Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It takes Feyd-Rautha far longer than it should have to realise Atreides is playing with him.

Though the hit to his pride is somewhat soothed by how well the deception has been hidden, a curious motive in that, as if the fremen are as much the intended targets as the emperor’s decimated entourage. Of those watching he’s sure that the three Bene Gesserit are perhaps the only others who will be able to see through it. Feyd doesn’t risk a look to confirm that—to see what the Princess Irulan thinks of her would be husband—knows he’s unlikely to glean much from their expressions. As for Atreides himself, his opponent hasn’t been so obvious as to stumble, to fumble with his blade, meets Feyd blow for blow but there’s something distinctly constructed about the fight.

Staged.

Feyd finally realises that when he dodges a slash that nearly slits his throat, when he retaliates and manages to flip Atreides onto the floor.

It’s the first time he's got him on his back.

The view is a more than pleasant interlude—overlong curls falling into eyes of unnatural blue, solemn face upturned to catch the waning light—further evidence of what he’s known since that first moment, how Paul Atreides is undeniably beautiful. Even more so like this, knocked flat, it spreads him out, a sprawl that exposes, reveals more than how good Atreides looks so displayed. When the fight resumes Feyd knows the truth.

He feels it each time he blocks Atreides blade.

This is only the second time Feyd has fought without a shield.

He’s fairly certain he’s the only one of them so disadvantaged. They’ve both been trained to a similar tradition, a shared custom in how noble houses teach their youths to fight, differences perhaps in exactly what has been taught. And by who. Yet Feyd can see how well Atreides has learned, had seen it when he’d knocked him down, the skill in how blindingly fast his opponent had risen to his feet, at last tipped off to the pattern of pretence. Feyd has played this game in combat often enough to recognise the signs. He’s drawing the fight out; Atreides is making it look like there are times where he’s struggling, sculpting an implication that they might be evenly matched, that all the fremen have gained thus far hangs on an edge.

Feyd knows it doesn’t.

There is a calculated precision in this performance.

It’s clear in the unsmiling mouth, the controlled stillness of his face, no fear in eyes that nonetheless seem strangely haunted. It’s clear in how Atreides moves; fluid, the water these desert people so prized, like wind too, precise and yet so wild. Feyd well remembers how he’d looked when knocked down. The stillsuit doesn’t hide how Atreides is deliciously slight, a body that offers itself up for hands to wrap around his throat, around his slim waist, around thin wrists, calls for it like touch is what he needs.

But he holds the crysknife as if a blade has never left his hand.

The Duke is a youth still, a slip of a boy, and yet under all he does to mask it he fights like a god. No, no god would fight with blades, with flesh, because Atreides is a thing that can bleed. He clashes with Feyd like he knows it; like he will prove it, close quarters without fear, quick jabs of the blade, darting out of reach, then closing back in.

He fights like a tide.

One this planet has never seen but craves.

Yet matching a rhythm, Feyd’s rhythm, dancing in and out of reach and all the while deliberately allowing him to keep pace. Why? Why would he make himself look weaker than he is? At this, his moment of glory? Ah. Perhaps so it can be a moment of glory.

Perhaps he wants something.

Perhaps Atreides wants those watching to hold their breath.

The silence certainly feels that way, all those witnessing this are rivetted, held spellbound while one fight decides the fate of billions. If Atreides gets his way he’ll make it look close. His victory a crafted thing; no one in the crowd relaxing, even the Bene Gesserit may prove unable to see the end goal of his game, even the Lady Jessica required to fear that her son’s performance ends without a bow. No witness will leave without believing this fight anything but hard won, no follower will see this victory as anything but well deserved.

Is this House Atreides famed nobility?

Arrakis reclaimed with blood and sweat; to impress his Empress-to-be, to show off for his fremen pet, or even to keep this sacred, a glorious finale? Whatever it is Atreides doesn’t want anyone to think (to know) that he’s toying with him.

But Feyd has already figured that out.

And as he considers Paul Atreides haunted eyes he wonders if there might be something else. A motive less noble, a beloved prophet tempted to die, a part of him unwilling to simply have what he can take so easily. Muad’Dib here at last. Calculating his own hesitation, caught in the moment where all he fought for is in his grasp and finding himself dissatisfied that no one can take it from him. Feyd can’t see that in his face, finds only the suggestion of it in his eyes, the expression a cool mask, inscrutable, but that doesn’t change what he knows.

Paul Atreides wants a fight.

If he’s to have victory he wants to win it.

Feyd can help him win it.

The thought should surprise him. It doesn’t, is not without calculation, because though he should be furious at being used he’s not. There’s power in what lies between them now. It’s what has been brewing since Feyd saw Atreides sink a blade into his Uncle’s throat.

He’d watched and been enthralled.

He still is. Fascination is new, he’d not yet felt it’s like, not yet met one who could compel him to want to play instead of kill. A worthy prize here—or does he mean emperor? can an emperor be a bartered thing that's traded for and won?—a soft thing delivered from a place of sand and stone, a flesh blood gift from the desert for him to sink teeth into.

That’s if he can pin Atreides down.

Which Feyd thinks he can, thinks it as he dodges another slash of the knife, retaliates, watches as Atreides glides around the strike but doesn’t press for advantage. He thinks there might be a way, thinks he wants to learn this Paul Atreides who so knowingly called him cousin.

The eyes that watch him know still more.

Whatever colour they’d once been (green, he thinks) Feyd is certain most else has stayed the same. For all the unnatural blue of them—would he ever be able to leave this planet without a guaranteed supply of spice?—they are steady, grounded, unerringly intent on tracking how he moves. There is a directness to his stare. Through it all they remain strangely haunted, yet unflinching as they peer into him, and Feyd should find it uncomfortable but no…instead he’s thrilled.

Paul Atreides darts forwards.

He strikes whip fast.

The glancing blows sound out to break the silence, thudding force absorbed by flesh unguarded by a shield, but neither blade lands true. Neither blade draws blood. The eyes still watch. And now they are somewhat like Lady Fenring’s, that Bene Gesserit who had so recently come to Feyd on Giedi Prime, who’d tested him then taken him to bed, this a similar test perhaps.

Remove your hand from the box and you die.

Feyd would keep it in.

They play a little more; he’s got the game now, wants to map what he can of those lithe limbs while he has the time, wants to learn the slender muscles flexing beneath soft white skin, all this he knows is hidden under the stillsuit. Stray curls once again fall into blue within blue eyes, no hindrance though, not even slowing Atreides down. Feyd soon learns that he’s more than the little prophets match in strength at least—learns it in a moment where he has Atreides in his grasp and feels him struggle to break free and it’s the closest their game gets to being real—an advantage that will be lovely to explore later, the feeling of a body pressed tightly against his own.

Yes, Feyd thinks, giddy with realisation, I can definitely hold you down.

And so he laughs as he’s shoved back, smiles through the sudden pain in his gut, blooming bright from where Atreides had driven a bony elbow.

He'd gotten so close in that moment before they’d broken apart. Near enough to breathe in the scent of the desert, of spice, near enough to kiss. For a moment they’d shared the same air. Feyd savours the tease of it, of those lips, full and pink, plush and waiting. He wonders if Atreides has been trained for seduction too or if he was just born with a mouth so becoming of a pout.

They circle each other.

Without a shield in the way there’s nothing to dull the senses, no haze to peer through, nothing to dampen the exhilarating thrill of danger.

Atreides breathes so steadily.

It’s a moment of respite before the knife is raised once again, in preparation, in invitation, nonetheless still a pause as Atreides waits. As if the way Feyd grabbed him made him cautious, as if Atreides is catching his breath before reengaging, letting Feyd come to him and oh this is leading towards the finale isn’t it? Soon will come the final round of play. The end to their little dance. The crysknife gleams, its hilt held by hands hidden under gloves, Atreides fingers perhaps just as delicate as his face, just as pale and fine boned, elegant like the cheekbones framed by tousled curls.

This is the pretty little thing his Uncle had desired so ardently.

And yet feared the risk of trying to take.

Feyd is not his uncle.

He’s smirking when he lowers his knife and yields.

Chapter Text

“So it’s to be this then?”

Paul Atreides murmurs the confounding words under his breath, too soft for all to hear, then lowers his crysknife and nods. His voice rises to fill the hall. “I accept Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen’s forfeit. Now...we will speak of the throne.”

Feyd sheathes his borrowed knife.

The fremen murmur to each other.

They seem confused that it’s already over, that Atreides is turning away from him without another word, and if he looks towards them Feyd knows what he’ll find in their melange tinted eyes. Shock that Feyd surrendered, shock that their Muad’Dib has accepted it instead of killing him. Feyd is sure if he looks at the entourage surrounding the former emperor he’ll find much the same, an identical disbelief in eyes free from spice, even the Bene Gesserit-trained amongst them unsure how things have pivoted. All those here expecting a fight to the death.

Strange the common thread that weaves.

All goes quiet; Feyd watches Atreides approach Shaddam IV, a sandstorms destined path, finds the crowd watching with avid eyes as Muad’Dib waits silently before the Padishah Emperor.

Lady Jessica smiles.

The emperor doesn’t protest.

