aoi-targaryen

[aoi-targaryen]

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter vi

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: heavy making-out. dry humping. female & male orgasm. tiny bit of breath play.

w/c: 3k.

a/n: i swear these two are horny teenagers that live in my head rent free, causing all kinds of chaos. feyd is very much inspired by how Rora at Sandworm: A Dune Roleplay, writes him. and so this chapter is very much dedicated to @sandwormrp. i hope you all enjoy! <3 <3

This had to be a mockery—there was no other explanation.

Feyd couldn't think of a single reason his uncle would insist on this dinner unless it were to taunt them. Vladimir Harkonnen was not a puzzle to be pieced together; every decision he made was calculated and intentional. And this—this extravagant, indulgent dinner—had a purpose behind it.

He only had to figure out what it was.

He sat across from his uncle, watching the grotesque display of gluttony with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. The Baron ate with obscene pleasure, each chunk of meat passing lips slick with grease, a sheen of fat glistening down the slope of his chin. His manner had no urgency—only the slow, calculated indulgence of a man who had never known hunger.

The table groaned under the weight of excess: roasted meats still steaming, loaves of bread warm and fresh from the oven, and wine the colour of fresh-spilled blood, pooling in crystal goblets like offerings to some deity of gluttony.

Leiana sat beside him, her tension palpable. From the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle flinch in her posture each time cutlery scraped against plates—a sound that needled at her nerves. It slithered beneath her skin like serpents, anxiety threading through her veins as though in search of something unnamed, something unseen.

The silence between them was dreadful, thick with the weight of words left unsaid, each one a blade waiting to be drawn. Leiana did not trust him—Feyd knew that as surely as he knew his name. He, in turn, harboured no faith in his uncle. And the Baron? The Baron trusted no one at all.

Leiana would not look at him.

It made him smirk—a devil's curve to his mouth.

He'd taken something from her, carved away a sliver of innocence when he had pinned her to the wall, his cock between her thighs, her arousal betraying her in silent pleasure. He knew it. Saw it. In the way she now avoided his gaze, and in those rare moments when she did look at him—how her eyes darkened, how colour bloomed high on her cheeks, shame and memory warring beneath her skin.

Leiana had scrubbed herself raw, desperate to wash away the memory of him—of his seed clinging to her like a brand. But it lingered, a haunting that was lovely in its intimacy and frightening in its intensity.

That had been two days ago; still, he had not returned Talitha to her.

Their arrangement was meant to be transactional—he had taken something, and in return, he owed her. It wasn't that he refused to pay his debt, only that he intended to do so on his own terms, in his own time, reminding her with every passing moment who truly held control.

Seconds bled into minutes. They ate in silence—at least, some did. Feyd watched from the corner of his eye as Leiana merely nudged the food on her plate. The Baron's grotesque indulgence had clearly soured her appetite. Feyd could almost hear the ticking in her head, the frantic pacing of her thoughts, and it amused him—until his uncle pushed aside his now-empty plate.

He wiped the remnants of his meal from his lips, and the back of his hand came away greasy. "It's time we discuss the wedding," he declared. Leiana bristled, the scrape of her knife against the plate sharp enough to make Feyd's jaw tighten.

He took a slow sip of his wine, eyes fixed on her as she set her cutlery down with deliberate grace, folding her hands in her lap—poised, composed, the perfect image of nobility. "Very well," she said, her voice smooth, as if she'd been waiting for this moment all along.

Feyd was impressed by her. She allowed only the faintest flicker of emotion to surface before masking it, her expression settling once more into practised poise. There was no denying it—she was her father's daughter, through and through.

"The wedding will be in a ten-day," the Baron said.

Feyd's gaze darkened. Ten days, and he would be a married man. It was a future he had never envisioned for himself—a life bound by vows, by ceremony. He could not picture himself as a dutiful husband any more than he could imagine Leiana in the role of a submissive wife.

And yet, if pressed, he could not deny that he saw her in his future—perhaps not clearly, not comfortably, but there all the same. And that, he thought, was a curious thing indeed.

It felt fated, as if the universe had conspired to place her in his path, to tether their lives in ways he couldn't unravel. And the more he dwelled on the pull he felt toward her—the depth of it, the urgency—the more it unsettled him, made him question whether it was desire alone. . .  or something more insidious.

But then he looked at her—truly looked—and saw her for what she was: stubborn, proud, even now. Especially now. It only made him want her more, his cock twitching within his trousers. She said nothing in response, offered no protest, only lifted her chin and held the Baron's spider-like gaze with defiant stillness. As though she'd been taught—by her mother, no doubt—not to flinch before monsters, not even the kind who made a sport of breaking women and witches alike.

The Baron continued, unconcerned by their opinions and seeking neither. "The ceremony will be first—where you will swear loyalty to each other and then to me." Those words hung heavily in the air—not House Harkonnen, to him, specifically. "There will be a feast where I expect civility from you, nephew."

All eyes turned to Feyd. Leiana's gaze lifted to meet his, green eyes locking with his darker ones, and for a moment—just a moment—he saw it: a flicker of fear, of vulnerability, as if she believed their secret had been exposed. Perhaps it had. His uncle's spies reached across the stars; nothing truly escaped the Baron's notice. But Feyd didn't care. She was to be his wife, and among House Harkonnen, there was no shame in claiming what was already his.

"Of course, Uncle," Feyd replied smoothly. He held his gaze, eyes locked in a silent challenge—one his uncle chose to disregard. For now.

"And the evening," the Baron continued, "will conclude with the bedding ceremony."

"Bedding ceremony?" Leiana spoke, at last, her voice edged with something cold, the corners of her mouth curling downward in displeasure. She had heard of such archaic traditions—barbaric, in her eyes. The bride stripped naked, paraded like a prize, and delivered to the marital bed where men might watch her husband claim her, fuck his seed—and hopefully an heir—into her womb.

"No."

There it was again—that word, flung like a curse.

Feyd tensed, as if her defiance had been aimed at him rather than his uncle. But it was not the word itself that unsettled him. He saw the shift in his uncle's eyes, how they narrowed and darkened, the subtle twitch of his jowls. His uncle was not a man accustomed to refusal. Feyd was unsettled by his own response—how his chest tightened, how his thoughts instinctively turned toward shielding her.

"It is tradition," the Baron said, as though the weight of custom alone could bend her will.

But Leiana didn't flinch. She held his gaze. Her body was taut, every muscle coiled—as though daring him to try. There was steel in her stillness, a quiet refusal that could not be shattered. He could strike her, try to break her, but she would not yield. Her defiance was clear: her body would not become a spectacle for the beasts that marched beneath the Harkonnen banner.

"Not on Caladan," she shot back, her chin lifted in quiet defiance. Leiana was every inch the noble daughter—poised, regal, untouchable. There was pride in her, the kind that dared consequence, that begged to be broken, and Feyd couldn't look away. Something familiar coiled in his blood, heat stirring low as he watched her hold her ground against his uncle.

"A pity for you, then, that we are not on Caladan, Lady Atreides."

"A pity indeed," she replied. "But the fact remains—there will be no bedding ceremony."

"This is not a negotiation."

"Everything is a negotiation, Baron Harkonnen. We need only settle on the price."

It wouldn't matter whether he agreed or not—not truly. His loyalists could force themselves on her, tear away silk and dignity alike, bruise her flesh, and claim her not as a bride but as an example. Or rather, they could try.

Leiana was no helpless girl fumbling with half-learned tricks. With a single command, she could make them fall upon their own blades, tear out their tongues, or offer their manhood to the desert vultures before a single hand touched her skin.

She would not break. She would make them bleed for the attempt.

A heavy silence settled over the room, thick and suffocating. Even the walls were holding their breath. "Six men," he offered gruffly, as though paring down the number somehow made it more palatable—a lesser cruelty than a hall of leering witnesses. Again, the pause stretched. The room remained frozen, suspended in the delicate moment.

"One," she said firmly.

"Six," he repeated. "And they won't touch you at the feast."

"One. And none of them will lay a hand on me."

"Six," he insisted. "And they'll wait inside the bedchamber."

"One, Baron Harkonnen," she said, her voice cold steel. "One man of your choosing to witness the consummation. Feyd will be the only one permitted to touch me—or I swear, every child he fucks into my womb will wither and die, as though my body were a grave. You'll have no heir. Neither of you will."

Her words cut deep, striking at a dangerous subject long whispered through the halls of the Imperium. The Baron had never taken a wife or a lover, and he had never sired a successor. The rumours were legion, vile, and persistent, painting him not merely as a tyrant but as something far more monstrous.

Feyd caught the faint twitch at the corner of his uncle's mouth—as subtle as it was ominous. The Baron's emotions bled through him like poison in water: fury, humiliation, a hunger for vengeance. There was no admiration for her defiance, no trace of amusement in her audacity, only the cold, calculated urge to silence her, to crush what dared to rise.

But Feyd? He felt something entirely different stir within him. Heat. Hunger. Arousal.

He was used to submission. To fear. People shrank beneath the shadow of his uncle—and his own. But not her. Leiana stood there, bartering the terms of her body as though this marriage had been her choice, as though she hadn't been cornered into it.

And fuck, if that wasn't arousing.

He had known strength all his life—sharp, brutal, unforgiving. Blood and bone, iron and flame. But she. . . she had tasted pain only briefly, and yet she wore it like armour when it mattered, without letting it strip the softness from her heart. And that—that fascinated him.

"You should retire for the evening," the Baron said, and it was not a suggestion.

Feyd watched her rise, her movements steeped in the quiet grace of victory. She wore it well. Feyd watched her with a predator's focus, something possessive curling in his gut as she turned and swept from the room like a queen leaving court.

He let the silence stretch, just long enough for the weight of his uncle's gaze to shift and settle—inevitably—on him.

"You would do well to tame her, nephew. And quickly." The words were mild, but the meaning beneath them was unmistakable—break her, and do it swiftly. Brutally, if need be. And yet. . . wasn't that exactly what she expected of them?

"Of course, uncle."

He had already risen, striding from the room. Her anger carried her swiftly, but he caught her with ease, seizing her by the upper arm—his grip rough enough to promise bruises. Leiana twisted, trying to tear herself free, but he dragged her through a nearby doorway and into a side corridor.

With a shove, he forced her into an alcove, her back hitting the wall hard enough to send a shiver of pain up her spine. The last light of the setting sun spilled through the high windows, casting long shadows across them as silence surged in to replace their footsteps.

Before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, swallowing the protest from her lips before it ever found life. His hunger surged, insatiable—molten and aching, sweet as honey yet burning just the same. The taste of her only stoked the fire in his blood. Feyd braced for resistance, for her hands to push him away—only to find none.

And that, more than anything, caught him off guard.

She pulled him closer, fingers clutching at him with urgency until not even air could slip between them. He let out a low breath of amusement, the memory of their first kiss flickering through his mind—the fire of it, the tension. He remembered how she had tried to pull away, how instinct had warred with desire—only for her body to betray her, how she'd pressed her body into his as if she'd been made for him. 

As if submission had been woven into her bones, waiting for him to claim it.

He chased her mouth with his teeth, enjoying the breathy gasp she gave in response. His hands slid down to the curve of her backside, fingers digging in possessively, hard enough to leave marks. 

"You'll never speak to him like that again—not unless I'm present," he growled between heated kisses, swallowing the soft, broken sighs that slipped from her mouth like morning dew.

She made a sound—half protest, half defiance—but he silenced it with his tongue, deepening the kiss until thought itself blurred. His hands fisted the fabric of her dress, dragging it up around her hips before sliding to the back of her thighs, lifting her easily, curling her legs around his waist. He rutted against her, cock hard and straining beneath the layers between them, a shudder running down his spine at the maddening heat of her pressed against him.

He ached to have her naked beneath him, to feel the slick heat of her without layers in the way—her softness, wet and wanting, pressed flush against him, wrapped around him. She parted her lips to speak, but he caught her mouth in a deeper kiss, fierce and consuming, a wordless command: don't speak.

"Feyd—" his name escaped her in a breathless whisper, "stop— someone might— they'll hear—"

Each word was broken by a kiss—desperate, laced with hunger, hers, his, it didn't matter—wet, breathless kisses that left strands of spit glistening between them every time he pulled away. He pressed her harder into the wall, enticed by the way her hips rolled against him, meeting his rhythm with shameless urgency. The friction of her body against his, even through their clothes, made his cock throb.

"You will behave. Do you hear me?" he snarled, black teeth flashing before he dipped his head to her neck and sank them into the sensitive spot where her shoulder met her throat. The feel of her against him was exquisite—restless, writhing, as if the press of his body was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality.

She was wet—he could smell it. Her arousal was thick in the air, flooding for him. He pictured it, her cunt slick and eager, too unaccustomed to the sharp edge of pleasure—how pain only made the sweetness burn hotter.

He sank his teeth deeper into her neck, savouring the way it forced a cry from her lips—just loud enough to humiliate, to thrill. When he pulled back, he admired the bloom of colour beneath her skin, the faint rise of a bruise already forming in the shape of his teeth.

Then she grabbed him, fingers clutching his jaw as she dragged his mouth back to hers, kissing him. He answered with a growl, devouring her lips like a challenge, grinding against her until her panties were ruined, her arousal soaked through, leaving a glisten across the dark fabric of his trousers.

"He'll have you killed—unless I'm there to protect you." It sounded absurd, even to his own ears. Her sharp tongue alone wasn't the only reason people would want her dead. She was a storm wrapped in silk, and storms made enemies.

"You. Are. Mine."

Each word was punctuated by a hard thrust of his hips, the coarse fabric of his trousers dragging against her soaked cunt, pulling a sharp breath from her lips as pleasure and frustration tangled inside her.

Heat surged up his spine, like flames licking along each rib, threatening to consume him.

"Do this for me, wife," he murmured darkly, "and I'll let you cum."

She let out a soft whine, the sound slipping past her lips before she could catch it—mortified by the need in it. Then his hand was at her throat, pressing her back against the wall, his grip firm enough to make her dizzy. Her fingers scrambled for his wrist, nails digging into his skin, eyes wide—caught between submission and resistance.

"Fey—"

"You offered me your submission," he interrupted, pulling just out of reach, denying her the kiss she so clearly craved. His voice was low, dangerous. "So give it to me—now. Or I'll leave you here, alone to finish what you started. And I won't touch you again until our wedding night."

His words cut like a double-edged blade—punishment in one breath, promise in the next. He was giving her a way out. He would leave her untouched if she chose it, her innocence preserved. But somehow, he doubted that was what she truly wanted.

She was grinding against him with desperate need, like a slut in heat. She'd already tasted pleasure at his hands—his mouth, his cock, his release slick on her soft, aching cunt. And he knew. Could tell by the way she clung to him, moved against him, that she wanted more.

"Please," she whispered, face burning.

"Please, what?" he taunted, voice low and curling with dark amusement. "Are you going to be a good girl now—behave for your husband?"

A beat of silence. He felt the soft swallow beneath his fingers, then the faintest nod. Her answer came in a breathless whisper: "Yes."

He rewarded her with a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, claiming every sound she made as though it belonged to him alone. His hands slid to her hips, gripping them firmly as he pressed her harder into the wall, grinding against her with slow, deliberate need. The coarse fabric of his Harkonnen-cut trousers dragged over her slick heat, each movement drawing a tremble from her body, feeding the fire between them.

She tried to turn her face, to shy away from him as an orgasm overtook her—but he didn't let her. His hand locked around her throat again, pinning her to the wall, forcing her to meet his eyes as her body writhed against his, legs tight around his waist.

