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• For two days, they deliberated on how to keep or switch their last names. Paul Harkonnen… Feyd-Rautha Atreides… the first one didn’t sound so badass, that’s why Feyd happily settled with the latter. On top of that, having a double name sounded tempting, in fact. Calling himself the mighty Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen-Atreides would be pretty intense, but having two hyphens in there made Paul a little skeptical about it. So, Feyd-Rautha Atreides it was. Rolled off the tongue. Very nice. And Feyd was Paul’s. No debate about that. Who lost his heart to whom, that is. The biggest Paul devotee in the galaxy, Feyd was totally into „being an Atreides now!“ and couldn’t stop talking about such a crazy feat. Meanwhile, Paul Atreides sounded hot the way it was, they both agreed without debate.
• Feyd’s love language? The most glaring case of physical touch. Hands down. No discussion needed.
• And Paul, that’s a little acts of service and a lot of quality time. And some words of affirmation. Bit of everything, and Feyd gladly obliges. He can love Paul in all the different ways. Buy the groceries, take him on a wild road trip, call him sweet and handsome. And Paul looks just right in Feyd-Rautha’s arms, snuggled to him constantly, pressed to his pecs with a silly grin. Paul is the perfect little spoon incarnate, and Feyd is horribly touch-, no, affection-starved. He would do anything to get hugged. Anything. He risked everything to even stroke Paul’s cheek on their first date. Paul absolutely melted, he was so sensitive to flirting, to what Feyd said about his „pretty face“. Oh, it was over at that point, so over.
• Paul tries to cook for Feyd. He’s not as hopeless as he thought, skillfully tinkering and combining ingredients. Feyd would rather bite Paul’s perky little butt, however… he will be patient this one time, and actually eat tomato soup. Soup! What a fervent eater Feyd is, not even bothering with cutlery sometimes. Leaving a path of destruction in the kitchen as soon as he interferes with the process. Paul tames the messy eater by putting on some music, so Feyd resorts to becoming Paul’s personal tall and sexy kitchen stripper. Perfectly balanced distribution of roles. Paul will never be bored stirring cake batter because Feyd is shamelessly dry-humping his husband from all directions. Without much else on. Duh. Paul is massively shy, but willing to lick some fresh cream off his husband’s rippling abs. Feyd is satisfied with the look of blushy Paul’s cutesy tongue really tasting the sweetness. The whole thing usually ends with Paul sucking off his designated lap-dancer loverboy. Just before the cake burns, he denies Feyd an orgasm with perfect timing. Begging for release, Feyd is super clingy and kissy afterwards, cocking his head side to side wanting more more more. They feed each other delicacies from the oven while the baked goods are still warm, and Feyd is slowly convinced that kitchen work has its merits. From now on, he tries to follow along, or at least read recipe instructions, trunks and a bunny print apron on, so he can cheesily flex his biceps while grating lemon zest. Which makes Paul smile, and stare at his husband’s muscular back. Same applies to laundry, really.
• If there’s one thing that’s certain, it’s that Feyd is obsessed with Paul’s wonderful, bouncy curls. Petting them constantly throughout the day, fascinated by its wondrous, quizzical physics. He puts product in them and combs them and blow-dries them and whatnot. Shampooing is his favorite. He takes good care of his sweetheart, no questions asked. He’s plucked Paul’s eyebrows before, having to endure jokes how he has none. Oh well. Feyd comforts himself knowing that he’s going to feel Paul’s hair against his neck night after night, because he’s loved the way he is (crazy, bald, and hot!).
• Who takes longer in the bathroom, though… that’s Mister Harkonnen for sure. What an elaborate routine. This man is expensive! No one as high maintenance as Feyd-Rautha, god damn. Paul’s kinda pissed off by that, so he just bends over at the sink sufficiently to get his morning rimjob instead. And Feyd will save some money on beauty items if he uses them less, too preoccupied with his pretty boy’s intimate wishes. Win-win! And, I mean. You know damn well who’s the king of rimjobs. And eating pussy. Equality!
• The smug ole sexpot Feyd still brags about his very horny playboy past, amusing Paul with all the „I gave [insert sexy former bed partner] head like I invented it“ stories, or some anecdotes on how he satisfied his raging mommy kink. Although, as a side note: Feyd won’t call them bed partners, because he can fuck anywhere, by the way. Absolutely anywhere. Paul got laid on rooftops and empty streets.
• As far as Paul’s sexual past goes… he can’t say much about that, because he’s been rather inexperienced before marriage. It wasn’t like he even knew what a dominatrix did before Feyd educated him about it. Paul had a girlfriend for a while, but lacked the responsibility. So things just went to waste. He needed a strong hand who could also tolerate his immensely suppressed sex drive. Feyd could do that. With ease. So Paul got married in a rush. He previously didn’t even realize he’d like men this much, but Feyd-Rautha was such a compelling and lusty individual. Paul enjoyed learning how to take dick, and quickly got addicted to the body of his stunning partner.