What avenues of resistance he once had are now closed to him—the Sardaukar accompanying him annihilated, his proxy defeated in a duel—a truth clear to all present in this hall, no matter how badly they wish to ignore it. Reverend Mother Mohiam stands tense in her black robes, next to her the Princess Irulan holds her head high, undefeated. Yet the emperor has no more use for pride. The resignation in his aged face is that of a man learning defeat for the first time. Still, when it comes right down to it, when it comes to facing the moment of his abdication, Shaddam IV hesitates to kiss the ring.

Feyd does not.

It's his turn to do so immediately after the former emperor finally bows his head, having tested Paul Atreides patience long enough, the old man cowed and silent.

Soon Atreides stands before Feyd.

Beneath wild curls his eyes still watch. And Feyd is certainly no emperor, but he’s not mistaken by how there’s a unique weight to this. It’s something that hadn’t been there when Atreides had confronted the man who at that moment had still ruled the known universe.

His cousin looks at him with anticipation.

A slim hand is offered without a single word.

“Who would you ask to swear fealty to you,” Feyd says slyly as he reaches for it. “A nephew of House Harkonnen, or its new Baron?”

Which of those two victories is the sweeter?

Atreides knows his answer.

The lips quirk into a cold smile, but the anticipation in his eyes doesn’t fade. “How long will you be Baron for, I wonder?”

It’s the first he’s spoken since accepting Feyd’s surrender.

It’s a voice impossible to ignore, smooth where the desert should have roughened it, knowing like what lurks in his eyes. Haunted by its weight but strong with it. The tone of a man, freshly broken from youth.

Feyd chuckles—this isn’t quite how he imagined taking his Uncle’s place, the ambition realised all the same—begins to bend, murmurs. “How long will you be emperor?”

The skin Atreides has offered him is warm.

It gives beneath his grip; a hand partially calloused from a life spent training to fight but still tender under his fingers, the ducal ring (or is it imperial now?) a cold contrast.

This might be the more satisfying win, this dream the motive for it all, the Harkonnen’s defeat by far the most coveted. He wonders if that’s another reason why Atreides dragged the fight out for so long, a wish for satisfaction, one perhaps still unfulfilled. This must be a stand in, the new Baron Harkonnen bowing to accept Atreides rule, but there’s power for Feyd in what he knows is supposed to be humiliation. All he sees is an opportunity, one Feyd has defined by how he decided to yield—oh he'll get a taste of his prize, the prize that doesn’t even know it’s been won—takes his time to bend his head but unlike the emperor it’s to savour.

It’s this that gets him the first touch of skin, Feyd was quick to take Paul’s hand in his, now slows to raise it to his mouth.

Feyd meets the new emperor's eyes.

Finds Atreides aglow with victory, the grit of it a shade in the blue, solemn face a shadow of remembered pain because for all else this is it’s vengeance. Muad’Dib may have accepted surrender from the emperor but it’s Paul Atreides who accepts this now. The vengeance of a boy who lost his father, a heir who lost his noble seat, a prophet emerging from the desert to steal back what was promised thousands of years ago. All so personal, yet only one is truly that of the heart, only one is the sweetest when it’s soothed.

Does this soothe, cousin?

He thinks it as he bends his head to kiss the ring, closes his lips around the metal, the symbol of the red hawk under his tongue. It’s a kiss that brushes against the skin of fine boned knuckles—he’d known he’d been right about them the moment Atreides had removed the glove—so slender, fingers far more delicate than his own. He withdraws, head still bent as he pauses to breathe soft across bare fingers, a idling thought to inspire gooseflesh to form.

Then Feyd surges back in for another kiss, now flicking his tongue past metal to taste skin, wishing it was Atreides lovely mouth. There’s time for that later, time to think about it now as his fingers caress the underside of the palm.

Atreides lips have parted.

And not just with the thrill of victory.

It softens the solemn expression, makes it not quite so inscrutable, pleases even further as Feyd delights in recognising the hint of a blush. With skin so pale even this slight discolouration draws his eye, a soft pink dusting either cheek, could be anger and yet there’s no corresponding tightening of the jaw. Atreides does not snatch his hand back. There’s something of surprise instead, of novelty, because Feyd hasn’t kissed his ring as a simple act of surrender the way the deposed emperor had. He has not kissed it with a defeated opponents sullen submission, with the wound of shattered pride.

An added intimacy—one he alone in this room can claim—no holy crusade acknowledged in the tease of his tongue.

The lips remain parted, the eyes haven’t widened.

Atreides takes a soft breath.

He does not rebuke, seems content to leave his hand in Feyd’s grasp, lets him keep the ring pressed against his lips, lets him taste the skin still tender under his tongue. It’s not at the act itself then—surprise lingering even as Feyd licks again—doesn’t settle from a first flare, predicted then? (yet Atreides let him do it anyway and why would he if he’d known), this reaction such because of how it feels. Feyd wonders if that had been predicted too. For all Atreides is, for all he’d made himself in the desert, is being touched like this a thing that’s new?

Perhaps his fremen pet hasn’t taught him much at all, their liaison fresh enough to still be so close to chaste. Fresh enough he doesn’t know what special attentions Feyd will pay him.

What will get him biting at his lips to stifle sound.

Perhaps the way the gom jabbar had. There is a boy underneath the myth, no commandments for this in a holy war, a thing not covered by scripture, and so in this field Feyd may begin with the advantage.

“I might yet decide not to spare your life.” Paul Atreides says.

He hasn’t looked away; holds his gaze as Feyd begins to straighten, lips leaving the ring at last, tongue leaving one last little lick across his skin. Feyd spares no glances to those around them—the fremen on one side, the former emperor’s entourage on the other—knows his prey is here. He knows his prey is still blushing. There’s no show in how Feyd smirks, no performance in how he licks his own lips as he would following a fine meal, appropriate even though he’s barely had a bite.

He so enjoys the taste of innocence.

“I think you know exactly what you’ll decide to do.”

Atreides reply is soft. “Do I?”

It’s clear now that any lessons in seduction have not yet been applied.

He admires still flushed cheeks and wonders if they were even taught at all. A Duke’s son would be educated to a point, would know how to play the game, to smile at the right time, at the right person. Feyd considers more practical techniques might have been a difficult thing for even a Bene Gesserit mother to pass down to her own son.

He is glad for it.

“I heard what you said,” Feyd says, sly as he repeats it. “…’So it’s to be this then?’”

For all he doesn’t know the significance of the words he can see how heavy they land. Atreides nods. “Yes, I did say that.”

There’s the herald of an approaching wave.

A tide that might go Feyd’s way if he can catch it; to see what else Atreides can be encouraged to approach as he had their fight, if even without an audience to trick he’d be persuaded to follow another’s rhythm. Perhaps still playing with Feyd but perhaps not. Knowing and feeling are so very different things, after all, like a hand put into a box of pain only to be drawn out unharmed.

Fresh and unmarked.

They are still standing close, as close as Atreides has brought himself, Feyd and this newly made emperor standing nearly boot to boot. Not so tall as one would expect from a myth, inches shorter than Feyd himself, and maybe he’s not done growing. He trails his fingers across those still in his grasp, leaves Atreides one final caress as he lets him go.

What an interesting day this has turned into.

“We should talk,” Feyd purrs. “Cousin.”

In another universe he might have used the same tone when saying wife.

Chapter Text

There are many here who want him dead.

Feyd can see it. The fremen are easy to read; a people that do not think to conceal their intentions from him, their hate unhidden, their motives not nearly as confounding as those of their prophet. It blazes in their eyes, a heat as blistering as the desert of this planet, one that kissing Atreides ring so boldly has only inflamed. What threat he’ll find from that will not be made with words. Feyd isn’t Bene Gesserit-trained but he doubts these desert rats play politics the same as the Landsraad, battles waged across another field, perhaps more likely to simply go for a knife.

Feyd can admit he admires that.

It’s so rare to find warriors in this universe of battle trained politicians, rare enough to be refreshing.

Desert rats these fremen may be.

But ones that can kill Sardaukar.

“We will talk.” Paul agrees; turns to face those he rules, does so with the silent, eerie movement of one used to moving across sand. “Send word to the Landsraad. The other Great Houses will know of what occurred today, they will be told it as they wait above us in their ships, they will know that to attack Arrakis is to move against their Emperor.”

It rings out like prophecy.

Perhaps in many ways it is. The fremen take their cue to murmur—a rising sound, reverent, words in a language Feyd doesn’t understand but thinks sound nearly like a prayer—this how it starts, negotiations soon to begin for the hand of the Princess Irulan, and in the middle of it all someone steps out of the crowd to leave the room. They walk like Atreides had turned, the same eerie grace made of silence, what could walk across a desert and not disturb a single grain of sand. Feyd won’t have even realised who it was if not for how the new Emperor stills, a moment just as silent but uncharacteristically jerky.

Stilted.

It makes her stand out; the eyes that watch her identify the fremen woman he’d taken for Atreides pet as the one who has turned to leave, Feyd observing with interest as Atreides finds her as she moves through the crowd. He does not stop her, a half moment where instead he watches her go.

Atreides does not follow.

