs I thought you might like. Feel like home.”
Paul swallowed hard. Gurney never spoke of the Harkonnens unless it was through clenched teeth or behind a blade. Never talked about his sister being kept there but always about her singing. His silence spoke volumes, and Paul had always read between the lines. The gift wasn’t just music. It was an offering. A piece of memory, a sliver of safety.
Gurney’s baliset had been the soundtrack of Paul’s youth. Its lilting chords had echoed through stone corridors, woven into long nights and stormy days. Hearing those songs again, in a place like Giedi Prime, might be the only thing keeping him tethered.
Paul curled his fingers around the device protectively, it was more precious than spice or prophecy. Then, impulsively, he threw himself forward and hugged Gurney with intense force.
The old soldier didn’t flinch. He didn’t tease him. He just patted Paul on the head, rough and fond, and let the silence stretch between them like a moment that would never break.
When Paul stepped away, his throat was tight and dry, but his spine felt a little straighter. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t have to.
They both knew what it meant.
Afterward, he went down and bathed back in his quarters, the water scalding enough to chase away the chill of dread. He dressed in his ceremonial suit. Familiar fabric stitched in honor, in bloodlines. The crest of Atreides rested over his heart, and for a moment, looking in the mirror, he felt… solid. Like the suit was armor. Like the name he carried might just be enough.
At the docks, he arrived long before it was necessary. The workers bustled in preparation, none of them paying him much attention, and Paul found solace in that. It made it easier to pretend he was just another traveller, and not a pawn on someone else’s board.
A weight landed on his shoulder.
“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me,” Duncan teased, eyes bright with mischief. “For what? Another man? You wound me, my lord.”
Paul smirked. “Maybe not if my father has anything to say about it.”
“Oh yeah? Has he told you about his plans to kidnap you yet?”
“He might have mentioned it. I’ve asked for you to come with me.”
That caught Duncan by surprise. “So the terrible duo ride again, eh? And without your old man to scold us.” He laughed loud and thumped at Paul’s shoulder again. He couldn’t help the smile that came. Real, if only fleeting.
“I really want this to go well,” Paul admitted, voice low.
“It will. You’re in safe hands with me.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I know. But those Harkonnen bastards play for keeps. Stay close, alright?”
Paul nodded. “You understand without my father, I’m in command now, don’t you?”
“Aye, my Lord. But don’t let it get to your head.”
They shared a look, a mutual grin. Silent understanding.
Later, Jessica arrived. She pulled him into an embrace without asking. He let her.
The night before, she’d visited his chambers. Her robe hung loose, and her hair was undone. Just like the old nights. Before everything changed.
They'd braided each other’s hair in the glow of a candlelight. Paul let her because he liked the feel of her hands in his hair and because it could easily be undone before he rested his head. She still let him paint her nails. And still she knew, without needing to ask, when he was afraid.
“Will you write to me? Every night?” Paul insisted.
“I’ll try.”
“And will you let me come visit?”
“Every night,” she said with a smile, though her eyes were rimmed with red.
She turned to him and reached for his hands, folding them gently in hers. Jessica could still remember when those fingers had been no bigger than a blade of grass, soft and chubby and warm from sleep. They used to wrap around just one of her own. Back then, he had clung to her like she was the only steady thing in the world. And now, here he was; a capable, sharp-eyed young man, no longer needing her the way he once had, but still her son. Always.
Her grip lingered.
“If I could stay there with you, I would,” she said, her voice quiet, as though speaking it louder might undo her restraint. “Remember your training-”
Paul cut in before she could finish. “And focus on your pitch.”
Jessica paused, then gave a small, knowing smile. “And focus on your pitch,” she repeated, nodding as the corners of her mouth tugged into something halfway between amusement and pride.
He could feel her trying not to show too much, trying not to let the ache inside her leak into the space between them. Paul didn’t need her to say it to understand the weight of her silence. The words she left unsaid were the loudest of all. He’d heard them in the early mornings, in the way she adjusted his stance during training, in the subtle press of her hand against his back when she thought no one was watching.
Their mornings had always started with discipline. She'd taught him how to sense manipulation, how to hear intention hidden in language, how to hold his body like a weapon and a shield at the same time. At first, it had been rote instruction—sharp, distant, and dutiful. She had been all Bene Gesserit then, and he had been a child straining to match a pace set by forces he barely understood.