He wanted to see it—all of it. The flush of her cheeks, the haze in her eyes, the way she unravelled just for him. She looked drugged on pleasure, helpless beneath it, and it thrilled him.

He kissed her through it, devouring the breathless gasps of his name, drinking down every tremble like it was his due. She clutched at him, desperate—and he held her there, claimed her with every drag of his lips, every grind of his hips until there was no space left between them.

And when her thoughts began to return—when the first flicker of shame crossed her face—he smiled. Not in mockery, but in triumph. That look, that panic, that delicious vulnerability. . . it belonged to him now. Just like the rest of her.

"So fucking pretty when you cum," he murmured, his forehead pressed gently to hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet that followed.

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@nextlevelstupidity @xxxkat3xxx @peggyao3 @littlewormgrant @psycheetamore

[aoi-targaryen]

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter v

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: male orgasm. corruption kink. thigh fucking. slight hint of dubcon. body betrayal.

w/c: 2k.

a/n: It's taken me longer than I would have liked to get this chapter out, but finding the right vibe for our bald-headed demon took a while. Thank you so so much to @peggyao3 (who got the exclusive first look) for making sure I was doing our boy justice. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as always, thank you for your love, support, and interactions. <3

Feyd had awoken drenched in the remnants of his dreams, his body slick with sweat and need. Her memory lingered like a fever, burning just beneath the surface of his skin, refusing to be shaken. Her taste clung to his lips, rich and intoxicating, like the sweet nectar of honeysuckles. For a fleeting moment, he could still feel her. The silk of her hair wrapped in his fist, her thighs parted in invitation, her body trembling beneath him as she came undone.

He was not a man easily swayed; his sexual desires were fleeting and shallow—quickly forgotten. But Leiana Atreides was different. Somehow, she had burrowed beneath his skin, taking root in the deepest recesses of his mind, in his very bones. 

And it infuriated him.

Ever since that dinner, that damned kiss, he'd found his thoughts turning to her, but it was beyond lust—it was something darker, more insidious, that gnawed at him. It was a craving, not just to possess her body but to own her entirely, to consume her innocence, to devour her piece by piece. He wanted to strip every layer of her, to tear down her walls and see her laid bare, vulnerable, and entirely his.

He knew that she was a virgin, untouched and innocent in ways that provoked his dark instincts. The purity she carried so carelessly was a challenge, a dare. And he'd never been one to walk away from a challenge. So he found himself imagining how her composure would shatter in the palm of his hands, how the proud defiance in her eyes would give way to submission until her thoughts were no longer her own and she knew nothing but him. The weight of his presence, the sting of his touch, the relentless desire he would ignite within her.

It infuriated him to want her like this. She was not supposed to be special. Feyd had fucked countless women, each one a fleeting indulgence—pleasure taken, discarded, and forgotten in the same breath. But Leiana. . . she haunted him in a way no other could. 

Feyd did not know the truth—that she had been bred for him, just as he had been bred for her.

To know that his desires were not his own but part of some grand, twisted design, the very idea of it would have sent him into an unending rage. He would have revolted at the notion that forces beyond his control had orchestrated his obsession. But, he didn't know—not yet.

For now, all he understood was the maddening hunger that gripped him, the relentless need to possess her.

Even as he sank into the near-boiling bath, letting the scalding water soothe the ache in his muscles and wash the desert dirt from his skin, he could not rid himself of her. Her scent was there in that room, too, like something soft and sweet fighting against the steam that rose in gentle waves. His dark eyes flicked open when she swept into the room.

Feyd didn't move. He remained reclined in the water as though her presence didn't bother him, yet tension crawled through his veins like a snake, slithering, coiling. A slow smile crept across his mouth, the kind that didn't reach or soften his eyes, as his gaze settled on her. "Wife," he said, voice dripping with lazy mockery.

He admired the flash of irritation that crossed her pretty face, her brows knitting together, and how the corner of her mouth twitched. The way she fought to maintain control was beautiful. "I have been waiting for you," she said, her voice calm. "Two days, and you disappear like some untrained beast."

"Two days, and you already miss me?" He taunted, his tone light, as though discussing something trivial, but his eyes glinted with something dark, something dangerous. "How touching. I didn't know I had that effect on you."

He saw her expression harden, lips in a tight line, and eyes narrowed. "Do not flatter yourself. I haven't come for idle banter, husband."

"No?" he hummed. Feyd leaned back against the edge of the bath, one arm draped lazily over the side as he watched her with a predatory gaze, his fingertips flicking through the water almost absentmindedly. "Then what is it? Come to give me a lecture on my responsibilities? Or perhaps. . ." His voice dropped, taking on a more suggestive tone. "You've come to join me."

Impressively, her expression didn't falter, though he saw how she clenched her jaw and swallowed as though to bury something unspoken. She was good at hiding her emotions. But not as good as she thought. He saw the signs, the way she brushed her thighs together as though to stifle a growing heat, the way she wrung her hands together almost nervously, and he read her as though she were an open book.

Perhaps it had not been a dream.

Perhaps it was a vision—one that they'd shared.

For a moment, he wondered if she'd thought of him like he'd thought of her. The idea of it amused him, stirring vivid imaginings—her laid out like an offering, skirts pushed high around her waist, fingers teasing herself. He pictured the way her hand would move, the slow circles over her clit, the glistening wetness of her readiness, her body aching, desperate to be filled by him.

"I have come to ask something of you."

"Then ask it."

"Talitha."

"Who?" He asked.

"My handmaiden," Leiana answered, a noticeable bite to her voice.

He scoffed. "What of her?"

"I want her returned to my service."

His expression didn't change, but his gaze turned away from her. His body was still relaxed in the water, though every muscle remained coiled with awareness. He knew exactly where she was—so close yet always out of reach. His mind wandered as he felt a familiar stirring beneath the water, the desire that had never entirely left him in his sleep returning with a quiet urgency. But he kept his voice even as he replied.

"She is the possession of House Harkonnen," he said, his words cold, final.

"Your brothers, specifically," she pressed. "Do you know the horror he inflicts on her? Day and night? I want her returned to my service." Her words were sharp, dangerous, yet he remained calm, expression betraying nothing. Feyd understood what she was asking—he knew its weight.

His brother was a monster driven by cruelty and greed. Rabban delighted in inflicting pain, savouring the anguish of others as though it were a fine wine. The Atreides handmaiden had become his latest victim, and the thought of her torment was all too vivid—her body brutalized, flesh marked with raw lashes, and her dignity stripped away as she endured his unrelenting depravity. He would leave her a shell of herself, black and bruised, painted with his cum.

But that wasn't his concern unless he chose to make it so.

Feyd was silent, his gaze fixed on the water's rippling surface. His long fingers flexed as he considered her words. Leiana's demand was bold—too bold, he thought with a brief flicker of irritation. She had no right to make such a request, yet there she stood, unwavering in her conviction. He let the silence stretch, relishing the tension that thickened between them. His lips curled slightly, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he finally spoke.

"You make a dangerous request," he said, soft yet laden with a hidden threat. "You want me to take something from my brother? To defy the Baron, all for the sake of a handmaiden?" His dark eyes turned back to meet hers, assessing the depth of her resolve. "What makes you think I would even consider it?"

"Because you can. And because you know what he does to her, what he has done to countless other women. You may share blood with him, Feyd-Rautha, but you are not like him—not entirely."

His smirk deepened at her words, the implication hanging in the air. She was attempting to appeal to whatever humanity he might possess, whatever sliver of morality that might linger within him. It was a futile effort for he had none, at least not for the likes of handmaidens.

He shifted, water sloshing against the sides as he stretched out as if her plea bored him. "You think that I am better than my brother? That I care for the suffering of some servant?" He laughed, the sound rumbling up from the depth of his chest. "Perhaps you are mistaken, Atreides. Or perhaps you are more desperate than I thought."

He saw the flash of fire in her eyes. "You care enough to listen. That is a start."

Feyd studied her, his expression darkening as he traced the line of her neck, the way her pulse fluttered just beneath her skin. He could see the tension in her, how she fought to maintain her calm and not show weakness. It was a delicate balance, one that fascinated him.

He let the silence linger again, savouring the power he held over her at that moment. He could refuse her outright, crush her hope with a single word, or send her away empty-handed, forcing her to return to her quarters, knowing she had failed.

"What will you offer me in return?" He asked, his voice taking on a more intimate tone. His eyes glinted with amusement as he turned toward her, the water rippling around him. "You want this woman returned to you? What are you willing to give for her?"

He watched her eyes narrow and saw the flicker of wariness that crossed her pretty face. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tension coiling through her.

Feyd rose from the bath in a single, fluid motion, water streaming down his body in shimmering waterfalls. He made no effort to conceal himself, standing before her with unshaken confidence—bare, unabashed. His cock hung heavy, half-hard, stirred by the vivid image of her shattered beneath him, utterly his.

"What do I want?" he echoed, his voice a low, mocking purr. He stepped from the bath, each stride closing the distance between them with deliberate intent. Leiana turned her face away, refusing to acknowledge his nakedness—or the heat rising in her face. She was no stranger to the idea of pleasure, yet always was it found alone, in the privacy of her own room, with her own touch. 

"I want what's mine."

Leiana stood her ground, though her breath hitched as he drew closer. Heat radiated from his body, carrying the rich scent of his skin—spiced, heady, laced with steam. Her heart pounded, a frantic rhythm fueled by fear and something else—something darker, more primal, curling through her veins. Feyd stopped only inches away, his fingers catching her chin with effortless command, forcing her gaze to meet his.

"No." The word fell from her lips like a curse, sharp and cutting, a deliberate strike meant to wound. His jaw tightened, his lip curling into a silent snarl. "I told you—nothing more will be yours until our wedding night."

Before she could blink, he had her against the wall, his movements swift. His chest pressed firmly to her back, the lingering dampness from his skin seeping into her clothes. His large hand traced its way down her body—over the curve of her hip, the swell of her arse—fingers gathering the fabric of her dress, inch by inch, until she was laid bare, panties and all.

"You think to refuse me?" Feyd murmured, his lips grazing the delicate curve of her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "When you entered my chambers uninvited, what did you expect?"

She twisted, trying to turn toward him, but his grip tightened, holding her firm. "I expected civility. I'm a lady, not a whore," Leiana hissed, struggling to keep her voice steady, even as a betraying shiver coursed through her.

"Civility," he repeated, the word dripping with vicious mockery. His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the curve of her arse through the thin fabric of her panties. She was so small against him, engulfed by his shadow. And she was so fucking soft. Of all the things he had known in his life, softness was not one of them. "Is that what you truly want from me? Polite conversation and empty courtesies?"

His fingers swept her hair aside, baring the nape of her neck. He pressed his lips there—warm, wet, deliberate. A soft gasp slipped from her lips at the fleeting touch, a sound she couldn't stifle. He heard it, felt it, and she knew it pleased him, for he smiled against her skin.

"You lie to yourself." His voice was silk over steel, smooth yet unyielding. "You don't want civility from me." His hand drifted lower, fingers gliding over the curve of her thigh, his touch burning through her skin. "You want this," he murmured, his words a dark promise. "The danger. The edge between pleasure and pain. You want to be devoured."

Leiana's breath came in quick, uneven bursts, her body taut with resistance that faltered with each pounding heartbeat. "You know nothing of what I want," she said, though the words wavered, lacking the strength she wished they held.

"Don't I?" His voice was a quiet command. "Do not move."

He could have taken her—forced his cock into that inexperienced little cunt of hers, claimed her virginity with the brutality of a savage, as Rabban would have. But he did not. Yet, nothing came without a cost. She wanted her handmaiden back, yet she had dared to cross him with that sharp tongue of hers. His hand traced the curve of her arse once more, fingers slipping beneath the lace of her panties, tugging them down over her hips with slow, deliberate intent.

He heard her soft whimper as his teeth grazed the back of her neck, firm enough to make her still. He held her there, his teeth lingering on her skin, leaving a vivid mark. Feyd didn't remove her panties entirely, only shifting them down enough to settle closer to her, so he could lay his cock between her shapely thighs.

He felt her body tense as though to pull away when their skin first touched, but he did not move to penetrate her. Feyd kicked her ankle, forcing her legs together so that his cock was nestled between her thighs. He put his hands on the wall beside her head, caging her there.

"You're trembling," he whispered near her ear, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Is it fear, Leiana? Or anticipation?"

Leiana didn't answer him—she couldn't find her voice.

His hips began a slow, deliberate movement. His cock sliding between her thighs, the rigid heat of him moving against her folds. The sensation was foreign, forbidden—a mockery of the act that somehow felt more intimate than she could have imagined.

"This is mercy," he told her, his breath hot against her neck. "Remember that. I could take everything from you right now."

Her fingers curled against the wall, nails scraping against the stone as she fought to stay composed. Each movement brought a wave of sensation, sparking unwanted feelings that she struggled to suppress. She bit her lip, trying to quiet the soft sounds rising in her throat.

"But I won't," Feyd continued, his voice a low growl. "Not yet. Not until you beg me for it."

One of his hands left the wall to slide down her body, cupping her breast in his palm. His thumb brushed over her nipple, feeling it harden beneath his touch. He felt her body betraying her as it shuddered. She hated herself for it, hated the way her hips seemed to move of their own accord, seeking more friction, more pressure.

His pelvis hit her bare arse as his rhythm turned feral and frantic, cock twitching as her arousal spread over his girth, making each thrust a wet glide. He smiled with smug satisfaction. She wanted to hate what he was doing, but even her virgin body knew pleasure, knew intimacy.

Flames licked up his spine, spreading like wildfire across his ribs and filling his lungs with an intoxicating heat as pleasure curled deep within his gut. His fingers dug into her hip, holding her against the wall, while his body trembled with the intensity of the high crashing over him. His release erupted with a guttural groan, hot seed spilling between her thighs, branding her with his essence without claiming her virtue.

Feyd remained pressed against her, their bodies entwined, his breath coming in ragged, steamy bursts as he continued to cage her against the wall. He felt her tremble, felt her fighting to compose herself. Leiana refused to look at him, the warmth of his release against her cunt when he pulled her panties back into place, making her shudder.

"When you touch yourself tonight, think of me, wife."

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Tag list:

@nextlevelstupidity @xxxkat3xxx

[aoi-targaryen]

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter iv

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: oral sex (fem receiving). orgasm control. edging. corruption kink.

w/c: 792.

a/n: This chapter is shorter, but we're building up to things! I also want to dedicate it to the wonderful and talented @peggyao3, who is an absolute joy to have in my DMs and an honour to have read my story. I hope you all enjoy it, and as always, thank you for your love, support, and interactions. <3

The room was dimly lit; the bulk of his frame shadowed hers as flashes of lightning from the waning storm bled through the windows. Caladan — he knew because she knew; she knew because he knew. Her ragged breath filled the space, echoing in the silence. Her chest rose and fell, every exhale shaky. Soft moans, delicate and desperate, slipped past her lips, a melody of surrender that fueled his desires.

Each sound was a confession. He savoured it like the finest of wines, tasting the sweet bitterness of her unravelling with every second that passed. Feyd felt her tremble beneath him, so close yet still far from where she needed to be. She was warm and pliant beneath him, her skin flushed with anticipation. Her legs were draped over his broad shoulders; thighs parted in invitation, heels digging into the hard muscle of his back as if she could pull him closer, deeper into her.

He wasn't ready to give it to her — not yet.

Feyd had every intention of drawing this out, of breaking her down in the most exquisite, deliberate way. He moved with keen intention, dragging his lips along her slick folds, savouring the warmth radiating from her core. Each slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue against her clit was a carefully crafted tease. He edged her closer with every flick, every gentle prod as he dipped into her untouched depths, his movements designed to bring her to the brink of ecstasy, over and over, without ever letting her tip over the edge.