Instead he turns away to once again address the emperor he's just deposed.

“I will not harm you, nor will any fremen,” Atreides says softly; no pain, no longing, for all he’d stared after a fremen woman he shows nothing of that now. “Rooms will be prepared to house you. While negotiations are underway for your daughters hand you and your entourage will remain here as my guests.”

It will take time to be certain of whether ‘guest’ is another word for ‘prisoner’.

“Your majesty is generous.” Shaddam Corrino nods; still regal though the title must sit strangely in his mouth, the rank stripped but the man remains, one that learned double speak from the moment he could talk. Though defeated he seems to have pulled himself together enough to remember that. “You may yet prove your fathers son.”

There is a deliberate softness in the words. It rings the same as ‘guest’ had—warmth with the potential to be hollow—both compliment and threat.

Atreides is unruffled, smiles and dips his head. “When we join our houses I will be yours too.”

“Who negotiates for you?” The Princess Irulan has stepped forwards.

Blue within blue eyes drift to her. “My mother.”

There’s an unshakeable confidence in his voice.

Atreides glances to the Lady Jessica, sat adorned in fremen robes, her face decorated with blue markings, what passes between them unfathomable.

Each house has their own Battle Language of course, their own set of codes, but the Bene Gesserit training has always sat outside of bloodline. Feyd wonders if the late Duke Leto Atreides had ever felt left out of secret communications between mother and son. Though perhaps in the presence of a Reverend Mother they speak only with what has been taught by their House, but what does that mean for the fremen? He wonders if they can follow the threads of this, of conversations held within a series of glances, if their ways have a mirror to it.

Princess Irulan nods. “Then we shall begin.”

“I will join you both later to finalise the terms.” Paul Atreides replies with a courteous dip of his head. “But first I must speak with my cousin.”

There is rage in the glare of a man with a scar on his cheek, his eyes free from spice, obviously not fremen despite standing amongst them. He tenses, looks about to speak, to step forwards, but Lady Jessica stops him with a hand on his arm. Feyd can find no sign of disapproval for her sons decision to spare his life, has perhaps expressed it secretly and received what explanation she requires in his answer. The Truthsayer shows no such calm, the Reverend Mother Mohiam looks between him and Atreides, an urgency in her eyes as if she can see some terrible purpose.

Feyd wonders what she thinks she knows.

There had been good reasons for his Uncle's fear of Truthsayer's. She has eyes like Jessica. Mohiam has eyes like Paul; opened to a sight inaccessible to others, looking through the world as well as at it, looking through people as well as at what rises to show across their faces.

Eyes that won't be satisfied until they see the shape of bone.

Atreides smiles.

“Do not worry so, Truthsayer,” He says; tone far from soothing, a sharp mockery in his voice, a cruel kind of humour in his eyes. “You know well what could have happened here today…is this not a better alternative?”

Mohiam meets his gaze with cool aloofness. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

The shift is immediate, the humour dies, leaves what cruel thing lurked beneath it. “I know exactly what I’ve done.”

Feyd wonders what happened to him in the desert.

What made Atreides something the Bene Gesserit so clearly fear.

The question remains unanswered, Atreides inclines his head towards the door, four fremen splitting off to fall in step around them as Feyd follows. As they leave Lady Jessica begins to rise from her chair, eyes on Irulan—the Princess so recently promised to Feyd, now to be his cousins wife—her lips sharp with another of those enigmatic smiles. Whether it be pride or relief Feyd cannot tell, only a moment to consider it before still more fremen block his view, advancing on Shaddam and the remainder of his entourage.

How quickly it’s all changed.

Two family members dead, an exact trade for the ones now gained. Though Feyd thinks of Lady Jessica’s pregnant belly and adjusts that number to three—the blood of the Harkonnen’s found within the enemies they’ve had for centuries.

Atreides leads the way.

The stone corridors are known to him. This the old Residency where he’d lived, the place the old Duke had chosen when he’d come to Arrakis, a layout well remembered.

When Atreides stops outside a door the guards do not follow them inside.

One of the fremen opens it, reveals a room containing one long table, chairs at either end, more laid out along a length intended for hosting banquets. Atreides gives a soft command in the fremen tongue—not the first time Feyd’s heard him speak in such lilting tones—the guards bowing their heads as he enters the room. They’ve taken places on either side of the door, now murmur something that includes the by now familiar words ‘Lisan al Gaib’, closing it once Feyd follows their prophet inside.

It’s the first time they’ve been alone.

Feyd will ensure it’s not the last.

There’s the rising thought to pounce immediately, to force Atreides up against the door, to pin him before he can dance away. It’s eager but not necessarily overambitious. Feyd knows he could have a hand over Atreides mouth before he could call for help, could trap with a body flush against his, a practical demonstration of what can be done with superior strength.

It’s a nice thought.

Feyd lets it remain so; for the moment they both seem content to silence, so very curious because his cousin had led them to this room, now he examines the walls of stone and seems transfixed.

“This is where my father died.” Atreides says.

It near echoes.

The ceiling is more than high enough for that, sound reverberates, nothing soft to absorb it, nothing soft but the two things of flesh standing here alone. There is something hungry in his voice—a hope, a searching thing as he looks with searching eyes—and while Feyd knows how Leto Atreides met his end the Duke’s son should not. Yet his eyes map it; flick around in one quick sweep, no Mentat’s power of computation, more watching a scene unfold here as if finding it etched in the walls. A memory waiting to be read by one who can make even stone speak.

This is where my father died.

“This is where your father nearly killed my Uncle.” Feyd replies.

The reminder pleases, further soothes what still grieves, the hurt thing that bleeds beneath the skin. Paul Atreides seems to draw out of the past, out of his strange communion with stone. Feyd will remember that it can be done, but for now he relishes how good it feels, an undeniable power in reeling a messiah away from prophecy.

Atreides glances towards him with a smile.

“Will you seek revenge?”

Feyd laughs. “Why would I?”

It’s a question Paul Atreides wants to answer. He tilts his head—a moment Feyd is stripped to the bone, every one of the Baron’s touches clear upon his skin, the gladiator ring of House Harkonnen laid bare—then Atreides nods. “Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

The vulnerability unsettles.

It hurts.

Feyd licks dry lips, a craving for more settling like an itch under his skin, as primal as thirst, as dying from it mere steps before a well. There’s a wish to wrap a hand around Atreides throat, to squeeze as blue within blue eyes continue cutting deep. It’s still nothing he’s admitted, this revelation made by observation one that requires no confession, what Atreides knows hasn't required Feyd to stumble.

He finds a strange addiction in being seen so clearly without words.

Atreides steps towards the chair opposite the head of the table. Once his father had lain there, trapped, had bitten a hidden tooth and unleashed death while paralysed and beaten. His bare hand rests on the arm.

It puts his back to Feyd.

An error trained out of every noble son, the lesson of what even around a friend might prove a fatal mistake, and for all he’s kissed a ring Feyd certainly isn’t that. Has the memory of grief distracted him to this? Whatever it is Atreides lets it happen, must have realised by now what he’s done, doesn’t turn to put Feyd back in his sights. It gives ample opportunity; Feyd’s eyes wander past the tease of pale skin at Atreides neck, down to the small of his back, linger there in a moment of pure self-indulgence, then continue down slim thighs.

Feyd could end it right now.

The blade he carries had not been confiscated when he was escorted here. He could unsheathe the emperors gift—or does it belong to Atreides now? the knife a spoil of war—could rest the point against his spine, sink it deep, could sever the cord and watch him fall.

One neat little cut would cripple this deadly thing.

Feyd chuckles. “So careless of you cousin.”

There is no startle.

If there’d been any doubt that this is deliberate Atreides now refutes it, answers without turning around. “Then teach me the lesson.”

No one goads Feyd like this.

No one has dared show him their back after a fight. It tantalises—the fact that this is a test, not one of his Uncle’s, this close to a true gamble—Atreides standing here alone and so very vulnerable. He does not wear a shield, the full length of him unguarded, displayed from the head of dark curls to the tendons at the backs of his ankles. Feyd looks for tension and finds none, pauses a while longer, wants him to know that he’s thought about taking him up on this offer. It’s a very pretty one too. Feyd indulges in another slow appreciative once over, lets his eyes linger on the slim waist.

He knows one day soon he’ll put his hands there.

“I could teach you a lesson.” Feyd says consideringly.

He knows he’s grinning when he walks up behind him, looming at his back, a heady thrill at what Atreides has chosen to do now they’re alone. Feyd closes the distance, as near as when they’d fought, brings their bodies not quite flush but sharing space, sharing warmth.

And Atreides is warm.

This close Feyd could lean towards his ear; could curl against him, could nuzzle in and breathe what scent there is beneath the spice, could seek his throat and bite a mark there.

Feyd could taste all manner of possibilities.

He could be gentle, could tuck the wild curls away and press a kiss behind an ear, lips as soft as they’d been against the ring. The reward had been a blush then, perhaps this would get Atreides to shiver. There’s still more that thrills; the restriction of his own restraint, of being close enough to prove he could have a taste, the strain in wanting something and saying not yet. The affirmation of that entices, of not taking with hands that so easily could, of knowing that there is purpose in a chase.