• The proposal actually came from shy Paul. Yes, him. During a vacation. At the beach, at night time. Feyd kissed him passionately for minutes, also sinking to his knees. Good times. Paul was so high from being in love, that even beat Feyd’s regular cocaine habit. Okay, I’m joking, there’s no cocaine. But Feyd was so fucking happy, too. Glued to Paul for weeks. He never expected this. Never, ever, ever. Feyd couldn’t believe he’d be a husband! Oh, the whole ceremony was a social event for the books. Paul never regretted his impulsive decision.
• Feyd does the bureaucracy bullshit for Paul, who simply despairs every time, banging his head onto the table while sorting through files and papers (yikes). Angry Feyd works quickly and effectively filling out various forms or bills, and people trying to call and mess with the local, extremely good-looking couple are squarely getting yelled at through the speaker! Unlike Paul solving problems through diplomacy and charm, Feyd is proud to be an unstoppable hater, putting scammers and money sharks into their place. Whether it’s stomping to the bank in a muscle tee after rolling there on his scary motorcycle or stealing shit at the local grocery store in plain sight, Paul will get his debt cancelled and those pink and yellow marshmallows for movie night. Period! Wherever Feyd shows up, people („sheeple!“) will do whatever he wants. As Feyd does what Paul actually wants, of course. We know who serves whom here!
• Obviously, you can easily guess who drives. Paul is responsible for fondling Feyd’s muscly thighs, singing to alleviate boredom,  looking cute, and trusty navigation. Speed demon Feyd-Rautha has to be reigned in sometimes, so Paul darts him a dirty glance as a warning. One time, the highway police stopped the car because it seemed to roll alongside the street at 80 miles per hour without a driver. Turns out Feyd was crouching sideways to the right, giving Paul a full-on aggressive blowjob while operating the steering wheel from below. Paul was at the edge of his seat and ready to shoot when they got pulled over, oh my word. Feyd beat up the scandalized police officer with one of Paul’s rolled-up maps, then handed him some money anyway because he admitted he was reckless. „At least we use lube and protection for oral, you straight ass!“ Feyd barked through the open window while cruising off, leaving the police officer standing paralyzed with his jaw on the floor. Absolutely glorious scenes. Feyd probably did it again because he wasn’t done with Paul, nowhere near willing to let him down.
• Feyd loves devouring pizzas but hates to order take-out, so he’ll allow Paul to splurge on a nice restaurant every now and then. They fight over who doesn’t pay. Since Paul considers such an evening a seduction game, he dresses up, which Feyd interprets as a competition. So, two very stylish-looking bisexuals walk into a high-end hotel bar and… probably make out in that beloved car of theirs afterwards. Winding up on the backseat so Paul can show off his impeccable bouncing-on-that-beefy-lap skills. If Feyd hasn’t upset the whole place beforehand by licking Paul’s hands and neck without a care in the world. In front of the guests and barkeeper. Who technically cares the least, but is still visibly creeped out by how hairless Feyd is, which almost results in a spectacular bar fight. Paul manages to cool the tempers, and he wants some dick and personal attention, so. To make things worse (at least for innocent bystanders, not for lucky Mister Atreides), Feyd often rents a hotel room to blow Paul’s back out. The moans and groans, oh wow.
• Because Paul is a handful in bed and lost to his own pleasure, Feyd works out and edges like crazy to even remotely keep up. He fails every time, busting like an idiot at full force when Paul is still in his daze, thinking he’s only getting started. The mismatch is quickly alleviated through Feyd giving it his all just facefucking himself like a maniac with Paul’s super sensitive dick beforehand. Massive drooling included. Man, the way Feyd almost breaks his neck every time and enjoys it. Paul gave up on trying to slow him down. Not that he hates the speed, no. Paul likes it fast. He’s just worried about his top, that’s all. Feyd appreciates that, but he just can’t resist his deepthroat inklings.  The weird noises he can make, oh yes. Paul is more of the romantic hollowed cheeks sucking type, lashes cast down, often far more silent; Feyd is… keeping his mouth open almost every time. No suction. Just jackhammering his own face. With extra eye contact and a smile. So there’s that. He kind of invented his own style, it seems. Paul’s not tiny, so he hopes for the best, as in, maybe Feyd can still eat and speak and move his jaw once he’s done. After destroying his throat, fucking Paul with much better timing is a perfect evening treat, though. Feyd won’t care his throat will hurt! He just wants to see Paul groaning.