Her body responded to his dominance, hips arching off the bed, chasing the sweet release that was just out of reach. Feyd smirked, his fingers curling around her thighs, gripping tightly, possessively, grounding her, holding her exactly where he wanted her. Her skin was hot beneath his hands, every inch of her trembling, so close to breaking. He could feel the tension building inside her, feel her pulse thrum against his lips as her need grew more desperate with each passing moment.

He revelled in it — the power he held over her, the control. It was intoxicating. She was at his mercy, completely, utterly his, and he could feel it in how her body responded and how she surrendered to him without question, without hesitation. Every flick of his tongue, every teasing stroke, was met with a soft, desperate gasp, a moan that sent shivers of satisfaction down his spine. She was falling apart, piece by piece, and he was pulling the strings. He controlled her pleasure, the reins firmly in his grasp, and the knowledge of that filled him with a dark, primal satisfaction.

He glanced up, his eyes locking with hers, dark and burning with an intensity that sent a bolt of electricity through her. The connection between them at that moment was palpable, a raw, visceral energy that crackled in the air. She was unravelling beneath him, coming apart in the most breathtaking way, and he basked in it, drinking in the sight of her losing control. His lips stayed pressed against her, continuing their relentless, teasing exploration, even as her trembling hands reached for him, nails digging into his skin with desperate need.

"Fey—" Her voice cracked, her breath hitching as she tried to speak, her body tightening beneath him. His name was a broken whisper, a plea that hung in the air between them, laced with a desperation that only made him want to prolong her torment. She was on the verge, teetering at the precipice, but needed more. She needed him to push her, to let her fall.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from his throat as Feyd plunged his tongue into her depths once more, savouring the taste of her. The time for teasing was over. Now, he would give her exactly what she craved — but not out of mercy. He wanted her to fall apart, to watch her unravel in his hands, to see the exact moment she shattered beneath him. And he would know, without question, that he was the one who had broken her, that every tremor, every gasp, every moment of surrender was his doing.

Her body tensed, every muscle coiling tight as her climax hit her with the force of a tidal wave. Her back arched off the bed, her thighs clamping down around his head as her release washed over her in waves. She trembled, shaking with the intensity of it, her cries filling the room, raw and unrestrained. Feyd felt her pulse against him, her body convulsing, and he didn't stop. He couldn't. He drank her in, every sound, every movement, every tremor. Her release coated his lips, his chin, his tongue, and he savoured it all, his hunger for her insatiable.

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@nextlevelstupidity

[aoi-targaryen]

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter iii

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: brief physical assault. political intrigue. arranged marriage. making out. some physical violence between brothers.

w/c: 3.1k.

a/n: I hope you all know how truly grateful I am for your love and support. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, bookmarked and subscribed to this story. I love and appreciate you all. <3 <3 <3

In the days following, Leiana had yet to see or hear from Feyd-Rautha.

The Baron had allowed her to sleep in her own chambers instead of the prison cells. And there she remained, granted a small measure of freedom but still a prisoner of war. There was not a single person within the estate that gave her the time of day. Leiana suspected this was because her only escape would be over the balcony rail, and she would not survive the fall.

So she'd kept herself busy by collecting her belongings, strewn about the room: here, there, and everywhere. It was strange, as though she was viewing the ruins of her life as a bystander and not living it. She felt disconnected from reality as she went through the wreckage, salvaging what she could.

Gifts given to her by her father were broken, as was the bodice dagger Paul had given her on their sixteenth birthday. It had broken that night, stabbed into the neck of a Harkonnan attacker. Tears burned at the back of her throat as she thought of all that was lost to the sands of time: late-night conversations and whispered words as they hid in the dark instead of sleeping. Training sessions with their mother, the uncomfortable echo of her voice in her mind as she prepared the twins for the Gom Jabbar. Dinners with their father, his terrible jokes and kind smile.

On the third day of her isolation, two guards opened the doors to her chambers without knocking, as though they had the right to intrude upon the only sanctuary she had left. Both were Harkonnan: pale-skinned and dressed in black, as though for a funeral. 

"The Baron requests your presence."

Leiana noticed his speech and lack of formality as though he was neither pleased nor upset with overseeing an enemy of House Harkonnan. From her perch on the small balcony, a book resting in her lap, she watched them. One of the guards had a tight grip on the pommel of his sword as though he was prepared for an attack. He did not need to speak; his actions spoke for him. He would not hesitate to kill her should she give him a reason. 

"May I inquire as to what for?"

"He is announcing your engagement to the Na-Baron."

This revelation made her hesitate, for she knew it would be the moment that sealed her fate. Though, in truth, the dinner with Feyd had already done that, and the kiss he'd forced onto her had been the nail in the coffin that forever trapped her. Leiana felt a visceral reaction to the memories, as if they were ghosts from her past, haunting her every step. Each had been seared unto her memory: the taste of his tongue as it explored her mouth, the strength of his fingers as he'd pulled her hair, the way she'd fallen under his spell, however briefly, as though she was a weaker woman, a younger, love-struck fool.

Her instincts waged war within her—fight or flight. Yet it didn't matter, for she had no say. Leiana swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. The guards waited for her response, but none came. Instead, she stood, sweeping from the room with haughty grace, expecting them to follow or be left behind.

The two men exchanged a quick glance before following. As she moved through the halls, she could feel the weight of their eyes on her back. She tried not to think about what this moment could entail or let her imagination run wild with possibilities. Still, it was hard when everything around her seemed so surreal.

All too quickly, they reached the throne room. Leiana hesitated at the threshold, surprised to find it filled with people. Her heart raced, thundering against her ribcage, as she looked to where the Baron sat upon his throne. His expression was stern and unreadable, and his gaze was distant as it swept across the room to her. At his side stood Glossu Rabban with a smug expression.

At that moment, she understood this for what it was: a political ploy.

Rabban did not know his brother was on Arrakis or that he had been disinherited. He still believed that when Vladamir died, he would inherit a kingdom. Worse still, he still thought that she would be married to him, and that dream was about to be shattered.

Her heart thundered, its beats akin to the sound of horses' hooves. For a moment, she met the Baron's eyes, spider-like and gleaming with amusement that did not show on his face. Leiana could not speak, not with so many present. And so, with her hands metaphorically tied, she bowed, taking low to the ground so that her dress flourished on the floor at her feet.

"My Lord," she said, her voice submissive and demure despite the tension crawling beneath her skin. As she stood, she was ushered to stand at his side and, much to her displeasure, Glossu Rabban's side. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. His fingerprint bruises lingered on her skin even now.

As the minutes passed, more people poured into the room. She sensed the Beast shift closer until his body brushed against hers. Leiana remained as still as stone, a statue carved from the mountains of Arrakis, unmoving. As though unaware of his nephew's actions or simply unfazed by them, the Baron spoke, his voice a thick rasp.

"Time and again, House Harkonnan has survived through strength and suffering," he began, though all too soon, his voice faded to static noise as her personal space was more deeply invaded. Rabbans' hand fell upon her body, thick, meaty fingers taking a greedy handful of her arse. Leiana bit into her cheek until she tasted blood, his nails dipping into her skin through the light fabric of her dress, his grip tightening to the point of pain.

She remained stubborn; having passed the test with the Gom Jabber, she would pass this one also.

His breath tickled her neck as he leaned in. "I have been waiting days for this moment, my Lady," he said, his voice so low that only she heard it, as though what he had to say was a terrible secret not meant for their peers. Leiana fought to hide how she shivered, how it twisted down her spine and left her skin textured with goosepimples, and instead focused her gaze on the doors across the room. She busied herself by imagining her escape: like a bird, she would flock from the room, lost in the desert winds, never to be caught again.

Rabban did not appear to have noticed. He seemed preoccupied with the curve of her arse as he began pawing at it. "Tonight," he said, his voice still low, dripping with salacious intent. "Tonight, I am going to come to your room and show you the desires of a man. You are going to be my whore, Lady Atreides."

"Is now the time for this, Rabban?" She answered, her voice even and calm despite the disgust worming through her limbs. Her every muscle was taut with tension, the set of her shoulders ridged, but a fire was blazing in her eyes. "Your uncle is speaking." Leiana did not lower her voice, allowing it to carry to those nearby and paint him as disrespectful, not her. 

She saw the Baron's eyes flick toward them, and the faint curl of his lip, yet his words continued. "I have the duty of announcing that Lady Leiana Atreides has renounced her allegiance to the traitor house she was born into. She has sworn herself to House Harkonnan." A murmur went through the gathered crowd, their attention flitting between her and the Baron. 

Her face burned with shame, and her cheeks flushed with anger. She wanted to run and escape this nightmare, yet it was not an option. Her gaze joined the Baron's, his spider eyes twinkling with malice. "To prove her loyalty, she has agreed to marry my nephew, the Na-Baron."

Rabban's hand clasped onto her hip, his fingers pressing so hard into her skin that she thought they might cut down to the bone. He dragged her against him, into the shelter of his body, so that she was pressed tightly against him. Her body shuddered as she tried to move away, unable to escape his grasp. Rabban was enormous, his broad shoulders enough to block her from view if he was to stand in front of her. He made her feel impossibly small. 

Leiana looked up at him, glaring hotly.

"Feyd-Rautha," the Baron said.

Once more, the crowd murmured, both Harkonnan loyalists and those who had betrayed House Atreides. Leiana felt the tension seep through Rabban's body: the way he froze, motionless, and how his fingers pressed harder, harder, harder, into her skin until she couldn't suppress the whine of pain that tumbled from her lips. She turned to him, pushing against the wall of his chest to try and distance him.

The doors opened wide, revealing Feyd-Rautha. He stood tall and proud, adorned in the blackened armour of House Harkonnan, a sword strapped to each hip, glittering dangerously. He looked immaculate, the pride of his noble house. As he entered, the murmurs of the gathered nobles hushed, all eyes turning to his imposing figure.

His gaze swept the room, cold and calculating, assessing each face. When he saw Rabban, his hand possessive on her hip, she saw his eyes darken, narrowing into a glare. He walked with purpose and grace, long strides carrying him forward until he kneeled at his uncle's feet. Leiana recognized the gesture for what it was: hollowed respect. He did not care for his uncle. In fact, she would go so far as to say he hated him. 

"What is this?"

Rabban's voice shattered the silence, earning an unamused glare from both the Baron and Feyd, who slowly rose to stand and turned to face him. Her eyes met with his, silent and pleading, and while her lips barely moved, her voice, the Voice, rattled uncomfortably within his skull. Fire flashed in the depth of his eyes, pure hatred, at her, at him, leaving behind scorched earth. He might as well have been carved from stone, for he did not move.

Leiana saw the tension seep through him like a snake, watched how it wrapped around his organs, how it strangled him. The Baron shifted to look at Rabban. It was a subtle gesture, yet his emotions were like knives glittering in the morning light, ready to cleave flesh down to the bone. It was as though he was offended by his nephew's audacity.

“Please,” her lips parted again, not a whisper but an exhale.

"You need to learn not to touch my belongings, brother," Feyd rasped, his dangerous growl reverberating through the room's silence. His eyes locked onto Rabban with a glare that promised retribution. Extending a hand toward Leiana, he left no room for defiance. Sensing the underlying menace in Feyd's tone, she took his hand without hesitation. The moment her fingers touched his, he yanked her away from Rabban's grasp with a strength that sent her stumbling.

She collided against his chest with a force that drove the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping in surprise. Feyd's arm, muscular and unyielding, wrapped around her waist with a possessive intensity, purposefully pulling her against him. His hold was firm, almost bruising, a silent declaration of dominion over her. His lips crashed down on hers, the kiss abrupt and demanding. She gasped, a small sound of shock that he effortlessly silenced, his mouth swallowing the noise. His lips were hot and insistent, a vivid display of his possessiveness.

His tongue slid along the edge of her teeth, exploring with a predatory precision. His taste was intoxicating, a heady mix of something dark and forbidden. Her own tongue responded instinctively, meeting his in a fierce dance. The intensity of the kiss left her breathless, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer force of his claim. She angled her head, opening herself to him further, leaning into his solid form.

Everything Feyd did was quietly calculated, yet he kissed like a starved man, uncaring who saw or who might try to intervene. Not that anyone would dare; Leiana would wager everything that the Na-Baron would slice down any fool brave enough to attempt it. His hand fisted in her hair, weaving through her dark locks. He tugged her head back, angling it to his desire, commanding her submission with a ruthless tenderness. 

The crowd whispered among themselves, their voices not registering in her mind as they should have. There was only Feyd—the taste of his lips on hers, the wet glide of his tongue exploring her mouth, the relentless strength of his fingers tugging on her hair, the way he swallowed her soft moan with a deliberate growl. Leiana melted against him, her fingers curling around the chest plate of his armour, clinging to him as if he were an anchor in a storm.

Rabban's expression twisted in something akin to disgust, perhaps anger. When Feyd pulled away, their lips separated with a sinful sound. Hers were glistening and kiss-bitten. A heavy silence stretched until Feyd finally spoke, his voice dripping with cold venom. He did not turn to face his brother. His eyes were on her, drinking in how she stared at him as though he hung the moon and stars. "Consider this your first and only warning. Next time, there will be consequences."

Rabban made a sound in response. "You always did have a penchant for dramatics, little brother," he sneered, stepping forward, his bulk casting a long shadow over them. Feyd's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in their depths. 

"Careful, Rabban. You wouldn't want to start something you can't finish."

Rabban's eyes flashed red with anger, and without hesitation, he lunged at Feyd. The crowd, taken by surprise, gasped and instinctively stepped back, creating a wider circle around the two men. Feyd's grip tightened on her, his fingers digging into her skin painfully as he yanked her to the side, flinging her behind him with a force that sent her sprawling onto the cold, hard ground.

Feyd faced Rabban's charge with a poised and calculated stance, his movements fluid and precise. His eyes locked onto Rabban's, reading the fury and recklessness in his opponent's approach. As Rabban's massive form barreled toward him, Feyd's muscles coiled with anticipation. He sidestepped deftly at the last possible moment, his movements a blur of grace and speed.

With a swift, well-placed punch, Feyd drove his fist into Rabban's ribs, feeling the satisfying impact reverberate through his knuckles. Rabban let out a guttural grunt of pain, staggering slightly but quickly regaining his footing. His face twisted into a mask of rage, eyes burning with a desire for retribution.

The larger man swung a powerful fist, aiming for Feyd's head with all his might. Feyd, his reflexes honed to perfection, ducked just in time, the blow grazing the air above him. The force of the swing caused Rabban to overextend, leaving him momentarily off-balance.

The crowd watched in stunned silence, their collective breath held in anticipation. The tension was thick, a living thing that thrummed through the hall, making every heartbeat feel like an eternity. Rabban, undeterred, readied himself for another attack, his muscles bunching in preparation. But before he could move, a booming voice cut through the air, commanding submission. 

“Enough!”

Rabban halted mid-stride, his chest heaving, and turned red-faced toward his uncle. Feyd straightened, his eyes never wavering from his brother, but he remained silent, his demeanour cold and calculating. The Baron stood from his throne, suspensors hissing as they carried his impressive girth. “This petty squabble ends now.” His voice brokered no arguments. “You are both sons of House Harkonnan. Do not disgrace my name with such undignified behaviour.”