That there is power.

“Let’s not end the game so soon.” Feyd murmurs soft against the shell of his ear.

“You yielded.” Atreides sounds surprised, speaks of their fight as if that moment was special somehow, as if it’s a flavour he’d heard described but never tasted.

“I did.”

Feyd draws back, a step to the left and then he’s brushing past him almost innocently, isn’t surprised when Atreides doesn’t so much as flinch. He rests his elbows on the back of a chair, turns and now can see his cousin’s face, curious at what might be uncovered in the absence of an audience. The Baron had worn many different faces, all true to some extent, all with a purpose only the old man ever knew. Yet when Feyd looks he finds Atreides as before—can’t yet say if it’s truly the face he wears in private—haunted by something only he can see, no mask slipping because it’s not a mask, is it?

Muad’Dib might be a persona but it might be too simple to say that makes it false.

Not when Feyd knows the whole of it is only a part of what is here. In this solemn, finely crafted thing; dark lashes a suitable frame for eyes so blue, not even a year since first Atreides stepped foot on Arrakis and yet already this.

Feyd’s demon from the dunes.

Chapter Text

The ducal ring glints gold in the light.

It catches it when Atreides gestures for him to sit, the uncrowned Emperor taking the seat his father died in, Feyd choosing the one he’s still leaning against. He won’t put a distance between them that he doesn’t want, one that won’t serve him either, there a calculation in remaining so close to Atreides personal space. There’s a thought to see if it discomforts. Beyond practicality the closeness pleases; Feyd could reach out to grasp one of those slim hands, could extend a foot and brush it across an ankle, could slide it up and up a calf.

It’s a fine position to negotiate in.

“Should I be pleased that you negotiate with me yourself?” Feyd teases; flicks his eyes over Atreides in a leer, will stalk him slowly, smirks and starts off small. “I wonder if you knew that the Princess Irulan was promised to be mine. That’s a wife you’ve stolen from me.”

Atreides smiles as if at a hidden joke.

“You mention that and not the throne.” He says, amused and somewhat dismissive. “I’m sure you will find another.”

“Are we to negotiate that then?” Feyd purrs.

He’s still only teasing.

It’s nonetheless a tone inappropriate for what they are discussing, one skirting the line of innuendo, of clear flirtation. The reaction is far from disappointing. Atreides cheeks flush—again, so slight a darkening, such a soft shade of pink—but he doesn’t look away, and when he speaks he remains so very calm. “If you’d like.”

“There are many things that I’d like.” Feyd takes things a little further, a little less slow, rakes his gaze over Atreides in a leer so bold it’s like touch. He wonders how far he can push before the new Emperor addresses it. For now Feyd lets implication sit, knows he can follow that thread whenever he chooses, pauses to make Atreides wonder if he will. “Though I don’t think a wife is one of them.”

Atreides tilts his head, deliberate in how he matches Feyd’s playful tone, as if learning the rules of a new game. “Offerings to equal what you say I’ve stolen?”

“Offerings worth far more.”

It’s a promise and a threat. Feyd changes the subject, is satisfied for now—will enjoy the view while they talk business—turns to the topic at hand. “You’ve managed quite the coup.”

Who would have guessed it of little Paul Atreides? Maybe the Bene Gesserit had, always seeming to know which way the wind will turn, and so maybe they’d also known which of their abilities he’d inherit. Feyd certainly hadn’t thought much of him, knew no one else in the Landsraad had either, there being no reason to fear the teenaged heir to House Atreides. Not until he grew up a bit at least; eyes looking at Duke Leto, at the Lady Jessica, at all they might have to teach their child, thinking nothing of it when mother and son were presumed dead in Arrakis’s desert.

But perhaps they’d looked away too soon.

Because Paul Atreides had just emerged from that desert with an army and overthrown the Emperor.

The acknowledgement comes dismissively, Atreides doesn’t seem to find his ascension particularly remarkable. “We both know the work is not yet done.”

He smirks. “Have I disrupted your plans cousin?”

“No.” Atreides smiles and it’s empty. “This is but another path to one that’s golden. Some things are inevitable.”

Feyd laughs. “Oh but you didn’t expect this did you?”

“I knew it unlikely you would yield.” Atreides confirms bluntly. The blush has faded, remembrance of his win doesn’t renew it, doesn’t persuade the blood to rise beneath pale skin. If anything it seems to make his blood run cold. “But it meant I did not have to kill you.”

A memory of the words after their fight.

So it’s to be this then?

Feyd wonders what Atreides had been referring to. “Yet the Landsraad remains.”

“Yes.”

A gravity in that far past what they discuss here.

There is grim determination in his melange tinted eyes, in the resigned set to his jaw. Feyd recognises Atreides customary solemnity, the sombre little thing his cousin is, strange how someone so pretty can be so dour. A stern demeanour perhaps magnified by this symbolic room, a place to represent the choice of which way he might fall, to reinforce the past or to divert from it. There should be hope in that. Yet Atreides acts not like a wide eyed revolutionist, alight with the hope of change, wears no smile buoyant with the fervour of a new tomorrow.

He acts not like a young man going to war, but an old one burying the dead at the end of it.

“The Landsraad.” Feyd muses, eyes sharp, prodding at that weariness, prodding at something still unseen. “What could yet topple it all.”

Atreides seems amused at that, darkly so. “The Landsraad could yet choose death for billions and still fail to stop me in the end.”

Oh.

Feyd can see it now.

There should be arrogance in how Atreides brushes the threat of the Great Houses aside—and there is—but it’s not what’s striking. There is clear reluctance in his certainty of what the price of resistance would be, and out of that, a realisation. Feyd remembers the wonder in Atreides voice when he’d spoken of how Feyd had yielded, knows at last why that moment might be special, thinks of what a boy raised by a man like Leto Atreides might grow up to be. What sits here is something else too; the fremen’s prophet, their beloved messiah, legions forming in his name and under his banner, a holy war that has already seen its first battle…

And yet Atreides still wants to be his father’s son.

He wants to avoid a war.

“You don’t like it, do you? Killing.” Feyd says softly, falsely gentle, preparing what words he thinks might be a blow, letting them loose with glee. “But you’re good at it.”

There is beauty in causing pain like this.

In being foiled for so long and finally watching a strike as it lands. Oh does Atreides have the face for it, one that looks so pretty when hurt, perhaps never so beautiful as when twisting into agony. As pale as to mimic the blanching caused by fear, lips the only thing remaining rosy, tears the only thing that’s missing. The truth of what haunts his eyes becomes a little clearer.

A desperation almost, a grief, a wild kind of terror; for what, Feyd thinks, for what is Paul Atreides so afraid?

“I want another way.” He says quietly.

Feyd keeps pushing. “And yet you’ve already done all this.”

“I am Emperor now. It does not need to be—” Atreides pauses, mouth a thin unhappy line. He continues, speaks with determination and has never sounded so young. “The path forward will be golden.”

“But first you need the Great Houses to fall in line.” Feyd says. “And to do that…”

Atreides needs allies.

Those of a political stage beyond this planet; beyond the fremen, beyond what remnants of his house he can pull together, beyond even a marriage to the former emperor’s eldest daughter. Oh Atreides what a fine position mercy has put you in. Feyd realises with no small amount of pleasure exactly how much leverage he really has. This isn’t just reinstating the alliance between the Harkonnen’s and the throne. Even with the losses from the battle on Arrakis, the need for both sides to rebuild, what Feyd offers is far greater than the support of one noble house.

It has the potential for spectacle. If handled correctly Atreides could make a powerful statement by having the backing of a house no one would expect to support him.

Feyd smirks. “So this is why you let me live.”

“They’d not think us natural allies.” Atreides had been watching as if waiting for Feyd to complete the thought, expression back to solemn inscrutability. “It will aid a smoother transition.”

It will do far more than that.

There is no question that they could put the Landsraad in a chokehold.

Not only for how between them they will control all access to spice, the Harkonnen reserves far from depleted, Arrakis itself firmly under Imperial control. Sparing Feyd’s life can give Atreides exactly what he wants; an ally to make the Great Houses pause, one whose shares combined with his would allow the new Imperial House near effortless domination, a way to attempt that coveted bloodless takeover. What power they’ve both inherited, what authority it gives them now, the Great Houses on the cusp of being placed firmly under the control of two youths barely into adulthood. It thrills him.

It feels like freedom.

Feyd’s grin is reckless. “You need me.”

Atreides meets his eyes steadily. “There are other ways forward.”

“Perhaps. But you need me for this one.”

It’s impossible to be overconfident about that. Within this plan Feyd is an irresistible political advantage, one that’s already changed the landscape just by yielding. Centuries of discord ended by his choice to lower the knife. His life spared but now he might just be worth keeping happy, if only for the end goal, because whatever else he’d had planned Atreides wants his help now.

And Feyd will enjoy making him admit it.

After a moment Atreides relents, he nods. “Yes.”

“No. I want you to say it.”

There’s a smile softening the corners of Atreides mouth, no hint of embarrassment as he obeys, as he says words that sound so sweet. “I need you.”