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All by himself, Paul had sought out Geidi Prime in order to conduct some much-needed diplomatic talks. Of course, the topic was spice. What else, really. However, the old Baron was too bored, sick, and amused by pathetic little Muad’Dib, sending an angered but even more keen Paul to Feyd-Rautha’s grand new estate instead.

Far out there, droning in a flat landscape. A massive, menacingly glowing architectural hill, a small pyramid-sized cathedral almost, housing a myriad of slaves and concubines, not to mention soldiers. The estate was eerily jagged, black like an ominous beatle, enveloped by grey low clouds most of the time, making it hard to navigate within the territory. Paul knew what would expect him, and why Vladimir did that.

Gleefully, of course, the Baron dying to know what atrocious thing his nephew would do to Paul to kill him within a hot minute. For better or worse, however, Feyd was too horny for that. Thoroughly infatuated with Paul, in fact, as his insane gaze quickly gave away as soon as the Duke arrived in his thopter, very much adamant with his own agenda, too, and eager to show off — though he didn’t say that.

Meanwhile, Paul learned that the words hospitality and hostility truly were closely connected. The malicious host had him dragged in by the hair, two heavily-armed soldiers manhandling Paul as soon as he arrived on the doorstep, if you could even call it that. Paul did not resist, however, but fortified his position in speech: Loudly. Which fell on deaf ears, who knew.

Diplomacy? Peace? Feyd had no patience for that. Teasing his guest by walking up entirely naked in the main room instead, where he sat enthroned; thinking he could rile Paul any further with his glaring erection. Which was as pale and tall as its owner, rashly cut and… much-used.

The Harkonnen taunted Paul by saying that if his guest got down on his knees before said throne and gave him a proper blowjob, he’d think about his pleas. „I know you’re good at it,“ he’d added. „The Atreides are some real suckers, I’m telling you.“ While gesturing provocatively at his loins with the tip of his tongue poking behind his cheek.

Paul confidently responded that he was declared the Lisan Al-Gaib without fucking himself through an entire sietch, because the people believed in him rather than worshipping his dick. Feyd only laughed, saying how stupid his guest was to lie and renounce his sexuality, continuing to slight Paul. Mainly, then, by saying he could see how much he wanted to suck him off so badly. Which was true, he surely wanted to try himself out, but Paul wouldn’t admit that.