Leiana imagined that had the room not been filled with their peers then he would have gleefully watched his nephews fight to the death. As it was, Rabban clenched his fists, his anger simmering beneath the surface of his skin, and nodded reluctantly. Feyd bowed his eyes slightly in acknowledgement, his expression harsh. As the Baron moved to leave the room, he cast a final, warning glance to his nephews.

"Remember your place, Rabban. I have given you grace and time to prove yourself. And you have failed time and again," he said, his tone icy. "Feyd is to be my heir. He will marry the girl. And I will hear no more on the matter."

With the Baron’s words still echoing in the room, the crowd began to disperse, their hushed whispers and speculations slowly fading into silence. The spectacle was over, and the guests, ever mindful of the fragility of their positions and the prying eyes of the Baron, resumed their activities with a calculated nonchalance. Rabban exited after his uncle, leaving her alone with Feyd once more.

Feyd watched Rabban's retreating form, a small, triumphant smile curling at the corners of his lips. The encounter had gone just as he had planned, every move calculated to assert his dominance and undermine Rabban's authority. His eyes scanned the room, ensuring the immediate danger had passed before he turned his attention to the woman he had flung aside in the heat of the confrontation.

His demeanour shifted but was no less dangerous as he extended a hand toward her. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice softer. She hesitated momentarily before accepting his hand, her fingers trembling as she rose. Her eyes, wide with relief and wariness, met his.

"Yes, thank you."

His hand was on her throat before she could finish brushing the dust from her dress. His thumb pressed hard against her windpipe, halting her breaths and silencing her voice as he dragged her against his chest once more. Leiana caught his wrist with both hands, clawing at his pale skin as she had done to Rabban days ago.

Feyd's grip tightened. "You think you can manipulate me with the Voice?" he hissed, his breath hot against her face, making her blink, making the first of her tears fall. "Try it again, and I will end you where you stand."

Leiana's vision blurred at the edges as she struggled for air. Her nails dug deeper into his wrist, desperate for release, drawing globules of blood to the surface, but Feyd's hold remained steadfast. She could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips.

"Your life hangs by a thread, and I hold the scissors."

With a final, ruthless squeeze, he released her, watching with satisfaction as she crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. Feyd stood over her, a dark silhouette against the dim light, a silent reminder of the peril that shadowed her every move.

—interested in being tagged in future chapters? send me a message!

[aoi-targaryen]

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter ii

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: hints of sub/dom dynamics. making out.

w/c: 2.3k.

a/n: I want to start by saying thank you to everyone who has left comments and reblogs. your support is greatly appreciated. i also want to say that i don't follow a strict posting schedule. however, hearing from you is always motivating, so if you're eager for more, please leave a comment. <3 <3

For a moment, however brief, the world stood still, holding its breath as if waiting for magic. Feyd was unbearably close, his body pressed against hers so tightly that she could feel the harsh outlines of his armour through the thin fabric of her dress. The table’s edge dug sharply into the small of her back, trapping her completely.

Feyd was a haunting vision of deadly perfection, his eyes cold yet burning with a hidden intensity. His breath was warm, washing over her lips with the scent of spice, leaving her lightheaded. Leiana felt her heartbeat quicken, warmth flooding her veins and bringing colour to her cheeks.

He still hadn’t released her, and their gazes remained locked. Only the Baron’s rumbling laughter broke the stillness in the air: it sounded like rasping mixed with coughing, followed by the mechanical hiss of his suspensors. “I will leave you to become better acquainted.”

Feyd’s fingers tightened around her wrist, his grip threatening to leave bruises in his wake as his uncle passed, yet his attention never once wavered from her. The door slammed shut with a bang, leaving her trapped like prey beneath his predatory gaze.

He studied her face, noting her sharp features, full lips, defined brows, and green eyes that seemed to pierce beyond the surface. He traced the tip of a long finger along the curve of her jaw, tilting her face closer, his nose brushing her cheek. Leiana heard his slow inhale.

“Soft,” he murmured, his raspy voice sending a shiver down her spine. “Like snow.”

She made a small, involuntary sound, a whimper that seemed to electrify him. Feyd pressed even closer, his hips aligning with hers, pressing hard. “Let me go,” she demanded.

Her voice jolted him from whatever trance he was in. His dark eyes blinked once, and then he pulled away from her as though it pained him. Leiana remained where she was, clutching her hand to her chest as if his touch had burned her. Her thighs trembled, fatigue starting to take its toll, but she refused to look away first.

Feyd’s expression was a complex mask, unreadable as he assessed her from head to toe and back again. She watched him, her own face carefully composed, as he moved across the room to take the seat his uncle had occupied. “You should be careful,” he said, his fingers trailing along the table’s length. “You might cut yourself.”

Leiana swallowed hard, the lump in her throat stubbornly refusing to budge. Her breath came in shallow inhales, betraying the unease beneath her composed exterior. Her mother had taught her the ways of the Bene Gesserit to maintain a calm, aloof persona that was as frightening as it was alluring. Even after all she had endured, she held that mask in place.

“Of course,” she replied, her tone curt and dripping with sarcasm.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sank into the seat his uncle had vacated just moments earlier. Feyd raised the overflowing goblet of wine to his lips, leaving them stained a faint crimson. Leiana, drawn to him by a magnetic pull that could not be explained, turned her face towards him as she sat back down. Despite the gnawing hunger twisting painfully in her stomach, she could not continue her meal.

She watched him, her gaze unwavering as she fought to unravel his mystery. On the surface, he exuded a quiet yet bold confidence that was hard to ignore. He was significantly taller than she was, the difference stark even with both of them seated. His broad shoulders suggested strength, while his plump lips were inviting, entirely kissable.

Yet when she looked beyond the surface of his eyes, behind the cruelty that bloomed like flowers, she saw more—perhaps more than what he realised. He did not like this arrangement any more than she did. And yet, like her, he did not have a choice. As the heirs of their noble houses, they were beholden to the choices of their patriarchs.

“You are to be my wife,” Feyd said, calm and matter-of-fact. He took another sip of the wine, ignoring the food before him—seemingly trivial, but it spoke volumes. Baron Harkonnen was not a well-liked man—did Feyd think someone would attempt to poison him?

��And you are to be my husband,” Leiana replied, her tone laced with a defiance that surprised even herself. 

Marriage had always been a topic of conversation: murmured in the grand halls, whispered over opulent dinners, and speculated among the servants. Feyd and Leiana had grown up hearing these talks. In their society, alliances were not born out of love but from necessity, strategy, and the pursuit of power. Yet, she held onto the hope that destiny might be gentle, that fate might be kind.

Feyd’s eyes narrowed, emotion flickering through his composed facade. Despite his disdain for the Atreides, he knew crushing one of their spirits was no easy task. He set the goblet down, focusing all his attention on her as if daring her to defy him.

“You do not seem pleased,” he stated.

“Nor do you.”

“Are you afraid, my Lady?”

Leiana observed him intently, trying to decipher the game behind his question. On the one hand, she understood that her options were scarce and her freedom was constrained by marriage. On the other hand, the idea of surrendering to him made her uneasy. The prospect of marrying Rabban nauseated her, while the notion of being with Feyd-Rautha stirred different emotions.

She lifted her chin, a subtle act of defiance instilled in her by her mother.

“No.”

She was not afraid of him—it was what he could do to her. Rabban was brutal, his nature violent and unsubtle, embodying the raw savagery of the Baron’s teachings. Feyd, on the other hand, was coldly calculating, his cruelty tempered by a keen intellect. Where Rabban was a blunt instrument, Feyd was a finely honed blade—both equally dangerous but in fundamentally different ways.

He placed his palm on the table, fingers splayed wide, the tips dancing along the handle of his knife. Her heart thundered in her chest so fast that she thought her ribcage would break. There was no doubt in her mind that Feyd was capable of killing her; she would not make it easy, using the Voice to keep him at bay, but it would only work for so long.

Feyd would close the distance, and as soon as she was within his reach, she would be dead.

“You should not lie to your husband.”

“You are not yet my husband.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his plump lips pulling into a smile that revealed a hint of his blackened teeth. Feyd leaned forward, his elbow resting on the table, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. He watched, his expression amused, for he was entirely convinced she would submit to him.

“Our marriage will be easier for you—certainly more enjoyable,” he offered in response, his words holding a dark decadence that frightened and thrilled her. Feyd could hurt her, she knew. He could kill her, and there was a possibility that he still might. But her defiance remained. Her answer was a scoff, air puffing from her with a hot fire that mirrored her inner emotions.

“And If I refuse?”

“Then whatever gentleness I could offer you will be gone.”

“It is not gentleness that I want from you, Feyd-Rautha.” She answered, staring at him from across the table with a fire that could scorch the heavens.

“Tell me, what is it you desire instead?”

Leiana swallowed her pride, burying it so deeply within herself that she doubted she would ever find it again. Then she steeled her resolve. “It is your protection,“ she stated firmly.

Feyd tilted his head, a subtle challenge in his gaze, daring her to continue.

"If I am to be your wife, then I am to be yours completely. You must offer me your protection.”

“And who is it I am to protect you from.”

A shiver ran down her spine. It wove between each vertebra and along each rib, leaving her skin goosepimpled; it was a visceral reaction to the words on the tip of her tongue. “I am the last living Atreides,” she said, her voice even despite the unease in her veins. It coiled around her organs like a snake, slowly squeezing. “My very existence is dangerous to the emperor and the Harkonnen fiefdom.”

“Such pretty words, Atreides,” he said with a hum, mocking her. “But that is not what you fear the most.”

Feyd watched as she thumbed the bruises starting to form around her wrist. She seemed unaware of this, but the gesture revealed a truth she had not spoken aloud. “Glossu Rabban,” she said, her eyes not wavering from his, confident, belaying the uneasy way she covered the bruises with her fingers.

Feyd was more perceptive than she had anticipated. Leiana recalled that they had met once, years ago. She had only been a child then, clinging to her father’s hand, gazing at the world with wide-eyed wonderment. Feyd had been older by a few years, not yet a man but developing quickly. He had not paid her any attention, nor had she to him.

Over the years, she had heard rumours about the man he grew into. Tales of his barbaric victories in the arena painted him as callous and cruel, a man defined by his actions. Yet, sitting here before him now, she saw beyond the rumours. He was a deeply intelligent man, able to glean truths from between the lines.

“My life will belong to you and only you. You will be the only one permitted to take it. Promise me that.”

“And what will you give me in return?”

“Something I have refused to give to anyone else.”

Feyd branched across the table, rising from his seat and pressing his palms into it.

“My submission.”

Leiana intended to leave him there to mule over her offer, to weigh his options and decide their worth. In truth, she needed to be alone. Offering herself to him in such a way made her sick to her stomach. Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood, and she walked away without a word, unsure where she would go but certain she could not stay there with him.

Feyd moved with a feline grace, crossing the room in only a few long strides. His hand landed on the door, palm flat and fingers spread wide, slamming it closed with a bang. With his other hand, he grabbed her by the arm, fingers curling, and whipped her around to face him, a surprised squeal leaving her lips as he forced her against the door. A whisper of pain shot up her spine, leaving her skin goosepimpled and her staring at him wide-eyed.

Feyd leaned closer, chasing the scent of honeysuckles on her skin. His breath was hot, his nose centimetres from hers. The smell of cinnamon and spice flooded her lungs as she inhaled deep and swallowed hard. Her lashes fluttered as she fought to look away, only to fail. Yet before her gaze fell to the floor, his free hand captured her chin, forcing it back to his.

Leiana felt his hand move, the gentle slide of his fingertips along her skin. First the curve of her jaw, then down her throat. Her breath caught in her chest as he continued, his fingers engulfing her neck, the tips pressing slightly harder into the sides. She waited for the pressure that would surely leave her dizzy, her head throbbing.

It didn’t come.

Instead, his thumb gently stroked over her racing pulse.

Her tongue darted nervously from between her lips, leaving them shining as she licked them. Leiana saw how his dark eyes followed the movement as if memorized. His lips parted, the sharp edge of his blackened teeth on display. Feyd looked like he wanted to devour her, to pull her apart piece by piece until there was nothing left.

A low growl crawled up the back of his throat as he pinned her to the door, his body painted against hers. His hand wrapped around the back of her neck, pulling her forward. Their mouths crashed together, hungry and hard, a collision that left her dizzy. Her hands moved, fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding him tightly. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, angling her just so, allowing his tongue to slip into her mouth.

A soft moan tumbled from her, the sound traitorous, as her mouth parted wider, letting him in. Her nails dug into the skin of his wrists, and her teeth grazed his lower lip. He tasted like blood and spice and something she couldn’t place. It left her head swimming and heat pouring through her bones.

Feyd deepened the kiss, pushing her further into the door, their tongues warring with each other, exploring. Leiana had yet to lay with a man, but she knew their needs and what would come. Yet, knowing it didn’t make her feel any less anxious. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. The sharp sting of his teeth brought her back to the moment.

When had she allowed herself to forget the real reason she was there?

She was not a lover.

She was not a companion.

She was a pawn.

She wasn’t sure how, but she managed to drag her mouth from his and push at the wall of his chest to try and distance him. Her lips were swollen and kiss-bitten, as were his. Feyd remained pressed against her, his hips nestled tightly against hers, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them.

The defiance in her eyes flashed like fire, leaving nothing behind but scorched earth. 

“Anything else will not be given to you until our wedding night.”

—interested in being tagged in future chapters? send me a message!

[aoi-targaryen]

— FOLIE À DEUX | chapter i

pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x atreides ! ofc (leiana)

tags: mentions of rape. mentions of torture. brief suicide attempt. arranged marriage. mentioned canon character death.

w/c: 2.5k.

a/n: so recently i started writing on a dune roleplaying site, and honestly, I'm in love with everyone; they're all so insanly creative, and i love reading their threads. admittedly, i'm not sure when this idea spawned, but i'm really enjoying writing it. its not often i feel comfortable writing stories with original characters, so any feedback you have is wildly appreciated!

Thick lashes fluttered beneath the waning sleep spell; hers, his, was impossible to know. The room was warm, sweat pooling on silken sheets beneath them, making their bodies feel heavier as their limbs moved restlessly. Sleep slipped away like water through cracks in the sand. The floor was rough, the textured concrete catching at her skin, his skin, impossible to know.

One moment, there was darkness; the next, light, blinding, shining in her eyes, his eyes—a blackened sun, Giedi Prime. She knew because he knew. He knew because she knew. And then pain, all-consuming, starting from nowhere and spreading everywhere. Their vocal cords vibrated in a scream, the kind that welled up from the pit of their stomachs and stole the air from their lungs. It seemed to fill the room, echoing the sound of fear, pain, and death.

Her eyes, his eyes, flashed open, and the visions were gone.

Memories of the future danced behind the blur of tears in her eyes as her chest heaved with a shuddering sob—the sting of wounds not yet suffered induced a hysteria that threatened to consume her. The screams, hers, his, continued to echo around the prison chamber, mingling with those of the handmaidens who served House Atreides.

In the low light of the prison cell, memories of what had happened upon Arrakis came rushing back to her—betrayal. That was the only word for it. Political intrigue had led to the Atredes bloodline being eradicated, all except for her. And now she was a prisoner to House Harkonnen, the last Lady of Castle Caladan.

Leiana scrunched her eyes tightly shut, desperately willing herself back to sleep as the screams became crescendos. But she could not; instead, she settled for pacing the small cell to pass the time. That was until she saw him exit the room opposite her cell—her captor—and her emotions overwhelmed her as the handmaidens' screams turned to broken sobs.

She could smell their tears in the air and the coppery scent of blood and other bodily fluids.