Feyd doesn’t even care that the concession seems to have been an easy one. Not when he’ll make sure he hears the words again, not when he’ll make sure that next time Atreides gets the tone right. “Good.”

Atreides settles back in his chair. “Then let us come to terms.”

“I want Giedi Prime, as is my right.” Feyd will not compromise on that, because as pretty as Atreides is he’s to be enjoyed alongside the fruits of ambition not instead of it. He’s to be fought if he gets in its way. “I want all that is Harkonnen to remain mine.”

“Am I not Harkonnen too?”

Feyd grins.

The double meaning in that shows promise—does that make you mine too cousin? oh I think it does—but Atreides continues before he can speak, before he can capitalise on the vulnerability in the choice of words. “In terms of bloodline I would be your Uncle’s heir. He was my grandfather after all. Should I claim the right?”

“If you want a knife in the back next time you dare turn it, then yes.”

Feyd still carries the blade he borrowed.

In this the question of which Emperor it belongs to doesn’t matter. The hand that holds it chooses loyalty, regardless of the promises made by words a blade will still cut just as deep. This one has nearly tasted Atreides already, deserves a second attempt. It’s been denied blood; Atreides eyes glimmer, he smiles as if he knows where Feyd’s thoughts have turned.

“Careful,” He says, still smiling. “There’s a soporific on that blade.”

As with many things Feyd wonders how he knows.

“You take a risk in telling me that.” Feyd says; picturing it, one cut and Atreides might stagger, might crumple, dazed and paralysed to all that could be done to him. The gamble is similar to giving Feyd his back, is obviously just as calculated.

A threat Atreides doesn’t fear because he laughs.

It’s the first time Feyd has heard him do so.

There’s mocking amusement in Atreides eyes when he replies. “No greater risk than letting you live.”

The Baron had once held him still like this, a master at arranging stalemates, of ensuring inaction on both sides. Hadn’t Feyd threatened his Uncle’s life similar to how he threatens Atreides now? Except this game is far more alluring, the potential for reward far greater, and the risk is one that’s shared because there’s something Atreides wants too.

Something he’s admitted that he needs.

“What is Harkonnen stays mine.” Feyd repeats.

There are other arguments he could use to persuade. The truth of how the Great Houses won’t find so powerful a statement in an Atreides claiming Harkonnen blood. It would undermine his position though, imply Feyd considers his cousins right to be superior to his.

“And in exchange?”

“I might be persuaded to do more than support your claim to the throne.”

“You’ve already accepted me as your Emperor.”

Feyd is undeterred. “And now I can sit back and watch my Emperor fall.”

“I would not fall.”

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

But you want to be good, don’t you? You don’t want to kill anyone.

“I know the Great Houses.” Feyd says, will take advantage of this corner Atreides has backed himself into by dreaming of peace. “You’ve been out in the desert for months, little cousin, away from the stage, but even then you Atreides never knew as much as the Harkonnen’s do about how the game is played.”

“We never planned such intricate deceit.” There’s a hint of steel in his tone, a clue to how that might just have hit a nerve.

Feyd is pleased to press even further, corrects him. “Such an intricate trap.”

Silence.

The room is seized by it, an echo right up to the high ceiling, the wonder in how a space so empty can still ring. Feyd is intimately aware of the grief he’d seen on Atreides face, of the chair he has chosen to sit in—is this the closest he’s been to his father since losing him?—of the betrayal that had both driven him into the desert and drawn him back out of it. Feyd wonders if this will push Atreides to anger, finds himself thrilled at the thought of another fight, of forcing him to choose a path of blood after all. The moment stretches, snaps—

Atreides nods. “You may keep Giedi Prime.”

“Just Giedi Prime?”

“Agree and we will discuss the rest of Harkonnen assets.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll aid you in your initial bid to gain acceptance from the other Great Houses.” Feyd doesn’t bother to hide his triumphant smile. His voice dips soft and coaxing. “Do we have a deal?”

Lady Jessica may be settling terms with his future wife.

But a partnership of another kind is being negotiated here.

He offers his hand.

Atreides accepts it.

“We do.”

Feyd’s own hand swallows Atreides smaller one—he really is slight for his age isn’t he—greets him with a cage of flesh and bone, greedy for the prey that’s so willingly returned to his grasp. He keeps hold once they’ve shaken hands, keeps him trapped, brings strength to bare and forces the hand down. He pins it flat to the cold stone of the table. Feyd’s earned a break from business, deserves a little treat, to steal a tasting before the main course. Atreides doesn’t fight; blue eyes finding first their joined hands, then flicking up to settle on Feyd’s face, a delightful moment where he starts to frown.

But he says nothing.

The uncertainty is beautiful.

He wonders how much Atreides knows of what Feyd wants. What will make him tell Feyd to stop? When will he command he let him go? It’s time to push a little further, to find the underside of a slim wrist, to dip under where the stillsuit meets the skin.

Atreides bites his lip.

It seems unconscious—as soon as teeth make contact they release, leave the flesh plump—perhaps not to stifle sound this time but that can still come later. Right now Feyd thinks he might have found a place of sensitivity, a place where the skin is thin and fragile, a place perfect for a bite. His fingers sate their urge to touch while the rest of him remains denied, twisting with unfulfilled want, burning with it.

Oh he can’t wait to get Atreides into bed.

“What an interesting first meeting this is.” Feyd says, remembers how well Atreides moves, wants to see whether he’ll admit what they both know. It’s a dangerous piece of knowledge, the truth that he’d been playing in their fight, the truth of just how deadly Atreides really is underneath that delicate visage. It’s an added bit of leverage, interesting to play now the terms are close to being set, a victory for Feyd this time, because what he wants now is an answer.

He leans forward in his seat, pulls Atreides closer by his hand, forces the arm taut. It brings them close enough to kiss, a distraction Feyd ignores so he can whisper—

“And how beautifully you dance, cousin.”

The insinuation as subtle as any made between scions of two Great Houses.

If not for how close they are it’d be buried beneath surface level flirtation—an appreciation that’s certainly real, how lovely Atreides looks when he moves, like a tide, like water—but under Feyd’s teasing tone lies all else. The truth of what he knows. He wonders what Atreides hears, what extra undertones his Bene Gesserit-trained eyes can see, waits out the pause as his cousin begins to smile.

There’s no blush this time.

Instead Atreides smiles sharply, a hint of smug satisfaction, a danger that reminds Feyd of how he’d silenced the Reverend Mother with a single word. It’s the shifting of sand in the moments before a worm attacks. The grains disturbed by a giant still kilometres away.

“Let us see how long you can keep up.”

Feyd laughs.

Chapter Text

Feyd leans closer.

There is no resistance. Atreides doesn’t command him to stop, but neither does he move to meet him, the table an awkward in-between that serves to help Feyd remember restraint. What distance he closes ends without true action. They touch but it’s not even a kiss; his lips a ghost of contact, feather light, soft while he keeps Atreides hand firmly pinned. There’s a thought to break it, the tempting idea that he could, the certainty that Atreides will sound so lovely when his bones snap. It helps gentleness hold, provides a harsh outlet for violence—still caging his fingers, still pulling the arm taut—a straining hold to contrast tenderness that will never fully satisfy.

It helps Feyd keep it chaste.

The denial familiar by now. Only it’s no longer just his to know because Feyd can share it at last, can introduce his cousin to the same torment. He teases with what isn’t really a kiss—what Atreides might spend tonight remembering, wondering if it had been one—a touch so close to nothing all one can do is yearn.

Feyd smirks against Atreides lush mouth. “I think you’ll find I can definitely keep up.”

He imagines pressing closer.

What sits in this chair might want to be touched, might need it, a prophet may be well versed in divinity but no scripture covers what it means to be flesh and blood. No prayer can replicate the intimacy of skin on skin. In that moment of stillness he imagines these lips yielding, giving way just as Feyd had when they’d fought, opening to invite him in. He imagines Atreides tilting his head for more.

Instead there’s a soft little breath, then Atreides murmurs. “You’ll need to prove it.”

Feyd chuckles. “I can do that.”

At last he pulls back.

He finally lets go of his hand, sets it free, relaxes back to an indolent sprawl but keeps his fingers resting on the table. Feyd wants them in sight, a reminder, what might be a promise of more if only Atreides takes him up on it.

If he gives something of himself in exchange.

This is a negotiation, what’s on offer far more than what one sided plans Atreides seeks to unfold, the cards dealt in this game ones Feyd has brought too. He could have Atreides bent over this table, could make the legs shake, could make Atreides shake too, but that would be only momentary satisfaction. The most important thing is to ensure he’ll have him more than once. Seduction is a game after all, this still the first round of a fight. These moments best spent circling an opponent, darting close only to test a blow, the match only just beginning because it's not yet even a fight.

The anticipation is worth stoking.

Though Feyd is still disappointed when Atreides doesn’t mention the almost kiss, but he can’t say he’s surprised when he continues as if nothing has happened. When he acts as if the pause in their conversation was only that…a pause.

The eyes that watch him do so as inscrutable as ever. Atreides deigns to end that intermission with an idle question. “Shall we continue?”

Well if this how you want to play it, cousin, then I’ll play along.

I will let you be coy for now.