Under the fearful gazes of six servants, Feyd and Paul eventually wound up in a wrestling toil on the ground, weapon-less, word-less, to make it even. Neither seemed to prevail, and judging by Feyd’s playful snickering and suspiciously weak chokes on Paul’s steely neck, it was more of a formality and test run rather than a serious endeavor. At least he bothered to put a crotch wrap on before fighting. Unusually polite of him.

After half an hour of beating and exhausting and heavily squeezing and rolling on the cold white ground, plus a seemingly endless string of insults hauled at one another (Paul trying to sound more intellectual, and Feyd having no filter at all), the Harkonnen’s need for bodily contact was satisfied enough to invite Paul for dinner.

Paul himself was happy he wasn’t stabbed yet, and Feyd seemed to actually bother with him. Maybe, he thought, he could get the Harkonnen to listen to his political aims, and retain his attention, for ego purposes of course. He sat down expecting to be poisoned by the elaborately served menu, and Feyd did make some jokes how he would „eat Paul instead of this far less delicious meal“.

To which the Duke responded that Feyd must have such an insufferable oral fixation because he had been forbidden to speak and use his mouth in any way under the harsh upbringing in House Harkonnen, which loved its underlings quite silent. Feyd only rolled his eyes, cussing out Paul as a wannabe psychologist who was desperate in his defense. Even though the Atreides’ observation was very much true.

The food was good, actually, the conversation as dark as expected, and Paul still left the table on two legs to frequent the bathroom after course number two. Besides some punch and choke and nail marks, he was actually fine. And caught himself fixing his hair in the bathroom’s big mirror, which irriated him. Did he want to make himself good-looking? Well… probably.

He sat back down at the giant dinner table to face his adversary for the third course. If he wasn’t drugged, that was a good sign, or a bad one, because something worse was on its way. If Feyd wanted to toy with him before some kind of ritual murder in which his skin was pulled off, he had to use all his persuasion powers.

Over fruit dessert, which was delicious, Paul said he would indeed be willing to offer himself up, and it wasn’t a lie. „If you want my body, take it. Do whatever you want. I know how much you want to get laid. But then, you have to listen to me,“ was Paul’s assertion, prompting a predictably mixed bag of emotions on the other side of the table.

Feyd smiled because he knew that Paul was just as keen to have sex, but the Harkonnen was slightly unhappy that it wasn’t on his terms (… or was he — basically waiting and drooling for Paul to use the voice, which he boldly told his guest, too: „Yes, Atreides, tell me all the things you want, you sexy little fuck, you. Just command me already!“).

Paul was equally maddened by how Feyd was shamelessly begging for laying out the cards on the table. Had him absolutely beat, too. How could the Harkonnens be such a House of degenerates. Of course, Feyd would sheepishly enjoy the voice used on him, and probably jack off to it as the cherry on top.  

Infuriating. That’s what made Paul roll his eyes right back at his pervy dinner host. As the plates further emptied, Feyd only continued to fire up their animosities by stuffing a dessert fork to the back of his own throat, looking squarely at Paul with a wink on top — moving on to swallow some grapes whole with some very loud and obvious noises. Then, he complained that they couldn’t intertwine legs because they sat so far apart. Paul couldn’t stand him.  

Eventually, in a better mood after eating, they both agreed to set aside their political regards and mind games for the night, and find the next best bed as per Feyd-Rautha’s suggestion. He promised „to kill him tomorrow, in actual style“, and to bang Paul’s brains out properly beforehand, just to have some fun.

Paul responded that Feyd would probably be too knocked out from getting his balls emptied „even more properly, compared to whatever shit thing you’re doing with your poor servants day by day“. Feyd hissed right back that Paul was bred for a life of fucking as many concubines as possible himself, so why even try to make himself look good?