"Stop this! Please!" She yelled, her fingers tightening around the bars as she glared at Glossu Rabban. Hot tears streaked down her face, leaving lines in the dirt decorating her olive-hued skin. The Beast, and indeed he was one, smiled in a sick way as he approached. He was not dressed in the traditional Harkonnen armour, the one she had seen him wearing that night, but rather in much less.

Leiana watched as he adjusted himself, tucking his flaccid cock into his trousers, making a show of it. She wanted to be sick.

"Why?" he asked, tilting his head to the side in an innocent gesture that belied his brutality. She wanted to scream. Why. Why? Because he was hurting them, taking possession of their bodies, and subjecting them to horrors none of those beneath Atreides rule had ever known. Duke Leto was kind; he did not believe in revenge. He governed in much the same way. Their people knew love and prosperity.

He was so close, standing on the other side of the bars; if she had a knife, she could end their torment. Duncan had shown her how, Gurney, too. Aim for the throat, slash, don't stab, make it deep.

His hand snaked between the bars before she could retreat, thick fingers curling around her shoulder. His thumb pressed painfully into her collarbone as he pulled her against the bars, leaving her face pressed against the rusted metal.

"Life is cruel," he said, leaning closer so his bulk pressed against the bars. She clawed at his wrist, manicured nails tearing into his pale skin, blood welling up to fill the shallow scratches. Leiana managed to suck in a breath of air, the only thing that kept her focused enough as her face pressed painfully into the bars, threatening to bruise her skin.

"Why should their deaths be anything less?"

"You're hurting me."

Glossu Rabban would not kill her; this she knew—he could not afford to. Through her, The Baron would regain his rightful and legitimate control of Arrakis, gain control of Caladen, and unite the ancient and noble houses of Atreides and Harkonnen. So no, Rabban would not kill her, but then again, a quick death had never been the Harkonnen way.

He would rape her. He would beat her. He would breed her. And that would be what killed her: the loss of freedom, forced to submit to a man so terrible and cruel. Leiana would be a caged bird, pregnant and swollen with his seed time and again until she lost the will to live, choosing instead to allow the desert to claim her.

Rabban reached through the bars with his free hand, pushing the hair from her face in an almost caring gesture. "You will be my wife." He spoke plainly, his words holding a promise that filled her with dread, turning her blood to ice until hell froze over. Leiana tried to fight him, attempting to knock his hand away, only for him to seize her wrist, his strength threatening to bend and break her bones.

"You should watch," Rabban continued, his tone soft, a sweet whisper as he traced one finger along the elegant line of her jaw, tilting her face to meet his heated gaze. "Watch as they take my cock, my Lady, as they birth my bastard children. You will learn how to be a good broodmare."

He felt the muscles of her neck shift beneath his fingers only a moment before a globule of spit hit his face, just below his left eye. For a moment, the world stood still, time and space falling away until there was only them: herself and the Beast she thought to provoke.

There was a choice to be made, his, hers. Leiana refused to be subservient; she would bear him no children. She would force his hand, let him kill her as he had killed Duncan.

Glossu Rabban would not claim her—his temper was too great to control, or so she assumed. She would ensure he could not control it. Leiana would question his every decision and speak against him during political affairs; she would betray him and kill him if the opportunity arose. He would have no choice but to discipline her or appear weak in front of his peers. 

Leiana was strong, and though she could survive whatever torment he delivered, she would not fight to live. She would choose death before him. 

The Beast swore in the language of House Harkonnen. The vowels were heavy and rough, the meaning lost to her. His fingers closed around her throat, the capillaries beneath her skin bursting, letting the blood rush to bruise in the shape of his fingers. She imagined her end would have been worse if the bars had not been between them. Bloody and violent, her body beaten and bruised and broken, but it would be the end nonetheless.

Darkness blanketed her vision, a cone funnelling it so that his face would be the last thing she saw as she struggled to gasp around the constriction of his fingers. She was crying, trying to, soundless sobs shaking her lithe frame. But she was smiling, and he hated her for that.

"My Lord."

She hardly heard the voice as her limbs started to fall limp, fingers and nails falling from his skin as a heaviness set in. She could see stars, or rather, she thought that she could. Something bright in the darkness as her lids drooped.

"What is it?" Rabban answered, pinning the servant with a hard stare. He had not yet released her. She did not hear the servant address him that way, the lack of formal title, but it seemed neither did Rabban.

"The Baron requests her presence, my Lord."

There was a moment, a single heartbeat of time when she saw her consciousness slip from her body. She saw them as though floating above them, but the rope was still there, holding her to her body and refusing to relinquish her. Rabban’s control was far greater than she'd anticipated. This would not be the day.

Leiana fell to the ground when he released her, spluttering, sobbing, and retching as dusty air filled her lungs and breathed life back into her body.

Leiana had been permitted to bathe in preparation for dinner with Vladimir Harkonnen, a small kindness given the current circumstances. The water had been scolding, leaving her skin tender as she dressed; the pain was a sting, but it soothed her all the same. During this time, she learned that her things had not been burned. This came as a surprise, as did the summons. It had been. . .

Two weeks, her mind whispered the words. She had been held in the dungeons beneath Arrakeen for fourteen days, trapped while the corpses of her family rotted and burned. A sob welled up in her chest, threatening to break her resolve.

She could see Duncan and her father in their final moments if she closed her eyes. She had not seen her mother or Paul but knew both had perished in the city's sacking. Such was the gift and curse of the Bene Gesserit, taught to the Atreides children by Lady Jessica—to know things impossible to know.

But she would not cry for them, not this night. Leiana had to put herself first now, for dinner with Baron Harkonnen would be no easy feat to survive. His brilliance and patience in political affairs were well-known. She had to keep her wits about her.

Swathed in ivory-white fabric that hugged her hips and did nothing to hide the bruises on her skin, she entered the room. Leiana intended to wear them with honour and defiance. The Baron was seated at the far end of a long table decorated with wines and meats.

"My Lord," Leiana greeted with a deep curtsey, her dress fanning around her. It was a trained mannerism, not one of affection or respect. The Baron, aware of their complicated history, acknowledged her with a nod.

"Lady Atreides," his gruff voice echoed lowly. He did not look up from his meal but instead motioned for her to take the seat at the opposite end of the table. Leiana slipped into it, observing him in quiet contemplation: he was a grotesque man, so large that he could not walk beneath the weight of his own girth, instead needing to be carried by suspensors. She imagined that, in his youth, he would have been quite handsome, as many Harkonnen had been. But in his old age, he had grown fat and treacherous, more dangerous than ever.

She waited until he resumed his meal, the sound of his cutlery scrapping the porcelain plate grating on her nerves before she, too, ate something. Her stomach knotted in protest, not because the meal had been tampered with or poisoned but because she had eaten only gruel for fourteen days. The texture of it had been like sand on her tongue, but she'd forced herself to swallow mouthful after mouthful.

This meal was a heaven-send in comparison. They ate silently for a time, the tension in the air palpable before his voice broke it.

"You know the reason I have summoned you, yes?" The Baron asked, still not taking his eyes off his plate. He ate like his appearance: with greed and excess, his portions were enough to feed a small family. Leiana chewed at the inside of her cheek, carefully considering her words.

"I must confess that I do not, my Lord."

At long last, his eyes rose to meet hers, spider-like, twinkling with shadows beneath the lights. The muscles in her jaw flexed as she clenched her teeth, stealing herself beneath his stare.

"Your marriage."

"I am not married."

"You are to wed my nephew—the Na-Baron."

At that moment, the air was knocked from her lungs. Naturally, the dinner was a trap, which she was prepared for. Still, she felt much like a fly desperately trying to escape the clutches of a spider. Her resolve was absolute, however—she would not marry him. "No," Leiana spoke plainly, her voice painted broadly with defiance and the faintest trace of disgust.

"No?" He echoed.

"No."

"You seem to have the impression that you have a choice in this matter." His expression was stern as he spoke, and he watched her with beady eyes, regarding her with genuine curiosity and a distinct disdain. The Baron was renowned for playing cat and mouse games, but who was the cat, and who was the mouse?

Leiana placed her utensils on either side of her plate, her fingertips lingering on the knife's handle, and she stared at him. The gears of her mind spun rapidly, thoughts flying from one to the next. "There is always a choice to be made, Lord Harkonnen."

He watched her, his cherubic jowls twitching with amusement when he saw how she tapped her index finger upon the knife. The action gave away her intentions before she knew what they were.

"You think to kill me? You know you could not."

On the one hand, he was correct; she could not kill him and hoped to survive. But on the other, he was so terribly mistaken. Leiana did not move; she only stared at him with fierce defiance. "No, not you. There can hardly be a wedding, let alone a marriage, without a bride."

"Ah, I see," he mused with a soft hum. "You would act cowardly, Lady Atreides, and prematurely end your family bloodline?"

"Yes." Her answer was firm, brokering no room for negotiation. "I will make this abundantly clear to you, my Lord. I will choose death, time and again before I wed your nephew. That is my choice. I will not marry Glossu Rabban." She saw how his mouth twitched, the dangerous gleam in his eyes; panic seized her.

The Baron appeared unfazed by her defiance, utterly unconcerned by her refusal. He was calm, sipping on a glass filled to the brim with blood-red wine. Alarm bells rang in her mind like sirens, and at that moment, she felt a noose tighten around her neck. She had played into his hand. 

Leiana did not hear the doors swing open; only the Baron's spider-like eyes briefly flicking away, taking in the presence of another alerted her. Her heart slammed against her breastbone with such force that she feared it would break. Rabban had come to claim her, rape her, and breed her.

She moved on instinct, standing quickly, her chair threatening to topple, fingers scooping up the knife and raising it to her throat. The serrated edge kissed at her skin, tore at it. Aim for the throat, slash, don't stab, make it deep.

Her wrist was seized before she could complete the act, the blade ripped from her grasp and thrown somewhere across the room, leaving globules of claret thickly down her skin. And then she had known the truth. 

"My Lady." The closeness of his words was startling. Once more, the tension in the air was palpable, the room as still as the morning air as his gaze lowered to her lips, broken only by the Baron's smug chortle.

She could feel his warmth as he walled her against his chest, and now, practically touching, she could smell him, too.

Feyd-Rautha.

"My nephew, Lady Atreides. The Na-Baron.”

—interest in being tagged in future chapters? send me a message!

[aoi-targaryen]

Take What You Need

summary: if only the emperor could see his darling daughter now, bent and broken over silken pillows, stripped of her titles and trappings, reduced to nothing but need and whimpering want beneath the heir to house harkonnen.

warnings: 18+ only. corrino ! reader. very slightly hinted cnc. light bondage. dirty talk. sub/dom dynamics. pet names; (princess). name calling; (slut, whore). forced orgasm. breath play. hinted breeding kink? honestly, feyd is feral and therefore his own warning.

words: 2k

notes: honestly, it was high time i wrote something for feyd. and the leia x feyd brainrot has been eating away at me, and inspired this. you have @sandwormrp to thank for their wonderful portray of feyd. <3 <3

Feyd-Rautha had never been one to hear the word no—not truly. It was a word that rarely, if ever, carried any weight behind it. In the orbit of his world, where power and privilege spun like moons around his name, denial did not exist. From the moment he was plucked from the obscurity of childhood and placed beneath the ever-watchful eye of his uncle, his life had changed irrevocably.

To be mentored by the Baron was to be both elevated and cursed. It was not a mercy. It was a burden masquerading as a gift—a double-edged sword gilded in gold. Feyd was given everything a young man could possibly want, and far more than he ever asked for. Fame followed him like a shadow; wealth was piled at his feet in obscene excess, and women were offered as distractions, rewards, and amusements.

Everything—everything—was handed to him, the world cracking itself open in servitude to his whims.

And Feyd, for all his cunning and cruelty, accepted it all without question. He hoarded his blessings with the greed of a dragon, curled protectively around his ever-growing treasure, arrogant and untouchable atop a mountain of gold and blood. He had grown accustomed to indulgence. To taking what he wanted. To expecting—deserving—the very best the universe had to offer.

And then he saw her.

Posture so perfectly poised, voice soft and refined, steeped in the etiquette of royalty. The Emperor's youngest daughter, untouched by the ugliness of the world he knew. A Corrino jewel, kept gleaming and polished behind silk veils and steel walls. She was sweet, they said. Innocent. Naïve. A creature raised in golden cages, schooled in politics but protected from its venom. She had never known true hunger, the stench of war, or the taste of ambition burning on the tongue like poison and honey.

And Feyd—he wanted her.

Not the way he wanted others, the women who were thrown at his feet, their eyes lowered and mouths painted to please. He wanted her—untouched, unclaimed, unbroken.

And want was not something Feyd ever shied away from.

"Who owns this pussy, princess?" he growled against her shoulder, his voice rough and ragged, each word escaping between clenched teeth. His lips ghosted over her flushed skin, leaving a shiver of heat in their wake. "Say it louder," he demanded, the edge of a threat woven into the velvet snarl of his voice.

There was no gentleness in the way he spoke, nor was there softness in the way he gripped her hips, holding her in place as if she might try to run. His breath was hot against her skin, coming in shallow pants, the scent of spice and sweat thick in the air between them, mingling with the smell of sex.

Feyd didn't make demands unless he was ready to drag the truth from her lips, one brutal thrust at a time. And he was prepared to do just that.

If only the Emperor could see his darling daughter now, bent and broken over silken pillows, stripped of her titles and trappings, reduced to nothing but need and whimpering want beneath the heir to House Harkonnen—he would have ordered Feyd flayed alive.

A thousand knives for every bruising kiss, every growled command, every filthy sound torn from her lips.

But it was too late.

She was already his.

And it hadn't even taken much.

Just a few smiles, all teeth and hunger, the glint of something wicked in his eyes. The slow, deliberate drag of his tongue over one of his black canines, a silent promise of the kind of pain that made pleasure burn all the brighter. A step closer. A hand against the wall, boxing her in. Whispered threats dressed as promises, words like silk-wrapped daggers in her ears.

'I'll ruin you, princess. I'll break that pretty little crown right off your head.'

She'd trembled—and he'd known she was his.

He'd smelt her arousal. How it clung to her, a perfume of desperation. That scent had damn near driven him mad, made his blood thrum with the anticipation of what was to come. And now, finally, she was here—tied, exposed, undone.

The remnants of her once-impeccable dress hung in tatters around her waist, the fabric torn and twisted into makeshift bindings that kept her hands locked tight behind her back. Her face was buried in the pillows, muffling the desperate, high-pitched moans that spilled from her lips with every harsh snap of his hips. She was soaked, thighs gleaming with the wet sheen of her arousal, welcoming him with every thrust. 

It was obscene how she responded to him—her royal upbringing, all that prim-and-proper training, dissolved beneath his touch. How the girl raised to rule, to be bowed to, to be protected like a sacred relic was nothing but a trembling, breathless, gasping slut for his cock.

She was supposed to be untouchable.

A precious jewel locked behind a dozen doors, veiled and cloistered, far too delicate for the hands of any man who hadn't been sanctioned by the Imperium. But Feyd had never believed in asking for permission.

And her body? It didn't want gentleness. It wanted this.

Rough. Unrelenting. Merciless.

Feyd gave her no room to escape, no room to come up for air. Just the rhythm of his hips, the tight press of his body caging her in, claiming her with every stroke. Her cries were muffled, but he could feel the truth in them—the desperation, the hunger, the way she pushed back against him, needy and aching and feral beneath all that silk and bloodline.

She had been raised to wear a crown.

But tonight?

Tonight, she wore nothing but bruises and his name.

