#feydpaul filet

[desert--mouse]

prompt from @dreamlandcreations: what if paul sees what could have been if he was born a girl and he falls in love with feyd who is supposed to be his husband... how would paul try to get feyd in this life?

The dream left him unsettled. Paul Atreides jolted awake, mind still waxy and pliable after too much time spent in the sand and a belly full of spiced liquor. Was it even a dream? It felt like a vision, cleaving away from whimsy and falling squarely into an alternate timeline. Into a life when he had been born as the Bene Gesserit intended: daughterhood, perfected. He blinked blearily at the window. Past the savannah curtain, dunes crested the horizon. Arrakeen slept. Chani Kynes slept too, her chest rising and falling as she breathed beside him.

Paul returned to the vision, fingering through it like a tapestry with many pockets. In it he was young and foolhardy, bare feet smacking slippery moss in an orchard on Caladan, running from pale hands that snatched for his wrists. A mouthful of briny wind was spat from the sea. The person behind him was the echo of someone he’d seen before in this life. Feyd-Rautha grabbed his waist and spun him around, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth, clumsily missing the place he’d intended to land. In the dream Paul was fifteen at first. Time swiveled out of focus and he was seventeen, panting hard against Feyd’s chin as they sparred or fought or fucked in the training chamber. And then he was eighteen and dressed in white. The gown was beautiful. It reminded him of his mother. Feyd-Rautha wore black. He was crisply dressed and standing straightbacked at the end of a long aisle dusted in petals.

In that vision, somewhere on a timeline near enough to this one to make itself known, Paul Atreides had married Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. He gulped. His throat went dry and his palms grew sweaty. Yesterday Feyd-Rautha had been detained by Fedaykin patrolling a slot canyon in the north. He was being kept in a cell in the bowels of the citadel on Arrakeen. It wasn’t the first time Paul had questioned his visions, but it was the first time he’d slipped out of bed in the dead of night to prove one of them wrong. He dressed slowly and silently, paying close attention to Chani’s restful sleep. Once his trousers were tightened, he tied his leather crysknife sheath around his waist and left their bedchamber, sneaking through each hall until he came to stand before Feyd-Rautha’s intimate prison. He shouldn’t go in. He knew that already. But the dream kept doubling behind his eyelids, daring him to push through the door and test destiny. Or entertain the idea of a different one manifesting in this lifetime, altering the course of Lisan al-Gaib.

Paul unlocked the chamber and stepped inside. The darkness didn’t allow for much, but he saw the outline of Feyd-Rautha’s lean form seated on the edge of a plain mattress, elbows propped on his thighs, hands dangling in front of him. He stared at Paul with lazy hatred.

“Muad’Dib,” Feyd-Rautha rasped, laughing deep in his throat. The bandages around his torso were dark in the middle. Blood from the wound he’d sustained from the Fedaykin must’ve leaked through. “I’m honored.”

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Paul said.

“Would’ve preferred a warrior’s death.”

“I came alone.”

“I can see that, cousin.”

Paul searched for something more to say. He came up empty, still fixated on the vision. “Have you ever dreamed of me, Harkonnen?”

Feyd-Rautha lifted his face. His smile was as small as it had been with Paul’s crysknife buried in his chest, another vision come to fruition in another life. There was no lamp in the small inlet where Feyd was being held. Light from a glow globe in the hall cast a glimmer on his face and made the line of his nose and his cupid’s bow sharper. In the dream, Paul had found him extraordinary. Standing there, staring at him, Paul understood why.

“I dreamed my own death once,” Feyd-Rautha said. He shrugged and stood. His torso was bare except for the cloth bandages. Black trousers fell low on his waist. “I didn’t know it was you holding the blade until yesterday when I saw the great Lisan al-Gaib for the first time. But here I am, alive.”

“I asked if you’d dreamed of me,” Paul said sternly. “Have you or not?”

“Maybe.” His wolfish smile grew. Feyd stepped forward, approaching with slow steps. He listed his head and his naked brow furrowed. “Why do you ask, Atreides?”

Paul should’ve expected that question. His mind was still fuzzy from the spice liquor, his movements slow. When Feyd aimed a strike at his arm, Paul narrowly deflected. They jostled for a brief moment. Paul tried to sweep out his legs, Feyd dodged. Feyd-Rautha attempted to catch Paul’s jaw with his fist, Paul grabbed his wrist and spun him, pinning Feyd roughly to the stone wall.

Paul jammed his crysknife underneath Feyd’s chin. “Because in another life, you were given to me.” Paul gritted the confession between his clenched teeth. He pressed the edge of Shai Hulud’s fang to Feyd’s milky throat. “You were mine.”

“Is that right?” Feyd laughed, craning away from the crysknife.

“We were married, Feyd,” Paul snapped.

Feyd-Rautha’s expression turned from coy to curious. “You’re a bit feisty for my tastes, Atreides — ”

Paul inhaled forcefully. “And you’re a bit cocky for mine.”

“And yet here we are.” Feyd’s crooked smile curved. He tipped his face toward Paul’s, allowing the crysknife to dent his flesh, then split it, leaking red onto the sacred weapon. Their lips faintly touched. “Here we are.” 

#dune #paul atreides #feydpaul #feyd rautha #feyd x paul #paulfeyd #dune fanfiction #feydpaul filet #dune ficlet #feydpaul prompt #this was a fun one #it's not super canon but it's kinda close