A heavily insulted Paul responded by attacking Feyd with his dinner knife and a grip to the Harkonnen’s throat. Which… turned, no, melted into a violent kiss, Feyd-Rautha being pinned against his dining chair full force. Teeth on teeth, not much lip action to be found, especially as Feyd shoved his tongue down Paul’s throat as soon as he got the chance. It was an ugly kiss, but they both meant it.

The absolute hard-on that this resulted in. On both sides. „Yeah. We should fuck,“ Paul dryly remarked, ushering Feyd to move his ass to the latter’s subterranean private rooms he’d already prepared into a full sex dungeon. Paul said that his host tasted better than expected, that he was „actually cleanly and not reeking like total death“, so Feyd was acting mysterious until he showed Paul why.

Feyd took Paul to the cellar baths, a large hygiene complex („My spa!“), rendering himself perfectly cleaned by his servants in a ginormous tub, which was usually reserved for massive, lawless orgies. Paul was uncomfortable by the flock of nude slaves, however. So Feyd sent them away with a sharp growl, partially due to jealousy, and being secretly gregarious: For once, he told himself.

Soaked in the dark water, Feyd tried to sneak up behind his guest to massage naked Paul’s back with some creepy giggles. Of course, with the intention to grope some more. But Paul shoved his left ass cheek against’s the rabid poke of Feyd’s erection in return. An elbow to the sternum came with it, and Paul was rather merciless. Totally caught off guard, the na-Baron backed away, then admitted that he finally gave up.

„Just fuck me already,“ he groaned in frustration. „Your balls are bigger than a horse’s, we all know it, the great Lisan Al-Gaib, the Mahdi, the Spice Lord, the whatnot, you daring piece of shit, you. You walk in here and don’t even tremble once, you prick. Come on, I’m waiting.“

Paul did nothing, except slap Feyd-Rautha squarely across his face.

„Can’t we go about this in a more civilized way?“ was all he spat, earning a frustrated shake of Feyd’s damn bald head.

„Nope. I’ll just use you for a little while like a cocksleeve, and say the things I always say. You gotta roll with what we do around here,“ was the maniacal reply, having Paul break down in defiant tears more or less instantly.

The Atreides Duke stormed out of the pool after shoving Feyd away from him, disillusioned, yelling, kicking the next cellar wall in sight.

The Harkonnen went after him, dripping head to toe. Encasing Paul from behind in a tight embrace, he sighed, and kissed his ears, his neck, aggressively tearing at the Atreides’ arms to keep him close. But Paul wound himself out of the backhug, continuing to kick and elbow at his now defensive target, the very conflicted na-Baron.

„If you want romance, you gotta go elsewhere,“ Feyd shrugged. „Can’t handle being called a hypocrite?“

„I very well can!“

„Why are you being such a virgin, Paul! I could make this easy for the two of us. You bend over, I’ll do my thing. I’ll let you escape conveniently so I can enjoy Vladimir’s exquisite punishment. Cycle repeat. Come on… it’s not that serious if I just jizz inside your ass.“

„Why are you always calculating! Can’t you just be normal?“

„I’m afraid it’s way too late for me, Paul. You know that. No point in trying to change me. I’m just honest. You can still have a good time.“

„That’s not. A good. Time!“

Paul yelled so profoundly, Feyd’s ears were ringing. Impressive.

„And you’re asking what’s wrong with me?“ he stuck his tongue out.

„You have no idea what passion is like!“

„How’d you assume that, Atreides?“

„How about you treat me well for once! I’m tired of your shit!“

And Paul spit on the ground before Feyd with disdain, sneer, and desperation.

„You hate me that much?“

„If you were different, Feyd— I would really not.“

„Maybe in another world, I would take care of you. But we were born into something else.“

„But why not now? No one has to know. And I feel for you… I only want your affection. The way you look at me. I know that you desire me this way.“

„Then maybe I can try.“

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chapter overview - foursome feyd/paul/chani/irulan series 💘

CHAPTER 4 - feyd/paul: how it all came to be - assassin's seduction

CHAPTER 5 - the... difficult aftermath

CHAPTER 6 - busy preparations

CHAPTER 7 - chani/paul: making it up to her

Chapter Text

That encounter definitely wasn’t planned.