His palm struck her backside with a brutal crack, the sound echoing, sharp and merciless. She cried out, the scream torn from her throat before she could swallow it. He struck her again, harder this time, savouring the way her royal cunt tightened around him—scorching and soaked with need.

With a fist tangled in her hair, he yanked her up, refusing to let her stay in the pillows, refusing to let her hide behind the silence, dragging every sound from her lips like it was owed to him.

"Answer me, princess." He growled the words, blackened teeth grazing the shell of her ear. He shifted pace, abandoning the punishing rhythm that had her dripping down her thighs and painting his skin with need. Instead, he sank into her with slow, deliberate grinds—deep enough to make her eyes flutter and her breath hitch. 

Feyd held her upright and kept her on her knees. He wouldn't let her collapse, refused to let her fall into the mess of tangled sheets and sweat-soaked silk. Her legs shook, thighs quivering with exhaustion, but his hands kept her there.

His fingers slid down to where she was stretched around him, teasing her slick folds before landing a sharp slap against her swollen clit. The reaction was immediate—her cunt clenched hard around him, greedy, trembling, at his mercy.

When she was silent for too long, holding her tongue as though to test his patience, he did it again—calloused fingers landing against her aching clit, harder. The sharp sting sent a jolt of electricity through her, making her body jerk, hips twitching in protest or need—he couldn't tell, and didn't care. He kept going, a third slap, until she was writhing and breathless.

"Say it," he snarled.

"You," she managed, voice broken and trembling, the word torn from her throat like a confession.

He growled against her ear, the sound guttural, a dark velvet rumble threaded with savage satisfaction. His fingers found her clit again, pressing down cruelly—just enough to make her body seize and tremble.

"Good. Fucking. Girl." Each word was driven home by a brutal snap of his hips. His cock plunged into her, splitting her open, slick and greedy around him. Every thrust drove him deeper, like he meant to carve a place for himself inside her, to brand her from the inside out. 

She choked on a moan, the sound caught and smothered as he shoved her down, one hand tangled in her hair, forcing her face into the pillows. Her cries were buried, but he heard them all the same—felt them in the way her body trembled, in the way she clenched around him with every thrust.

Her thighs were slick with arousal, glistening, the wetness trailing in delicate strands from her royal cunt and soaking into the sheets below—evidence of just how thoroughly he'd undone her. The wet sound of their bodies meeting was obscene, filling the room. Feyd leaned in, breath scorching against her ear, his chest pressed to her back as his grip tightened around her hip, the other hand yanking on her hair.

"You were made for this," he growled, voice rough and ruined by lust. "To be fucked like a slut. To be mine."

When she whimpered—small, broken, desperate—he fucked her harder, dragging her back onto his cock with a force that stole what little air she had left. She was unravelling, falling apart with every thrust, and Feyd revelled in it. Because this wasn't about power. It was about possession.

And he wouldn't stop until she wore the proof of it, until she collapsed beneath the weight of what he made her feel.

"Not a princess," he snarled, voice thick with heat, each word spat against her skin like a brand. "Just a whore."

He didn't falter, not for a second. The brutal rhythm of his thrusts continued, relentless and deep, each one driving her higher, pushing her further toward that edge.

"Fuck," he hissed, head falling between her shoulder blades, breath ragged against her skin. "I feel you—so fucking tight. So wet for me. You like this, don't you? Being my whore?

His hand slipped from her hair to wrap around her throat, pulling her up and against him, forcing her to feel every inch of him, every growl that rumbled in his chest as he claimed her.

"You're going to be a good whore and cum for me, aren't you?" he snarled, the question more a command than anything else. His fingers tightened around the sides of her throat, not enough to hurt—just enough to make her dizzy, to steal the edges of her breath, to send her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips. Her body reacted instantly, heart racing, thighs trembling, need spiralling higher under his command.

Her answer came as a gasp, caught in her throat, swallowed by the heat building between them—but Feyd wasn't the kind of man to wait long for obedience. He'd drag it out of her, again and again, until there was nothing left of the princess. . . only his precious whore.

She came with a cry torn straight from her throat, an orgasm crashing through her like a wave that could not be denied—violent, all-consuming. Her cunt clenched around him as a gush of release spilled down her thighs, hot and slick, coating his skin and soaking the mattress beneath them. It was primal, beautiful—and he drank in the sight of it with a hunger that bordered on reverence.

"Fuck, look at you," he growled, slamming her back down, both hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. He didn't slow. He couldn't. He fucked her through the high, relentless, until she was shaking and sobbing into the pillows, her body overwhelmed, her voice breaking with every cry.

His release was building, coiling violently at the base of his spine, molten heat roaring through his veins. Every thrust brought him closer, flames licking from his fingertips to his toes until it finally broke.

With a guttural growl, he came—hard—his cock buried to the hilt as thick ropes of his cum spilled deep inside her. He held her there, pressed against him, filling her until her quivering walls were painted with him, until her womb held the evidence of who she belonged to.

No other man would ever measure up. No one else would ever touch what he had claimed. He would mark her. Ruin her. And when she carried his child—when her belly swelled with the proof of what they'd done—the galaxy would know.

She was his.

His lovely, obedient little slut.

[aoi-targaryen]

Lady Atredies Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[aoi-targaryen]

Lady Atredies

A/N Sorry about the delay in this chapter, I've been making sure that I'm completely happy with this chapter. As always PLEASE interact with this in any way you can - all of it motivats me to keep writing. Thank you as always to my beta reader. Enjoy!

Chapter 4

“He’s given us Arrakis,” he says into the silence. My breath hitches and I move to sit up, forcing him away from his position lying on top of me. I meet his eyes and if it wasn’t Feyd I was talking to, I would wonder whether they were making a joke. But Feyd doesn’t make jokes.

“What about your brother?”

“He has proven his inability to handle the responsibility. Arrakis is ours. He says that if I take back the spice for the Harkonenn house then he will make me emperor.” I can’t help the grin that forces its way onto my face. This works hugely to our advantage. I bring his face in close, planting a firm kiss against his lips.

“This is perfect. If you can prove you can control it better than your brother and your uncle, the emperor will be impressed. He will be a firm ally when you take over as Baron, and then you’ll have an ‘in’ against him and his daughter.” He tucks a stray hair behind my ear as he watches me, “How does he believe he will make you emperor?” He avoids my eyes now, withdrawing his hand away from me.

“The emperor ordered the attack on Arrakis, on your family. If the other houses were to find out then they would declare war on him and dethrone him, leaving the Harkonnens to take over. He’s merely biding his time until the spice is under control.” Some strange mix of feelings arise at this information, some weird combination of anger and pleasure all at once.

“The emperor is pathetic. Even his own daughter thinks he’s a coward, he will be easy to dethrone. We can certainly use that information.” I keep my expression calm despite the flurry of emotions rising in me, “when do we leave?”

“The ceremony will be moved forward to next week, we leave immediately after.” I was told by my maids that the organisation for the ceremony had begun but I imagine it will be rushed now. I’ve read up on Harkonnen weddings before in preparation for this, one of the few joys that Jessica and my father allowed me. The ceremony does not allow for much ‘bridal planning’ the way it would if it was being hosted by my House. We can focus on how to handle the Freman problem instead.

“Then we must prepare to face the problems with the Freman. What do you know of how your brother has attempted to control them?” I stand and move to wrap a robe around me before sitting back on the bed opposite him.

“The Freman are revolting more than we’ve seen before, they have a new leader of some kind encouraging them to move further North and closer to Arrakeen. They are proving to be a threat to spice production, destroying equipment and machinery. They are calling him Maud’Dib. My brother has managed to stop none of their attacks so far.”

“Desert mouse, an odd name for a leader.” Under the anger, a strange uncomfortable feeling creeps under the surface at the name. It’s almost as if I know the name, or that I will know the name. I try to shake off the feeling and move to discuss tactics with Feyd, but for the rest of the night I can’t quite forget about it.

The week leading up to the ceremony goes by quickly. I manage to contact Reverend Mother and inform her of the pregnancy and tell her that I have ensured it is a girl, as requested. I notice Feyd watching me closer, though he never says out loud that he is concerned for my well being, I feel it all the same. I get fitted for my dress for the event and I have to admit that I enjoy the fashion of the noble Harkonnen women. Simple and elegant.

On the day of the ceremony, Nyla, Becca and the seamstress work to get me ready for the ceremony. Ensuring the dress is fitted perfectly and that I will be protected from the sun during the long period of time that we’ll be outside. I have to admit that there is a part of me that is terrified for the ceremony. It is a simple enough event but it’s still an important day, my wedding to Feyd; this is the day I’ve been waiting for my entire life. It’s worked out differently to how I expected, the emperor giving my family Arrakis certainly changed things, but if anything it’s aided us. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with my family today, they would find a way to make it about them and they’d be expecting me to act sad about it, as if marrying Feyd is some kind of burden on me. They never could understand it.

I step out into the bleached light to face the screaming crowds and the still armies surrounding the raised platform in front of me. I straighten my back and shoulders, walking forwards. The baron, Feyd, and the officiator are watching me as I join them on the platform. I stand next to Feyd and we both face the officiator as the ceremony begins. The officiator begins with a speech about the responsibilities that Feyd and I will take on as the Na-baron and Na-baroness, the importance of loyalty to the house, and how this marks an important day in Harkonnen history.

Then, begins the hand-fasting ritual. We face each other and Feyd holds out his arm with his palm face up. I place my right hand on top of his and my left underneath, “to support,” explains the officiator. Feyd places his left hand on top of my right, “to protect,” the officiator continues. A piece of rope is brought forwards and the officiator drapes it over our joined hands. “The rope represents the strength of their unity,” he wraps it around our hands once, “and the strength of the Harkonnen House.” He takes the two ends of the rope hanging from our hands and ties one simple knot, “This knot represents the future lady Na-baroness’ loyalty to our Na-baron,” he then ties another below it, “this knot represents our lord Na-baron’s loyalty to our future Na-baroness,” and then he ties one final knot below that, “this final knot represents their loyalty to the Harkonnen house.”

He takes a step back and the crowd cheers as the ritual is completed. We are married. Feyd and I have not taken our eyes off of each other since the ritual began and I try to convey every emotion I feel into my eyes. There is so much work to be done but I cannot help but want to let myself not think about it for just one day. I am aware of the baron’s eyes watching us as the officiator removes the rope from us and we separate our hands. The rope will be kept as a symbol of our marriage in a safe place that we can visit.

We turn away from the baron and I take Feyd’s arm as we walk off the platform and away from the crowds, the ceremony is over. There will be a feast in an hour that I need to be made ready for, but we will be away from prying eyes for that time. He guides me towards my room to allow me space to be changed when the time comes, and I quickly sit down on my bed. He follows suit, still holding onto my hand as we take a moment just watching each other. “We are married,” his voice is as cold as ever, as though we have not been waiting for this day for years. I can see behind his eyes though that he is glad.

“We are,” I smile up at him and give his hand a gentle squeeze, “and tomorrow we take over control of Arrakis. Things are falling into place for us, Feyd.”

“You are,” he pauses, looking down at our hands, “pleased?” It is a simple question on the surface, but knowing all of the things that I’ve learned about Feyd, I know that the question goes deeper than that.

“I’m more than pleased,” I try to meet his eyes but they focus on our joined hands, “we are finally married, we’ve been given a chance to prove ourselves to our people and to the other houses, and everything is going perfectly.” He glances up and I see something soft and almost small behind his eyes, just for a moment.

There is a knock on my door then, shaking me out of the moment with Feyd. My maids walk in, quiet and heads down; they’re often quieter around Feyd. “It is time for us to get you ready for the feast, Na-baroness.” Nyla says, her voice low. Honestly, being called ‘Na-baroness’ sends a thrill down me.

“Thank you Nyla.” I respond and stand to begin getting ready. Feyd stays in the room while they both prepare me. Getting in and out of these dresses requires a lot of work considering how simple they are. Feyd and I don’t speak, I can see on his face that he is deep in thought, but a part of me appreciates having his company in the peace. My make-up and hair are touched up. Curiosity pokes at me, wondering what is taking up Feyd’s thoughts on today of all days. I imagine something practical, a continuation of our previous conversation on how we plan to restore order to Arrakis perhaps.

My thoughts have been unable to stray from the news of this Maud’Dib encouraging the Freman to revolt further. There was no mention of this figure when my family had control over the planet, my father was sure that the Freman were being completely honest with him. Where could he have come from? How has he gained this much power in such a short space of time? He’s clearly intelligent, I’ll give him that, taking advantage of the Bene Gesserit religious routes that we planted all those years ago. We need to stop these revolts, but we must be careful; killing him will only motivate them further.

My hand is wrapped around Feyd’s arm as we walk into the hall, tables filled with soldiers and food piled high. We reach the table at the other side of the hall with the baron sitting lazily on the other side, bowing to him before walking round to sit next to him. Feyd sits to his right and I sit next to Feyd. The baron doesn’t even make an attempt at standing up, but raises a glass filled to the brim with some kind of Harkonnen wine, “To the future of the Harkonnen House,” he declares, encouraging the soldiers to cheer and raise their glasses in response before the feast quickly begins.

The Harkonnen diet is interesting, to say the least. Heavily protein based and the meat looks off, not real. Geidi Prime doesn’t exactly have the environment to farm anything, the meat is grown artificially in labs to suit the barons’ wants. Thankfully, my new doctor has informed them that in order for me to stay healthy I will need to maintain a non-Harkonnen diet since my body isn’t accustomed to it - especially if we want there to be an heir any time soon.

I can feel my child in there, I know that she’s there. It has only been a week so there are no signs to others, and I’ve been able to avoid a medical exam from my doctor over this week. Feyd will be choosing a new doctor that he trusts to keep an eye on my health when we go to Arrakis, to ensure word does not spread about this child.

I eat politely and silently, feeling Feyd’s occasional glances in my direction as his hand rests on my knee gently. His brother isn’t here, which means that the baron’s attention is solely focused on Feyd, telling him how important it is to be a success for the House. I watch the soldiers and the guards, the way they interact with each other. They seem fairly close, which surprises me to see in a Harkonnen troop, but honestly it’s nice to feel that sense of unity between them.

“Na-baroness,” the baron draws my attention away, “how did your mother pass?” I feel Feyd’s hand tighten against my knee and I can see his anger rising. He opens his mouth to speak but I quickly cut in before he has a chance to lash out.

“It was an unknown disease from what I was informed, my lord baron. They could not figure out what was wrong in time to cure her.” I watch the baron’s face carefully, he doesn’t let anything show. Interesting.

taglist: @avidreader73 @aoi-targaryen @wiseyouthinfluencer

[aoi-targaryen]

Lady Atredies

A/N sorry about the delays with posting this chapter - truthfully it's been written and beta read for a couple weeks now I've just been putting off posting. Please please please interact with this, tell me what you liked, what you're looking forward to etc etc, it does unbelievable wonders for my confidence and motivation to post more. thank you lovelies! and thank you to my amazing beta reader as always

Chapter 3

He practically struts into the arena and makes his way towards us. Lowering himself onto one knee in the direction of the baron and I, extending his arms out into a bow to the baron. As the baron extends his arms in return he stands up, facing away from us and marching back towards the centre. He looks entirely in his element, confident in his abilities. I hear the loud voice speak in their language, announcing the three Atreides soldiers' presence as the doors on each corner of the arena open. 

Familiar faces step out, shielding their eyes from the sun as they get their bearings. They move towards Feyd, limping; I can see that they’ve been drugged to give Feyd the advantage, a sure way of knowing that the na-baron would survive. Among them one face in particular stands out, Lieutenant Lanville. Unlike the others, he isn’t limping. Though cautious, he walks firmly and sure. I am not the only one to notice this as a man next to us points out, “We should cancel the fight!” as he turns frantically towards the baron. 