A pretty face won’t distract him though, won’t soften him either, because his plan to get Atreides into bed doesn’t require him to be nice. Returning to a more expected form of negotiation doesn’t mean Feyd is going to make it easy. “I want first pick of your spice exports. At a reduced price.”

Atreides levels him an unimpressed stare. His tone turns hard. “I thought we were discussing Harkonnen assets.”

“And I thought we were talking about what I want.”

There isn’t much progress on that front.

It seems his cousin is as unwilling to be nice as he is, the ease in settling the terms for Giedi Prime proving the exception. Atreides seems far less willing to bend when it comes to spice, the resource he’ll now be so utterly dependent on, proving to be incredibly protective over Arrakis. It’s a stalemate to be sure, but one that gives an excuse to observe him. They are close enough in age, Atreides slim frame far slower to reach it. Feyd finds the fading adolescence of new adulthood, then a subtle weariness that speaks of a long day spent fighting. This must be the first time he’s yet sat down.

Atreides does not slump in his chair, but he seems to relax into it while they talk, to rest even as they do not come to an agreement.

“Tired?” Feyd asks.

It’s an abrupt change of subject.

“No.” Atreides replies.

It might even be true, though Feyd doubts it, but he doesn’t call him out on the lie. Feyd will still let Atreides know he’s caught him, smirks before letting it slide, lets the pause drag before returning to the topic at hand.

“Surely the Emperor can afford to reward his cousin?”

As always the rebuttal comes quick. “The Emperor shouldn’t give special treatment to family.”

He’s unsure how long the conversation goes back and forth, knows it must be early evening by now, but they are still haggling over the price of spice when one of the fremen knocks on the door. They enter at Atreides word to deliver a message that has the uncrowned emperor rising from his chair. It isn’t worry on his face; Feyd watches intently as they talk, will make the most of any opportunity for observation, will learn how these fremen interact with their Muad’Dib.

He doesn’t need to understand the words to do that.

All Feyd needs is written so clearly, a mirror for what he’d seen in the crowd watching Atreides overthrow the emperor. It’s a truth unconcealed, a reverence in how they can’t even meet his eyes, a barely hidden awe that nears a blinding rapture. In many ways they look past him. For all they call him messiah it’s a relationship of distance, what the pious hold so tenderly in their heart is a man they’ll never dare to actually touch.

Feyd will enjoy exploiting that.

He wonders what they’d think if they knew.

If Feyd told them how thoroughly he’ll enjoy fucking their pretty little prophet.

As it stands he’s well aware that they might first take issue with something else, how for all the Emperor has risen Feyd stays pointedly sat. The conversation ends with Atreides giving a final nod, then he’s turning back to Feyd. “We will pause our discussion for now.”

It’s easy to make a guess at what demands his attention. “Has your mother come to terms with the Princess?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose we can adjourn.”

Atreides seems amused at the implication he was asking for permission. It sits sharply across his features, doesn’t soften the sharp line of his jaw. “You will be shown to your quarters.”

“How generous.” Feyd says dryly—stands at last—catches the fremen looking between them with a frown, perhaps alarmed by how familiarly he speaks. “I had a room here already.”

“I know.” Atreides doesn’t call him out on his rudeness. “You have been moved somewhere new. I would advise against paying insult to my hospitality, there will be someone guarding your door tonight, and it will be locked.”

The warning rankles.

It makes him want to snarl, to answer the words with bared teeth, conflicts with a part of him that refuses to be so easily insulted. Feyd squashes the urge, forces neutrality. “Do you plan to imprison the representative of every Great House?”

“This is mostly to guarantee your protection.” Atreides replies with a small smile, the slightest bit wry, a cruel sort of humour. It suits his mouth, the pretty pink lips Feyd has been so close to properly enjoying. “I have many close to me who’d see you dead.”

Feyd hadn’t needed the confirmation to know the truth in that, yet now he has the opportunity to address it, pitches his voice soft and mocking. “You think them that likely to disobey you.”

Atreides reply is blunt. “No. But I will not be so cruel as to recklessly test their restraint.”

Yet it turns out that the uncrowned Emperor is generous enough to personally escort Feyd to his room. The fremen follow, move seamlessly into the same formation as before, a dedicated honour guard for their lovely messiah. It’s more of what he’s already observed; Feyd recognises a fervour in this loyalty like that of worship, one taught by scripture, the sort for a holy object instead of a man. It’s learned instructions for what is divine, what speaks to god only through prayer. Have they forgotten that he’s flesh and blood—have they ever truly known?—all of these followers so devoted but can Atreides call any amongst them a friend?

A prophet might not feel loneliness.

But Atreides isn’t really a prophet is he?

They arrive at a door in the guest wing, a section previously empty, what might now be used to house those Atreides has allowed to live following his takeover of the planet. Feyd wonders if it’s strange for him, to return here, to walk these halls where so many of his own house were slaughtered. Can he see the blood here the same as he had his fathers? Atreides is still in his stillsuit, a necessity in the desert, what keeps one alive in the unforgiving heat but isn’t needed here. What will it feel like to take it off, what might be revealed when he does.

Are you tired, cousin?

There’s no subtle relaxation here, nothing to entice Atreides to lean against it, just hard stone beneath his feet. With a word two of the fremen are splitting off to guard the door. His cousin informs him that food will be brought to him shortly.

”What items you brought with you to Arrakis will be returned,” Atreides adds, pauses, eyes flicking over Feyd as if looking for something. He smiles. “And you can keep the knife.”

Feyd hadn’t been intending to return it.

He finds the room as expected; stone walls, built spacious enough to host a noble guest, simple but well furnished. There’s a small table suitable for a guest to eat in private if they so wish, three chairs set around it, the bed leaning against the wall in the left of the room. It’s a little smaller than what he had back home but it will do.

“Not bad.” Feyd grins, turns back to find his cousin standing alone in the doorway, the fremen guards left outside the door. He meets the familiar steadiness of his stare. It’s time to play, to plant an idea alongside the almost kiss, to have Atreides thinking of it when he goes to agree terms with his soon to be wife. “You should come by later.”

He knows it unlikely Atreides will actually take him up on it.

But the thought might linger when he goes to bed.

It might creep up on him, stroll across his mind, so casual…so harmless a what if, a seed to remind him of how their lips had touched. What yearning found there now faced with so simple an answer, a way to make it stop…

Atreides doesn’t respond to the teasing tone. “I have things to do.”

Feyd has inches on his cousins height.

Enough to make a difference. Enough to make it count. He sidles closer—reaches for what out of reverence these fremen dare not touch—nothing scandalous, just a hand on his shoulder. A statement all the same, one he dares the fremen to interrupt, now squeezing to see what he can feel of bone. It's more that he might break. The stillsuit is thick enough to obscure, to mute sensation, that the sacrifice made of survival, but it doesn’t change how Feyd can feel the body under his hand.

It doesn’t change how Atreides can feel its weight.

“Yes, you will be busy finalising the terms of your marriage to the Princess.” Feyd says with a salacious smile, looks Atreides up and down while he’s still got him in his sights. The nature of his gaze is undisguised, intended to enjoy, one that imagines clothing stripped and skin bared, utterly unashamed at being so bold. “Should I feel slighted?”

The pale skin does not flush.

Whether that’s because Atreides has adjusted to flirtation Feyd can’t quite tell. The comment doesn’t fluster, his cousin doesn’t blush—a real pity in that, Feyd was hoping for something else to take to bed with him—but another frown begins to crease his brow. A familiar not-quite-puzzlement, for all he’s not mentioned the almost kiss Feyd’s hand is still heavy on his shoulder, the flirtation still striking true.

It still makes Atreides pause.

Yet his reply is neutral. “We will resume tomorrow.”

True to his word they bring him food.

A meal delivered alongside the few personal items he’d brought with him. Judging from the quality it’s food from Rabban’s stores, what Harkonnen imports he’d stockpiled, what luxuries he’d rationed for use in his own residence. Feyd is sure the fremen must be new to such delights.

To them it might seem an act of providence.

They might make toasts to their prophet, pay supplication in hushed tones, whispering a prayer under their breath before they let themselves eat. Feyd knows better, he knows the hand that filled his bowl wasn’t that of a god. He knows such things would never be written, prophecies far too concerned with the experience of the divine, they will never teach what it means to be a man. They are designed that way by default; a mantle to take up, individuality to lose, the result clear because Atreides plays the scripted role so well.

Yet he’d blushed at a touch of Feyd’s fingers.

A sweet vulnerability in how human he is when someone takes the time to notice.

What human thing will find its way to bed tonight, Feyd wonders, what haunting will he find there in the dark? Last night Atreides was in the desert, dreaming and dreading in equal measure. Perhaps even then he’d known that taking back Arrakis was his last noble dream, the road beyond it twisted, already so certain of what could go wrong. Already so certain of a death toll in the billions.

Tonight, alone, will that future Atreides is so afraid of rise up like a spectre?

Feyd remembers what he’d said—

“I want another way.”

He remembers what else Atreides had said.

“I need you.”

Strange that Feyd finds such a victory while on the losing side.