The sleazy Baron Vladimir had originally sent Feyd-Rautha just to mess with House Atreides. Cause chaos on Caladan, spy around, do the dirty work, and — should he get the golden opportunity — assassinate Paul in cold blood, preferably in a deliciously nasty manner. Since everyone else just couldn’t get it done, oh hell. What a nuisance, right.

Enthusiastic Feyd was down for the job. And! In a truly saucy mood. Sneaking into Paul’s bedroom way past midnight after taking the castle with ease in a special cloak. However, to Feyd’s demise, Paul was looking far too cute all cuddled up in his silky pajamas, and the naughty Harkonnen just had to open up some drawers. To smell some freshly washed ceremonial tuxedos, of course. He just couldn’t help it. Not sorry. Dream come true. But just you wait.

Courtesy of his fine reflexes and laying awake the whole time (prescience is a handy thing, remember), Paul jumped up from his bed to catch the intruder red-handed. Who would have thought. Crysknife to the bald head, ready to stab, and goodnight. Turns out Paul was just the oh-so-innocent decoy… and Feyd the one to get mercilessly trapped and assassinated from the get-go. Check-mate.

However, given the context of the randy na-Baron sniffing Paul’s expensive suit collection like a maniac, the situation was just too queasy to resolve. Feyd, grinning like an idiot, tried to defend his behavior by lying. Oh, so, he just wanted to install a `spying device´ in the closet to see what was going on with the Duke every now and then, that’s totally what he wanted to do.

Paul teased him that Feyd knew a thing or two about the closet if he just came here to thirst over Paul like a horny stalker in his cloak. Feyd fired right back that Paul himself had a damn erection because look down my Duke, somebody built a tent.

„Mister Atreides needs a little bit of a release, huh,“ Feyd had swirled his tongue in the corner of his mouth. „I can give it to you, if you’re brave enough for that. Chani knows I want to fuck you. And she knows you want to fuck me. I can see it in her eyes. We should get it over with already. I’m here to take a good look at you, sweet little one.“

Confronted with the truth, and very much reacting positively to sweet little one, Paul tried to divert the issue by claiming he had bigger balls than Feyd anyway, which the latter didn’t even question. He just wanted to be shown. Squinty eyes and dagger to Feyd’s face, Paul threatened to call the guards if the Harkonnen pulled any funny business.

„It’s not like you can use my sexual frustration for your orgasms or whatever else you’re planning,“ he said, petulant. Feyd reminded Paul that he was the one luring the Harkonnen to his near-certain death, and that he better use „a more appropriate knife“ if he wanted to stab the na-Baron’s throat that much.

„You just want to bite off my dick,“ Paul frowned, but Feyd showed his almost-lack of proper teeth with a big, insane smile, already sinking to his knees… wiggling his eyebrows and spitting right into his own palms like a pro.

„Okay, fine, if you want to suck me off this badly,“ Paul had rolled his eyes, lowering his pants to the shameless temptation kneeling before him. That’s right, he said just do it then. He knew what would happen, and he knew it was going to be good. A dulcet escape from his gloomy fate... why not.

Feyd wet his lips with his tongue sneering that Paul would come within two minutes flat. Prideful Paul was completely indignant about it, and twice as hard at that point, who was he kidding. The na-Baron looked like a complete meal. Paul was attracted rather unsurprisingly given how Feyd was supposed to be his husband and child’s father, after all.

Paul, still acting like he had a reason to be paranoid, wouldn’t lay down the knife when Feyd started sucking and bopping his head without a care in the world, but he did drop to the edge of his bed on his sorry butt, which soon would be the object of Feyd’s limerent attention all night long. Little did Paul know how all this would get him into bed with three people. Or did he. His dreams told a certain story, didn’t they.