“Don’t spoil my nephews birthday,” the baron doesn’t seem surprised at this, this must be what I suspected he was planning for the event. He turns to me, “Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Atreides?” He’s wearing that sick smirk again, like he’s trying to upset me or trick me into slipping up. Lieutenant Lanville is a skilled fighter, I have seen him train many times, but Feyd must be better if our ambitions are going to be achieved. 

“I’m sure he will not appreciate not being warned, my lord baron, but surely that in itself is a good training exercise?” I supply, unsure on how the best way to respond is. Feyd will enjoy having a challenge today, and he did promise me that he could do this. I turn my attention back towards the arena as one of the drugged soldiers approaches him. Feyd acts fast, attacking and killing him in mere moments, yelling out before turning towards the other. 

“Do you recognise the soldier Lady Atreides?” the baron asks. It seems like a safe enough question to answer, of course I know him. 

The soldier is dead in seconds, Feyd wastes no time. “Lieutenant Lanville. He was a military officer and close ally to my father.” Feyd then turns towards Lieutenant Lanville. Lanville is ready, blocking each blow as Feyd attacks, dodging him efficiently. Feyd sees this and circles him for a moment, glancing up towards the Baron and I. He attacks again and I can see Lanville beginning to attempt to become more offensive as he tries to push his knife past Feyd’s shield. He allows it, for a moment, before pushing him back again. 

Beside me, the baron is watching intensely and I can feel the tension as Feyd glances up one more time. “Show them who you are,” the baron mutters, and I can see that this plan is more intricate than I initially thought. As if he can hear him, Feyd takes off his shield, showing it to the crowd before discarding it away. “There he is.” The baron sits back as Feyd turns back towards his opponent. “Time for the rest of the planet to see the man that will become their baron, your future husband.” I simply nod in response, my eyes fixated on the arena as the black figures move in closer to the battle. 

There is a short pause before the baron is speaking to me again, “You and Feyd have known each other for many years have you not?” Now this topic does feel like a more dangerous conversation. “Rumours tell me that you knew him before he came into my care.” I try not to let it show but that comment makes me tense. It’s true of course, but not many people outside my family know that. 

Feyd attacks, sharply and sure of himself. Lanville continues to dodge him effectively, swiping back with his knife in retaliation, missing. “Yes, my lord baron, we were betrothed at birth and met at a young age.” The back and forth continues and I find it completely mesmerising, so different from the training I would see in my home, so real. It’s tense. Between trying to keep control over the conversation and watch Feyd fight, my head is spinning. Feyd knocks him on his back and attempts to stab him, but he moves away too fast, standing back up again. They fight in a much closer proximity and one of the black figures moves in to further injure Lanville before he has a chance to dominate the fight. The na-baron has never liked to be proved insufficient though and quickly yells at the figure to get back and not interfere. 

Feyd launches himself at his opponent then, knocking them both to the ground and giving Lanville the opportunity to grip onto the back of his head and point his knife at Feyd’s eye. Feyd grabs onto his arm and manages to keep it just far enough away to not touch him as they turn around so they’re sat up on their knees. Feyd watches the knife intensely as Lanville strains to force the knife into him. It seems like a strain for both of them for a few moments, before Feyd begins to force them to a stand as though it’s easy and pulls back, allowing Lanvilles knife to drive forwards, to the side of him before stabbing him in the stomach himself. He brings his opponents forehead forwards against his own, before letting him collapse in his arms for a moment and pulling his knife out and standing. Lanville collapses on the ground and Feyd raises his arm in victory towards us before quickly walking out of the arena. The crowd erupts into cheers and relief floods through me. 

“You are an interesting little thing aren’t you Atreides?” His words almost send a shiver down my spine, it’s as if he’s breathing down my neck despite the fact that he hasn’t moved. I turn to look at him properly. “Your house is not known to get along with this one, hence the betrothal I suppose. Yet somehow you haven’t even blinked an eye at the destruction of your loved ones.” I move to respond but he interrupts me, “I wonder how prepared you truly are the reality of your future husband. He is not the same boy you met all those years ago.” He doesn’t give me a chance to talk as his chair turns away and he leaves. I’m left with a tight feeling in my chest. 

I’m shown back to my room and I find that there is a small stack of books on my desk. I pick them up, reading the names on the binding and seeing that there are two of my favourites and a few I’ve not read before. I smile, it’ll be nice to have something to fill my evenings with, it has been dull here. I pick up one of my favourites and lie down on top of my bed to start reading. It’s relieving to be doing something calm other than sitting with my own thoughts. 

An hour or so later, I hear the doors to my room open as Feyd walks in, out of his armour. He’s pacing around the room, angry or stressed. I fold the corner of the page, placing my book beside me and watching him for a moment. “This is unusual,” I comment, hiding my smug smile at him expressing a real emotion for once. He turns to look at me, like he’s figuring something out. 

“Did you know?” he asks. I don’t like the way it sounds like he’s accusing me of something. I move so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed before pulling myself up, walking to stand close to him. 

“Know what?”

“Did you know that one of the slaves would be left undrugged?” He says every word slowly and carefully, as if he truly believes I wouldn’t have told him if I knew. As if I was involved in some plot to get him killed. I reach up and grip his jaw tight in my hand, tugging his face to look down at me. He doesn’t fight it and avoids meeting my eyes. I chew on his words for a moment, making sure I truly understand what he’s asked me, watching his face carefully. 

“No. I suspected the Baron was eager for the fight for something but he most certainly didn’t involve me. Do you truly believe I am involved with your uncle in some plan to hurt you?” I watch his face change ever so slightly, but the doubt is still there. I tighten my grip and bring his face close, forcing him to meet me eyes now, “Your uncle is a disgusting creature, he is a dishonourable and perverted thing. I would rather die than be his ally. I am polite and I act loyal for our benefit, I thought we trusted each other.” I allow my voice to sound ever so slightly choked up for a moment as I loosen my grip and watch as his doubts dissipate. I can see he still has questions though. 

“He said that you were talking to someone before the fight.” His eyes scan me over as if he’s looking for something. He doesn’t ask the question I know he wants to. I let go of his jaw now, letting my hand rest against his chest.

“A Bene Gesserit.” He scoffs and turns his head away. “I know,” I bring my hand up to pull his face back towards mine, gently this time, “but we cannot simply disobey them. They have more power than us right now and we need them on our side.”

“What did they want?”

“The line to be secured.” I watch his face for a reaction, “I must ensure that your line is secured by tonight, or they will send one of their witches to do it themselves.”

“I would not let them.” He grazes, automatically defending himself against something that he has not been accused of.

“You would not have a choice in the matter. The Bene Gesserit are stronger than you, they can influence you without you even realising it.” He is visibly frustrated but he nods all the same. I bring my arms up around his shoulders. “Surely there are worse things than having to give me a child?” I raise my eyebrows at him as I watch him let out a breath and roll his eyes, I attempt to convince him of the reality of this. “This was inevitable Feyd, I understand it may prove to be a little inconvenient with our plans but since when was this not going to be difficult? We will make do as we always have.” He chooses not to respond but he draws closer. He lowers his head and I bring mine up to meet his in a kiss as I feel his arms wrap around my waist. 

taglist: @avidreader73 @aoi-targaryen

[aoi-targaryen]

Lady Atredies

A/N That's right guys she's actually written a second chapter to a fic!! This has been beta read (again, since when do I do that??) so I hope you'll love it!! I'm really enjoying writing this and I would love for you guys to let me know what you like about it or if you just enjoy it!!

Chapter 2

My maids are waiting for me on the other side of the door and we walk together to my room. There is food waiting for me to my relief, and I sit myself down on the small desk in the corner of my room to eat. It isn’t long until Feyd is walking into my room but I find that I've nearly finished already. He stands firmly, with his arms held behind his back, waiting for something. I dismiss Becca and Nyla for the night and assure them that I will call for them if I need anything, letting them take my plate away with them. “Did he believe me?” I ask when they leave the room, turning so I can face him fully.  

“He seemed,” he pauses for a split moment, “satisfied. He will not trust you yet, you are still an Atreides and he won’t believe that you are severed from your family loyalties until he can see it himself. But he is allowing the union to move forward.”  

I nod in response, he clearly does not immediately believe I am lying if that is all he said to Feyd, so we have made a good start. Feyd still seems unsure despite it going well, all things considered at least. “What’s wrong?” I stand to walk closer to him, watching his face carefully.  

“Your family is dead,” he states. It seems an odd thing to say considering that was the first thing I was told when I was brought here, by him no less.  

“Yes,” I hesitate, “you told me that this morning Feyd. It’s beneficial, what’s upsetting you?” 

“It doesn’t bother you? I understand you had your difficulties with them, but most people still care for family, do they not?” The concept of a close family is something that has often confused Feyd in my years of knowing him. If there is anyone who understands the complicated feelings surrounding my family, it is him. Considering his history with his own family I’m surprised he has to ask, though I understand the question he is asking.  

“I am not upset by their deaths, only disappointed I could not see it myself. My own mother died years ago, as you know, she is the only one who I would have cared about. My father is pathetic and has always cared more for his son than I. And Jessica was most certainly not my family. You know this.” When Jessica gave birth to a boy rather than a girl, against what the Bene Gesserit had commanded, I knew that she had stolen my own purpose. During my own training in the Bene Gesserit ways, I had been told of what I had been expected to do, and of their disapproval of Jessica’s actions. She always thought she was better than me. 

“And of your brother? I recall he followed you around like a lost puppy as children. You never grew attached?”  

“He was fun to play with. I need him dead for our plans to work, and he remains to be a product of Jessica’s inflamed ego. I’m glad he’s dead.” I bring my hand up to hold his face as he takes in my words. He nods once and brings his hand against mine gently.  

“I must train now, will you be okay?” He asks, swiftly moving on from the previous subject.  

“I will rest now, I think, it has been a long day. Will I see you tomorrow?” 

“My training has increased in the lead up to my coming of age event, so it will not be for long, but I will ensure that I do.” I thank him and allow him to leave, getting myself ready for bed before climbing in and allowing myself to sleep.  

Over the following months, I establish a routine and grow close with Becca and Nyla, they quietly introduce me to some of the guards and I make sure to be polite and respectful. I believe that they trust me as I assure them that I would protect them if Feyd ever went to direct his anger towards them. I pay particular attention to the guards that stand outside of my room just in case someone tries to plot against me. I occasionally meet with the Baron for what seems like mundane conversations, but I’m aware of how closely all my actions are being watched in every interaction I have. He speaks to me of the upcoming arena fight, of the Atreides prisoners that will be killed. I ask if I will be allowed to watch it and he seems sickeningly pleased by the question. I suspect he has something more planned for the event, but I don’t risk prying. Feyd and I see each other daily, often at mealtimes when he’ll seat with me in my room and provide me with company. Sometimes we talk and other times we sit silently, but there is always a comfortable atmosphere when we’re together.  

On the day of the event I visit Feyd as he is prepared for the arena. The women and his harpies that surround him watch me as I walk in but quickly avert their eyes as I meet them. “I am to sit with your uncle for the event.” I start, standing in front of him and watching the paint being applied to him.  

“He claims to be looking forward to it.” His voice is filled with disgust at the idea of it, though I am intrigued on how it will play out. I hum in response. As the women finish painting him, a man steps forward with daggers on a cushion in his hands. I step to the side to allow Feyd to step forward.  

The man looks terrified to approach as he speaks, “Your new blades, for this very special day, na-baron Feyd-Rautha.” I watch with fascination as Feyd drags the tip of the blade down his tongue, watching the man intensely. He swiftly swipes the blade to his side, not drawing his eyes away for a moment, slicing the throat of the woman to his right, before turning away to stab the other woman who had been painting him. 

“A notch off balance,” he approaches the shaking man again, pointing the bloody blade at him, “in the tip.” He discards the blade onto the cushion again before turning his attention back to me, he looks as though he’s assessing me. “You should join him now, before my ‘performance’.”  

I nod, watching him just as carefully before stepping an inch closer to him, “Make a show of it but do not allow them any grace. I want them dead with no mercy. Don’t fail me.” He lets out a shallow breath before I turn to leave.  

I feel him grab my wrist, with very little force behind it, “I won’t.” He says firm, though I can hear the slight hitch in his throat. He lets go of my arm and I leave the room.  

My maids are waiting for me on the other side of the door and lead me to the arena, where I am to sit with the baron. As we’re walking through a corridor though, I can feel myself being watched from the darkness. I stop in my tracks and encourage Nyla and Becca to walk ahead of me, and though they’re clearly confused they do as I ask.  

A hooded figure approaches me, I recognise her as Lady Margot Fenring. “So, the rumours are true,” she mutters as she steps next to me and we begin a slow walk forward.  

“Why are you here Lady Fenring? I have things under control.” I mutter back, trying to ensure no one can hear our conversation.  

“Reverend Mother sent me of course. We had heard you were still alive; however did you manage that?” I can hear the condescension in her voice, I know she will be disappointed that I’m still here. I stop and face her.  

“The na-baron convinced the baron to spare me. He made sure they brought me here himself,” I lean in close to her, sneering, “Ask me how I managed that.” Her face is as still and calm as ever. “Why did she send you? If she knows I am alive then she knows the line will be secured. Unless the plans have changed?” I step back and begin my walk again.  

“Does he know of your training?”  

I hesitate, “No.” 

“She needs assurances. And personally, I needed to see this myself,” she answers my first question, moving on.  

“What assurances?” I choose to ignore her last comment.  

“She needs to know if we can control him. Your survival suggests that we can, but that is not enough. Do you know that we can control him?” Her voice rises slightly, emphasising the importance of it.  

“I can control him. He would not respond well to many others trying, but I have established a secure relationship with him, and he will follow me.”  

“How can you be sure of this? He is unpredictable and psychotic, you need proof. How far would he go?” 

“The na-baron is vulnerable. He craves praise and pain. He knows that I will provide that, so yes, I am sure that I can control him and he will go where I tell him to. I know what motivates him and I know how to get him to do what I want him to do, don’t insult my knowledge of my betrothed. I have had one purpose all these years and I would not risk failing Reverend Mother,” I pause, “You said assurances, what else does she need an assurance on?”  

“She needs to know the bloodline is secured.” 

“Now? The baron has us in separate rooms and is watching our every move. He-” 

“Then find a way around it. If you do not secure the bloodline tonight, then Reverend Mother will send me again and I will do it myself.” I hear the threat that it is. I still my face, ensuring she cannot figure out my reaction. 

“Understood. I will send a message to Reverend Mother to inform her when it is done. You will not be required to return. A daughter?” I know the answer but with the changes with my family I must ensure this doesn’t go against any plans; she nods in response.  

“You will have to complete the test yourself if you succeed.” 

“I understand.” 

Nyla and Becca have stopped up ahead and I can see that I will be stepping out to join the baron any moment. Before I step too far away from her, she speaks again, her voice raised, “You do know what he did to his mother, don’t you? How he killed her in cold blood?” I hear the mocking in her voice, like she thinks she’ll scare me.  

“Of course I do,” I stop my steps but don’t face her again, “I’m the one who told him to do it.” I walk away from her, stepping past my maids, out onto the balcony to join the Baron. I lift my hood, not dissimilar to the cloak that Lady Fenring was wearing, to shield me from the sun.  There is a chair placed next to the baron, placing me lower than him but with a perfect view of the arena. “My Lord Baron.” I greet him with a bow.  