The title of Baron Harkonnen is his, Giedi Prime is too, the only rival for the claim already stepping aside. All barriers to it gone, both brother and Uncle dead; those two competitors swept aside, the board cleared in an instant when he’d thought it would take years, the ambition already fulfilled. So generous a gift in his cousins bloody vengeance.

Feyd can have his inheritance.

He can retire to bed, languid with smug satisfaction, unburdened by it. Feyd can sleep easy while his cousin may lay tense in the darkness, unable to escape what even in light now haunts his eyes. Victorious and yet unable to find another dream—will Feyd’s invitation creep to the forefront of his mind then? unfolding to another form of torment—lost instead to nightmares. A trap so like the one his father had found himself in and yet so different. Feyd will keep his promise, he will be his cousins ally in the Landsraad, knows that their monopoly is all but guaranteed, will nonetheless wait with giddy anticipation for the moment the first Great House challenges the new Emperor to combat…

He can’t wait to see it.

Feyd will watch Paul Atreides try so hard to prevent a war that’s already begun, will watch as he tears himself apart to do it…

Trying so desperately to be good in a universe that will never let him.

Chapter Text

He has a visitor in the middle of the night.

Feyd wakes the moment he hears the door unlock—too well trained to miss even so soft a sound—knife drawn before he’s even fully awake because he’s never so foolish as to sleep without a blade. The door closes as Feyd takes a step away from the bed; cold seeping into his bare feet, the jolt of it quickening the give of muscle memory to conscious alertness, cautiously eyeing the shadowed silhouette creeping into his room. It isn’t Atreides. He knows it even before the light turns on and Feyd sees dark robes, black like mourning, the aged face of the Reverend Mother Mohiam greeting him.

It’s not so fine a meeting.

Her veil has been pulled back; severe disposition nowhere near as endearing as how solemnity looks on his cousin, her dark eyes bird-bright but nowhere near as lovely.

Feyd finds he’s not surprised to see her.

It follows that Mohiam has sought him out, a path laid in the instant she’d looked between him and Atreides with such frantic horror, a step not so much predicted as extrapolated. Like reading a fight and knowing what leg an opponent will lean back on, knowing what hand they will strike with, knowing which one hides the feint. How she’d gotten into his room isn’t a mystery either, because to find the answer all Feyd has to do is remember how Atreides had silenced her with a word.

Feyd knows she has the same power.

The Reverend Mother’s rasping voice breaks the silence now, snaps it like bone, a creaking sound that belongs in the dark. “This weakness of yours is dangerous.”

It’s an utterly confounding way to start a conversation.

Feyd must admit that he doesn’t quite know what she’s talking about, only that it’s obviously more Bene Gesserit nonsense. He doesn’t sheathe the knife, takes a daring step towards her instead, a threat few would ever make, watches the blade gleam silver in the light and finds a certain thrill in considering slitting her throat.

Has anyone ever made her bleed?

He smiles. “You should go back to your room.”

“Do not think to be disrespectful to me, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.” Mohiam retorts like the snap of a whip—scolds him while ignoring the knife, stern in a way that rankles—defeated by Feyd’s cousin and yet thinking to be prideful now. “Put that knife away you disrespectful boy.”

It shouldn’t matter what demeanour she wears.

Feyd knows the titan he’d thought was beneath it is gone. But somehow a certain power remains, persists like instinct if not truth, an authority unwithered despite how her current station matches the aged weakness of her gnarled hands. And those eyes—seeing beneath the skin, how deep, can she see what the baron had done?—Feyd doesn’t like it. The old monster is dead, nothing should be left of him, nothing on Feyd’s skin to act as a sign.

So now Feyd deliberately turns his back.

The gamble thrills.

He’s not yet sure she isn’t here to kill him.

Feyd rests the knife on his bed then reaches for a shirt, pulls it on with forced casualness. This could be a mistake; Feyd savours how his pulse quickens, finds risk leads to reward, how in leaving himself open he’s dismissed the Reverend Mother like she’s nothing but dust in moonlight.

It encourages him to take his time.

When he finally returns the blade to his hand Feyd turns and smiles again. “Tell me what you want.”

“We must talk about Paul Atreides.” Mohiam’s reply is grave, prophetic like god still speaks through her, the words as utterly unsurprising as the tone with which they are uttered. “By now you will have guessed that he was also tested with the gom jabbar, that he put his hand in the box same as you.”

This is the Truthsayer his Uncle always feared.

Feyd never once laid eyes on the Bene Gesserit they’d captured, the hostage for which they had used to press Dr Yueh, the chisel to crack the famed Imperial Conditioning.

At the time Feyd had considered it merely a first step, the secrecy just another of his Uncle’s power plays against Leto Atreides. Now Feyd thinks there might have been a reason for the lack of spectacle beyond that of secrecy. The Harkonnen’s have always relished the stage of an arena, a captured witch should have been quite the show. Had the Baron been far too scared to keep her alive? Had he been too scared to send even a drugged witch into the arena with a weapon in hand? Capturing a Bene Gesserit at all had been a miracle, to have done it without the rest of them retaliating had been one far greater, but Feyd has reason to suspect the greatest of all would be in truly hurting one.

Had that ever been the plan?

As imaginative as his Uncle had been, as his Mentat pet de Vries had been, Feyd has a unique perspective. Having put his hand in the Bene Gesserit’s box of pain he understands exactly what she might have thought of such torments.

Feyd imagines she might have laughed in his Uncle’s face.

“Is this another test?” Feyd says at last.

“No.” Mohiam’s oval eyes bore into him and Feyd has the distinct impression he’s been judged lacking. There is a cold dispassion to her—what reviews the results of an experiment, clinical as if all she sees is data—a woman that could hold a still warm heart in her hand and find fault in its dimensions. “You have already fallen prey to the vulnerability we saw in you then.”

It’s the second time she’s mentioned such a thing.

Feyd refuses to ask what she means, finds he doesn’t really care, her judgement a flavour he desires to taste no further. He’s interested only in how it’s brought her to his room in the middle of the night. “Concerned?”

“I have a stake in this.”

“In Atreides?” Feyd chuckles, finally sheathes his knife and smirks. “Oh I do too.”

She isn’t amused by the innuendo in that.

“Listen well.” Mohiam is stern, a sudden urgency as she looks behind her to the door, a gravity in her eyes when she looks back. She seems to force her tone to soften. “We do not have much time.”

“You think to give me orders, witch?”

“Paul Atreides will see my coming here.” She pauses and looks him up and down, a displeased set to her mouth. “No. There will be no orders. Why would I write my plans in a book he so easily reads?”

“Then why come here at all?”

“To ensure you hear my warning.” She says grimly, once again as prophetic as Atreides himself but perhaps god had never spoken through her after all. “So that you might survive what awaits Paul Atreides in the end.”

Mohiam plans to kill him.

The gall on this woman. Feyd raises a brow. “Confident aren’t you.”

“Only in what must not come to pass. It’s too early for what he becomes,” Mohiam shakes her head, what could be sorrow flitting across her face, too fast for Feyd to even see. With all her powers of manipulation he wonders if the emotion was actually real. “Not only for him, but for Jessica too, with so few years of life neither of them were ready. An extra complication of course in what he is, what Paul has done as a boy killed all other men who tried.”

The allusion to what Atriedes is might be helpful later.

“You seem on edge, Truthsayer.” Feyd grins; cruel, mocking, what anxiety she has for his cousin so potent it weakens her to what can be read. Fearless in the face of the blade, yet so nervous about a man barely out of boyhood. “Uneasy…scared.”

The reaction to that is immediate.

No Bene Gesserit will ever take kindly to criticisms of their emotional control.

“You think this a game.” Mohiam hisses; attempts at softness forgotten as she snaps. Her tone sharp, his continued irreverence proving far more than a passing irritant and oh she’s not used to anything but devout respect is she? “You must distance yourself at once. You do not understand how dangerous he is.”

Feyd knows exactly how dangerous Paul Atreides is.

The danger has only ever made him that much more appealing. And Feyd knows well enough that danger alone is no reason for death—not when the Bene Gesserit so often seek out dangerous people—not when they planned to give Feyd himself the throne. No. What she means is unique. Uncontrolled.

Free.

Mohiam must watch that realisation blossom, must see the concept of freedom planted in Feyd’s eyes, the truth of how she’s made exactly the wrong argument.

She must already know the better offer to make.

Feyd says it for her.

“Will you offer him to me? As my prize,” he relishes the chance to taunt, says it as if it’s out of his reach, as if it’s something she can give him rather than what he knows he’s close to being able to take. “Will you deliver him to my bed?”

And just like that Mohiam stops playing coy.

“You think to manipulate him with sex?” The Reverend Mother finally defines exactly what path she came here to dissuade him from, what knowledge she has spied. Her expression is stern, distaste clear; for what base desires Feyd will fulfil with what’s supposed to be her tool, all the lovely things he wants to do, all the ways he covets. “Do you think he doesn’t know? Oh you foolish boy.”

Finally something useful.

Feyd grins, delighted. “So he’s been playing along after all.”

“Think.” Her tone is hard, once again it snaps with unmistakable annoyance, what one uses when speaking to a child. “You risk your bloodline.”