But things had changed when his voice started to crack. When he finally told her who he was, not just who they had expected him to be. That was when the real work began.
He could still remember the quiet moment afterward. No big speech. Just the way she exhaled, wrapped him in a hug, and whispered, I’ve always known.
Since then, her guidance had softened. Less command, more conversation. Less expectation, more trust. Still difficult, still rigorous, but filled now with the kind of love that didn’t need permission to be there.
He smiled faintly, thinking about those mornings. How they would sit side by side afterward, breath steaming in the cold air, her sipping tea and him just watching her. Sometimes they talked. Other times, the silence between them was enough.
Paul knew she was proud of him. She didn’t always say it, but he could feel it in the way her hand now curled tighter around his. She was proud of the man he was becoming. But it didn’t ease the grief behind her eyes. Not really.
He glanced down at their hands, now nearly the same size. It struck him all at once how surreal it was—how his body had finally begun to feel like his own. His shoulders had broadened, his jaw had sharpened, and his voice had taken on the low, steady tone that he once only dreamed of. A few years on testosterone, and he was still learning how to move through the world in this skin, but every day he felt closer to home within himself.
Yet here he was, on the eve of a wedding to someone who didn’t know him at all. A political match born from centuries of planning, and not a moment of love. And that fear pressed into his ribs, constant and quiet.
Jessica seemed to read some of that doubt in his face. She reached up and brushed his curls off his forehead, the way she used to when he was little.
“You don’t have to go through with this, Paul,” she said softly. “I want you to know that. Not because I doubt you, but because I see you. You don’t owe them your happiness. You only owe yourself your truth.”
Paul’s throat tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice just yet.
“I know,” he said after a moment, blinking hard. “But I think I have to try. Even if it goes wrong. Even if…” He hesitated.
Jessica's expression darkened, and for a moment, he saw the steel beneath the softness. “Then he’s a bigger fool,” she said. “And I will gladly take a knife to the first one who says otherwise.”
Paul snorted. “Very diplomatic of you.”
“I left diplomacy in my other dress,” she said, arching a brow. “Besides, I’m your mother before I’m anything else. Let them try me.”
The levity helped, even if it only lasted a breath. He let go of her hands and stepped back, taking one last full look at her. The familiar curve of her smile. The strength behind her eyes. How much she was holding back just to keep him steady.
“I’ll write,” he said.
“I’ll write more,” she countered.
He gave her a crooked smile.
When he leaned in, she wrapped her arms around him, holding tight. Longer than usual. Longer than she would’ve allowed herself if others were watching. And for a few seconds, Paul just let himself be held, not as Duke’s heir or political pawn or carefully balanced legacy.
Just as her son.
Just as himself.
Paul hadn’t named the thing that scared him most. But with her, he didn’t have to. She had her ways of knowing.
Now, as the massive Guild ship began to descend through the cloud-thick sky, blotting out the sun, Paul stood between his parents, his past, and the daunting future ahead. Jessica looked like she might cry. But she didn’t. She was stronger than that.
And he… he was trying to be.
As he climbed the last few steps to the shuttle platform, wind curling around him like fingers of fate, Paul Atreides took one final look at Caladan’s gray-blue skies.
He had to wonder what the hell he was getting himself into.
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Chapter 2 is written/finishing edits and Chapter 3 is currently a WIP.
happy wip wednesday! here's another passage from my vw fallen angel au 😁
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A quick glance at Vash shows that Vash isn’t quite as starstruck as Livio is either, but smiling nonetheless.
“Hm.” Wolfwood nudges Vash’s shoulder. “I was right.”
“About what?” Vash glances at him, tilts his head to the side.
“You do look good like that. Smiling genuinely.”
Vash’s eyebrows raise, but his tongue pokes through his teeth, widening his grin. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to think you’re some monster.” He shifts a little closer to Wolfwood, opening the flap of his blanket. It takes a moment for Wolfwood to catch on to what he’s suggesting, and then an even longer one after that to process why the hell Vash would offer that.
…But, well, fuck. It’s a new year, and Wolfwood is happy. He gives Livio one big noogie for his troubles, then detaches himself to tuck in close next to Vash under the blanket. Vash’s arm comes to settle around his shoulders, draping the blanket over his arms. Frankly, between the cigarette and the roughhousing, Wolfwood hadn’t actually been that cold, but the warmth he’s suddenly enveloped in is comforting, and that’s not even getting into the proximity to Vash.