“It’s my risk to take.”

Mohiam seems utterly non-plussed by his profession of agency. A moment where she looks at him contemplatively and then—

“I can still make you Emperor.”

Uncle had said that too.

The Uncle that Feyd had despised and admired in equal measure, who had introduced him to so sweet a mix of love and hate, who would try to kill him only to then turn around and slyly offer him the throne. There is no new thing here. Only Mohiam repeating that same promise as if still believing it entices him. But Feyd has learned something about what that might mean—in Atreides face when Shaddam had kissed his ring—knows that the flush of victory will be gone tomorrow. The crown passes on, sits upon your brow to be defended, no shining rivals to overcome, nothing more to conquer when you are the one that sits the throne.

All that's left are obstacles to remove. Feyd knows all about obstacles; he’s long since grown bored with nameless slaves being set against him in an arena, warriors drugged for him to fight, victories preprepared and that means something different than predestined.

Would he ever be emperor if someone else handed him the crown?

“I have a better idea.” Feyd says softly, feels his hand drift to the knife sheathed at his hip. “One that doesn’t require your promises.”

Mohiam's eyes go cold, her mouth hardens, thins to a tense line. She doesn’t like that at all. Feyd wonders what she will do now. He wonders if perhaps he should just kill her after all, but just as Mohiam opens her mouth to retort they’re interrupted.

The door opens.

The hallway is drenched in a darkness befitting the lateness of the hour. A figure stands on the threshold, close enough to catch the light of the room, illuminating dark hair, setting pale skin aglow, glimmering across blue within blue eyes.

Revealing how they glare.

It’s not quite what Feyd had in mind when he invited Atreides to his room, but he knows things are about to get very interesting, appreciates what is so beautiful in the features twisting in anger, finds a compulsion all its own in how he glares. The rage as potent as when Atredies commanded Mohiam to silence. Unlike then it hasn’t yet found an outlet. The result is a gift; the reward of Atreides bringing himself further into the light, entering the room with a stalking stride, an unconscious configuration to his step, a rhythm very much like dancing.

Oh he's furious.

Feyd wonders what signs had called him here.

In all likelihood he’s come straight from his own bed, the slightest bit dishevelled, as soft with it as rage hardens, stray curls falling across his forehead and into his eyes. The stillsuit is absent, taken off at long last; replaced by loose clothes, the collar of the shirt gaping by design, to be comfortable and not restrictive. It’s a practicality Feyd can turn to something far more gratifying. He sets his gaze on the line of a sharp collarbone and is grateful for all the choice exposes. Atreides is longer dressed for survival; peeled back, the flesh of fruit revealed, the precious centre of a geode ready to be mined.

Here is Feyd’s demon.

Mohiam doesn’t seem surprised by his appearance, might seem afraid but Feyd doesn’t know those signs. The Truthsayer meets Atreides gaze for gaze, looks at him—so much passing between them remaining indecipherable—regret, disappointment, but whatever it is it's clear he’s out of her reach.

Atreides breaks the silence this time. “You knew that I would find you here.”

She nods. “As expected from the Kwisatz Haderach.”

Whatever that is it doesn’t sound like a compliment. The unfamiliar words register harsh, the syllables do not roll smooth. An omen, clear in that at least, prophesised still but a prediction made with dread.

“92 generations of work.” Atreides says it lightly, purposeful as always, clearly knowing exactly what he’s doing in smothering a ten thousand year goal in one dismissive taunt. “It must feel quite the weight. How does it feel to face the product of such a scheme? To watch the aim of it come to pass and know the taste you were promised is failure…that you are the Reverend Mother who saw the rise of the Kwisatz Haderach and could not control him.”

The hit doesn’t just land.

It devastates.

Mohiam is rendered vulnerable to Feyd’s untrained eyes; all at once he can see right to the bone, she looks at Atreides like he’s something from a nightmare, her expression splintering, shattering, then abruptly it sets to a memory of marble.

They do not speak to each other after that.

In fact Atreides turns without even waiting for a reply, the slightest hint of a smirk on his face, already addressing the fremen who must be standing just beyond the door. A few exchanged words and then two of them are entering to escort the Reverend Mother away. They do not need to seize her, she walks willingly, ten thousand years of Bene Gesserit elegance still an impressive sight despite how completely Feyd knows she’s lost. Atreides doesn’t spare Feyd even a cursory glance; follows without another word, the door closing behind him.

Feyd hears the guard resume position.

He knows it won’t be the end. Atreides returns barely five minutes later, shuts the door behind him this time, looks at Feyd standing in the room, stares him down with narrowed eyes.

His tone is icy cold.

“Is this how you greet your Emperor?”

The play is clear, offense has been taken, a balance to be renewed. These aren't the words of the Bene Gesserit—not what brought Feyd to his knees before Lady Fenring—but it’s a command all the same. One for action still to be defined because as expectant as Atreides is when giving orders it’s a question Feyd can choose how he’ll answer. He already knows exactly how he wants to do that. Feyd has been invited to it, knows now that Atreides has been playing along, the sly little thing so coy about it. He supposes that he has Mohiam to thank for the insight, knows well enough that if not for her he might never have had confirmation of how much Atreides knows.

Now he’s cued in; watches Atreides eyes slide down his body, over the thin shirt worn as loose as his cousins, tracks how anger makes room for a heat of a different kind.

Feyd walks closer.

He smirks as he kneels.

Because before Atreides can speak he reaches out to touch.

He was right about how different experience is too, the reality of touch what must be lived, savours how Atreides jumps when his hands reach for his knees. He startles as Feyd’s fingers settle either side of the joint. He can feel bone, squeezes and enjoys how the skin gives, enjoys it even more when Atreides freezes under the touch.

When he inhales sharply.

Yet there’s the same odd not-quite-surprise, Atreides doesn’t question what Feyd is doing. The eyes don’t widen, but anger gives way even further, melts like snow caps beneath a hot greedy sun, melts like the ice held greedily in Arrakis’s frozen poles. It melts even further when Feyd’s hands slide up lean thighs, grip unapologetically firm, such to gather fabric in their wake, bunching it up because this grope has to dig if he’s to learn every contour.

If it’s to be far more intimate than worship.

Because what vision can give Atreides this?

They must leave him parched like the desert, a body starved of water, to be holy is to be denied the touch of man, but while Feyd is kneeling now it’s certainly not in prayer. His hands aren’t clasped together; Feyd’s touch drifts outwards, reaches hips and curls his fingers around the bone, below the loose hem of his shirt. Atreides feels as slim as his silhouette promised—bird bones to match his bird bright eyes—less protected out of his stillsuit, less hidden. White cotton drapes, to allude, to entice not to protect, and under it the skin of the messiah is warm. The hot heat of pumping blood soaks through to Feyd's own skin, speaks of the heart beneath. His fingers press into the muscle to chase it, committing all to memory, and all the while Atreides remains still and compliant under his touch.

He could very well be soaking it up.

Feyd wants to see him tremble.

He wants to make him. It’s irresistible; he settles his thumbs right on the jut of both hips, the thin trousers slipping as the legs resettle, gravity dragging cotton down over the bone. It grants him an even larger swathe of skin, pale and warm—

Atreides is taking step back.

It seems a reflex.

As unconscious as when he’d bitten his lip, as silent, words trapped in his pretty, delicate throat. Feyd rises though he’s not been given leave, but he’d not been given leave to touch either, saunters forwards. A pursuit like the moment between a clash of blades.

They dance again.

Feyd matches him step for step until Atreides back hits the wall.

It seems so simple a trap for him to fall into, almost too simple, and yet Feyd doesn’t care how he got him here, only that he has. That Atreides will stay put. Feyd will make sure he does. He bullies his way closer, hovers a moment, looks—traces the soft skin revealed by that gaping collar, up the naked line of his throat, tempted by wild hair still falling into spice blue eyes—drinks his fill and then leans in to see if a kiss will be denied.

It isn’t.

Feyd likes to think Atreides really has been yearning for it.

His lips find their target, Feyd goes gentle, once again he goes softer than what he really wants, finds pain to fill the void. His hands clench at his sides, nails biting into his palm, wrestling with the need to press bruises into Atreides silk soft skin. To watch it blush purple and black. Instead Feyd continues to kiss him carefully, wants it like this for the first time, wants to enjoy a different kind of victory in this unique moment where the kill is fresh. There’s nothing holding Atreides where he is, there’s nothing keeping him here but the Emperor’s own will.

And so Feyd teases a little more, grazes teeth against a plush lower lip, coaxes the mouth to open and as soon as it does he pulls back.

Blue within blue eyes follow.

They are the only thing that does, but even if Atreides himself stays still his lush mouth remains the slightest bit parted, expectant, tended to but once again left wanting. Feyd reaches up, skims the sharp line of an exposed collarbone, up his throat and over his cheek, brushes stray curls out of Atreides eyes at last, tender despite how indulging softness will always make him want to pull. He cups his jaw, takes it captive in his hand, pauses so they so both can feel it.

A breath and Feyd thumbs across the still open mouth, chuckles as it stubbornly closes, leans close but not close enough and murmurs—

“This is how I’d greet my Emperor.”