Feyd Rautha x Harkonnen Fem!Servant
744 words
Summary: In a place he loathes and dealing with servants, Feyd-Rautha is barely containing his frustration and has lashed out.
A/N: Late night photoshop job that I gave up tweaking, so enjoy the lil manip that comes with this fic. I'm really proud of it 🥹 Will post up one without the title in future for you to use! Keep an eye out!
Warnings: Violence, implied death, Feyd being Feyd. Will add more tags if more comes up.
The corridors of Harkonnen’s Keep lay suffocated in silence, thick and oppressive, pressing in from every corner like a living thing. The walls, smooth and cold, loomed high and indifferent, swallowing sound, swallowing breath. Only the distant, rhythmic thrum of machinery from somewhere deep within the fortress served as a reminder that this place still lived. But here, in this moment, within these walls, it felt as though the world held its breath.
Feyd stood unmoving, his gaze unfocused, his expression a careful mask of disinterest. But agitation roiled beneath his skin, a tight coil of restraint wound just beneath the surface. His fists curled and flexed at his sides, the movement subtle but betraying the slow burn of his temper. He had spent a lifetime learning how to control himself—how to wield silence, how to let his stillness unnerve—but the irritation gnawed at him, sharp and insistent.
The body of the dead slave had already been removed, the lifeless husk dragged away without ceremony, a useless thing no longer worth the space it occupied. Limbs sprawled, slack and weightless, as they were pulled through the open doors, the slow, wet sound of flesh scraping against stone the only whisper of farewell. A glistening smear of blood followed in its wake, pooling in the crevices of the floor, a crude, final mark of existence that would be scrubbed away before long.
The other servant had already pressed herself against the wall, her body stiff, barely breathing. Wide, unblinking eyes remained locked onto Feyd, the black in black pupils stark against the sickly pallor of her skin. A faint tremor ran through her fingers, though she still clung to the tray—her grip desperate, as if clinging to it might somehow shield her from his attention. The tray had belonged to the dead one. The razors, the oils, the cloth meant to groom him—they still lay upon its surface, untouched, waiting.
Feyd didn’t want to be groomed.
He didn’t want to be in the water.
He didn’t want to fucking be here.
And he was making that known.
The air in the chamber had grown thick with it—his displeasure. It radiated from him, curling through the space like an unseen force, wrapping itself around those present, making the girl against the wall shrink in on herself, her breath shallow, measured. She wasn’t brave enough to move. Not until someone else did first.
The doors groaned open again, the heavy sound cutting through the suffocating silence. Feyd’s eyes flicked toward the entrance, sharp, assessing, his focus momentarily shifting from the dark waters at his torso to the new arrival. Across the still surface of the black oil, he watched her. The girl against the wall did not dare turn her head. She only tightened her grip on the tray, her knuckles paling, her fingers stiff with strain. Her gaze remained on Feyd, watching, waiting. She would not step forward. But if another did, she would follow in their shadow.
They had wasted no time replacing the fallen.
Feyd studied the new girl, his expression unreadable. He knew this one. He was certain of it. He had seen her before, had watched her hands paint the body of a champion for the arena, marking the flesh in dark strokes, symbols of strength, of death. It was done for sport, sometimes for show. More often than not for pleasure.
Feyd had loved playing the crowd, twisting their cheers, their gasps, feeding them exactly what they craved. There, he had been all sharp smiles and effortless charm, his presence electric, his very existence a performance of power.
Here, he was not.
His jaw tightened, a slow, deliberate movement. He said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention back to the void.
A thin, shallow cut marred the skin just above his ear, a careless wound left behind by uncoordinated hands. The razor had slipped, slicing just enough to make a mistake evident, just enough to make it unacceptable. Blood had flowed freely at first, streaking down in thin rivulets before slowing, drying, hardening into rust-colored smears. It no longer bled, but the mark remained. A flaw. A careless insult. A splash of red in the endless black.
Feyd lowered his gaze to the still water. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the faintest ripples, the dark liquid holding his image like an abyss waiting to swallow him whole.
His fingers flexed.
The surface stirred.
Continued on our jcink rp!
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