“Lady Atreides.” He indicates towards the chair, and I take my seat. “This is your first time seeing him perform, is it not?”  

“It is. I am… intrigued,” I have heard many stories of his brutality in the arena but I’m certain none of them will compare to the real thing.  

“Does it not bother you that the soldiers are members of your own house?” He asks, sounding as though he wants to scare me.  

“On the contrary, my lord baron, all the more reason to look forward to it. The last ties to the Atreides House, severed.” I hear a loud voice calling Feyd’s name as a set of doors on the other side of the arena open to reveal him in his armour. Cheers erupt from the audience as the crowd chants his name.  

taglist: @avidreader73 @aoi-targaryen

[aoi-targaryen]

Compromised

pairing | new!avengers!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 10.8k words

summary | sent to infiltrate and execute the new avengers, you never planned on falling for their brooding, self-sacrificing unofficial leader—especially when loving him might just ruin you both.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, rough sex, desperate sex, using sex as a distraction (tool), kind of enemies to lovers? slow burn romance (if 7 months count as slowburn), THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, trauma, betrayal, and emotional manipulation, seduction as manipulation, but also feelings, emotional vulnerability and guilt, mental spiraling / internal conflict, gentle aftercare, bucky needs a break, bucky eventually chooses peace

a/n | chat, I'm actually really proud of this (cue the debby ryan meme), I hated the draft that I was writing then changed it up, and I'm in love with the ending, if I'm allowed to toot my own horn (I love old sayings). anyway based on this request.

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead—too bright, too sterile—and the new “Avengers” sat around the glossy, fingerprint-smudged conference table like a jury no one trusted.

Alexei was slouched back in his chair, arms folded, halfway into a pout and 100% still bitter he couldn’t wear his suit to the meeting.

Yelena was eating out of a bag of off-brand popcorn. Loudly.

Walker sat with both arms on the table, chin lifted just enough to pretend he wasn’t being judged.

Ava was in the farthest corner, half-faded, watching everything and nothing.

And Bucky? Bucky looked like he was calculating how fast he could jump out the window.

At the head of the table stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—heels clicking, posture stiff, holding a coffee she clearly didn’t like and an attitude sharp enough to slice glass.

Her assistant, Mel, stood beside her. Silent. Tall. Holding a tablet and radiating the vibe of someone who’s seen five too many NDA breaches.

Val tapped the screen behind her.

The monitor flashed up a still from the yesterday’s press conference: Alexei blocking a camera lens with his massive hand while Yelena flipped someone off in the background.

“Let me be clear,” she began, voice sugar-coated poison. “This—this is what the American public now associates with the term ‘Avengers.’”

“Iconic,” Yelena said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Disastrous,” Valentina snapped.

Mel cleared her throat gently and read, without inflection, “Social media sentiment is currently down 83% across all demos under 35. Trending tags include: #WalmartAvengers, #BudgetCrisis, #YikesTeam, and #WhoEvenIsThat.”

Walker perked up. “Well at least they’re talking—”

“About how pathetic you look,” Val interjected smoothly.

She turned on him. “John, you smile like a campaign ad for expired cereal. You can’t speak without sounding like you’re reading from a teleprompter in hell.”

He blinked.

“Do you even like the team?”

“I—”

“Exactly.”

She pivoted.

“Alexei. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“I was protecting camera woman!” he protested.

“You were about to throw her into traffic because she got too close.”

“Is not my fault she was squishy.”

Mel, without missing a beat, “Three civil suits pending.”

Val turned.

“Yelena. You flipped off a priest.”

“He was filming me,” she said blandly. “And staring at my chest.”

Val nodded slowly. “And you said, quote, ‘God gave you two hands—use one to hold your phone and the other to go f—’”

“I’m sorry, is there a point?” Bucky interrupted.

Bad move.

Val beamed.

“Oh. Bucky.”

The room got real quiet.

“You were an actual a congressman,” she said sweetly, venom practically dripping. “A congressman. You were on the floor of the House of Representatives, and you still don’t know how to string a sentence together for press.”

He scowled. “I’m not here to charm people.”

“No,” she agreed, sipping her awful coffee. “You’re here to grunt monosyllabically in public like you’re allergic to communication.”

Mel clicked through another slide. “The phrase ‘Is Bucky okay?’ has been trending for 48 hours. Also ‘blink twice if you’re in trouble.’”

Val took another sip of her coffee. Winced. Put it down like it had personally offended her.

“I’m going to be honest—because none of you seem to grasp reality,” she said, stepping closer to the table like a headmistress about to assign detention to six grown adults.

“I don’t know how this team came together. Seriously. You’re all walking liabilities with shiny backstories and anger management issues.”

Alexei raised a hand. “I have good management—”

“You threw a vending machine at a janitor.”

“He insulted Mother Russia.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, slouching deeper in her chair. “You act like you didn’t cause this disaster,” she said. “You sent every mercenary you’ve ever hired to the same mountain and told them to kill each other. That was our team bonding exercise.”

Val didn’t blink. “Great point, but wrong,” she chirped.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “How.”

“Because I didn’t send all of my mercenaries.”

She straightened, like she’d been waiting to say this.

“In fact,” Val continued, spinning slightly to pace, “there’s one I kept in my back pocket. A… contingency. Someone smart. Refined. Lethal—but good for optics.”

“Sounds fake,” Walker muttered.

“Sounds expensive,” Bob whispered.

“Oh, God, please let it not be another American," Ava added under her breath.

Val ignored all of them. Her eyes lit up like a stage light had just turned on.

“You see, unlike the rest of you drama magnets, this one knows how to handle a camera and a kill order. This one knows how to wear leather without looking like a sex cultist. This one, ladies and gentlemen…”

She turned toward the doors, gesturing with a graceful, almost dramatic sweep.

“…might actually be beneficial to the New Avengers brand.”

Yelena snorted. “God, what a speech.”

Walker leaned back. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Val didn’t miss a beat.

“I would’ve sent her to that little mountain retreat with the rest of you,” she said, voice low, satisfied. “But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d be the only one to walk out of it alive.”

Silence.

Mel glanced at the door, tapped something into her tablet, and said flatly, “ETA: thirty seconds.”

Val smiled.

“Time to meet your upgrade.”

The door opened.

And the entire room fell silent.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—not loudly, not theatrically. Just… completely. Like the room had always been yours and the rest of them were lucky to be invited.

A black suit dress, cut sharp as a razor and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, hugged your frame like it had been tailored by regret itself. Legs for miles beneath it. Heels that made actual noise. The kind of confident click that didn’t just announce you—it warned people.

Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.

You looked like you’d walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine, stopped to kill someone on the way, and still arrived early.

Valentina grinned like a mother presenting her favorite child at a beauty pageant-slash-funeral.

“Everyone,” she said, clearly savoring the effect, as she introduced you.

You smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. An award-winning, dazzling, dangerously pretty smile.

And that’s when the team snapped out of it—sort of.

Yelena sat up straighter in her chair and shoved her popcorn aside, her gaze narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to fawn over you or interrogate you.

Walker’s jaw did something unfortunate.

Bob knocked over his water.

Ava blinked—once, sharp, observant.

Alexei just exhaled, reverent, like he’d seen a vision.

Only Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes?

They didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Valentina clapped her hands once, sharp and smug.

“Well, don’t all drool at once.”

Yelena leaned forward first, elbow on the table, eyes sharp. “So what—did we order you out of a catalog or something?”

You gave her a half-smile, sultry and lazy. “Would’ve been a premium subscription.”

Walker raised a brow, trying to reclaim some footing. “What exactly is it that you… do?”

You tilted your head slightly. “You mean besides everything you can do, but better?”

He blinked.

“Excellent start,” Val said brightly.

Ava crossed her arms. “She’s too polished. What’s the angle?”

You turned to her without hesitation. “Polished is what you call it when someone doesn’t announce their trauma within thirty seconds of arrival.”

Alexei let out a choked laugh. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.

Bob finally found his voice, though it was somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “You, uh… you have a codename?”

“Nox,” you said, still smiling. “Like the night.”

Valentina beamed. “See? Magnetic and discreet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed again. “So you’re here to do what, exactly?”

Before Val could answer, you did. Voice smooth. Impossibly calm.

“Damage control.”

The room went tense.

Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and even. “Whose damage?”

You looked at him then. Met his stare with one of your own. Held it. And smiled—just a little.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

────────────────────────

Service Corridor, Just Before Midnight [3 Months In]

He caught you between meetings.

Not planned. Not really. But Bucky had gotten good at learning your patterns—how you moved through the Watchtower with that unbothered grace, all silence and purpose and elegance wrapped in something almost dangerous.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped into your path. Just looked at him. Calm. Composed. Head slightly tilted like he might be a puzzle piece out of place.

“James,” you said. Voice even. Smooth.

A pause.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Everyone’s already obsessed with you, you know.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

That threw him. Just a little.

He gave you a half-shrug, like he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” you replied. “Means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer—not threatening, not dramatic. Just enough. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe right.

“Everyone thinks you’re the reformed soldier,” you continued. “Quiet. Broody. Tragic. But I don’t buy that. You don’t keep looking over your shoulder like that unless you think someone’s still coming for you.”

He swallowed once. Hard. “And what—are you?”

“Am I coming for you?”

You smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The space between you shrank by inches, thick with something sharp and burning. You smelled like danger and something softer—something expensive and clean. And the way you were looking at him?

Like he was a locked file you’d already memorized.

Then, softer—just for him, “You’re different than the others.”

“How?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stepped even closer, eyes flicking over him like a readout. “Because you know what it’s like to be used. Bent. Broken. Rebuilt.”

You said it without pity. Without fear. Like it didn’t phase you at all.

He looked at you then—really looked. And there was something in his chest that twisted hard.

You leaned in. Close enough for your breath to hit the edge of his jaw.

“But you’re still here.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare to touch you.

And then—like it never happened—you stepped away.

Back to your perfect posture. Back to composure. Back to safety.

“Good talk, Sergeant,” you said with a wink.

And you walked away.

Leaving Bucky in the hallway, staring after you, already desperate for another interaction.

────────────────────────

4 Months Ago

The office was dim, filtered in violet and amber light from frosted glass and a skyline too expensive to care about. You stood across from her desk in silence—hands folded neatly, eyes unreadable, your silhouette painted against the city like an omen.

Valentina didn’t look up right away. She was typing. Slowly. Carefully.

Then, without ceremony, she said, “I have a job for you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

She looked up now. Chin high. Lipstick perfect.

“The New Avengers.”

You tilted your head slightly. “The ones you recently just named on live television?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Yes, those ones.”

There was a beat. A pause that settled between you like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You want me to kill them?” you said flatly.

“I want you to handle them.”

“‘Handle’ as in seduce? Sabotage? Slit throats?”

Val smirked. “Dealer’s choice.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her knee. “Because they’re liabilities. All of them. Unstable, unmarketable, emotionally broken liabilities. Half of them have kill orders from former employers. One of them’s a war criminal. Another literally fades in and out of visibility depending on how she’s feeling.”

“And you made them the face of American heroism?”

“PR move. Politics. Theater. I needed the chaos to stop. Now I need it… cleaned.”

You arched a brow. “So you created your own monster and now you want me to put it down.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. I tested them. Now I’m correcting the curve.”

“And why me?”

She stood now. Walked around the desk. Her heels were quiet, but deliberate.

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Because you’re efficient. Elegant. Indisposable.”

You met her eyes.

“And because I know you,” she added, voice low. “You don’t get attached. You finish what you start.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just let the silence hang.

Then you said, dry as bone, “You really think I can take them all out?”

“I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”

Another pause.

You glanced at the manila folder on her desk—labeled with the team’s photos. A cross-section of broken people and barely-contained chaos.

You nodded once. “Fine.”

Val smiled. “I knew I kept you for a reason.”

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Living Quarters, Late Afternoon [5 Months In]

They were spread out across the common room like children too exhausted to cause more trouble. The air was warm. Dimmed light poured in through the angled windows, golden against the muted steel of the Watchtower’s architecture. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t training. Weren’t fighting. Weren’t trying.

And so you watched.

Not because you had to.

Because you couldn’t not.

Yelena was curled sideways across one of the oversized chairs, legs draped over the armrest, eating a half-melted popsicle from a coffee mug like it was a normal thing to do. She was laughing at something Bob said—sharp, bright, uninhibited.

She kept trying to hide her warmth. But it spilled out anyway.

Ava sat opposite her, perched on the floor with a half-disassembled gadget in her lap, fingers working silently. She hadn’t looked up once in twenty minutes. But you could tell she was listening—tracking every conversation, every breath. Her gift wasn’t just stealth. It was restraint. Self-control wrapped in bitterness.

If Yelena burned like a firecracker, Ava was a cold fuse waiting for permission.

Bob had taken the corner of the sectional, crisscrossed like a teenager, a tablet balanced on one knee, a half-eaten sandwich dangling from one hand. He spoke too much. Said too little. But he was sweet. In a world that didn’t reward softness, he still had it. Still offered it.

Which made him the most dangerous one in the room... besides the fact he was a walking bipolar superhuman.

Walker was slouched back with his boots on the table,remote in hand, flipping through channels without watching a single frame. Restless. Bored. Trying too hard not to feel inferior. You knew his kind. Soldiers trained to think they were legends before they ever earned the scars. His righteousness would rot him from the inside eventually.

But you weren’t sure whether he’d burn the world down out of pride—or loneliness.

Alexei had commandeered the entire loveseat and was loudly, badly retelling the story of how he once arm-wrestled a mutant in a Siberian prison. Again.

He told it differently every time.

Today, there were two mutants. And a polar bear.

He was a relic, a fossil with fists, but the strange thing was—he never lied to impress. He believed his stories. Like they were sacred. Mythic. And somehow, that made it easier to let him speak.

You sat on the edge of it all. Legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes half-lidded.

…And then there was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The soldier-turned-congressman-turned-reluctant superhero.

He wasn’t like the others. Never loud. Never performative. Always lurking just outside the center of the chaos, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged or if he even wanted to.

You watched him now—seated on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching Alexei lie through his teeth for the fiftieth time. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just… watched.

Observant. Withdrawn. Dangerous in the way old scars are—quiet and unflinching.

His face had been sculpted by war, but it hadn’t dulled the beauty. The high, sharp cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The furrow carved into his brow like regret lived there rent-free. And those eyes—God, those eyes—sad and blue like a glacier swallowing itself.

But it was his mouth that always caught you off guard.

Unnaturally pink. Like it didn’t belong on a man so grave. So heavy with history. Like softness had been stitched into his mouth as a joke.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. But when he did, it was always measured. Calculated. Like he was searching for something in you he couldn’t name.

There was something pulling about him. Like gravity in reverse.

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or fuck him.

Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

And that unsettled you more than any mission brief ever had.

────────────────────────

Rooftop in Prague.

The rain came down in sheets. You stood at the edge, scope aimed dead-center on Alexei's exposed silhouette as he darted through a broken alley, backlit by gunfire. The kill shot was lined up. He’d never even feel it.

You lowered the rifle.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t fire.

“Target repositioned,” you muttered into the comm.

Your finger never touched the trigger.

────────────────────────

Warehouse In Marrakesh.

Yelena was bleeding from the side, back to a concrete pillar, breath ragged as the wall exploded beside her. You could’ve let her fall. Easy. Clean. Too much noise, not enough cover. Her odds were terrible.

You moved anyway.

Tossed a flash. Dragged her out by the collar. She laughed through a mouthful of blood, saying, “I was handling it.”

“Sure,” you replied, voice flat, pulse louder than the bombs.

You never explained why you’d done it.

────────────────────────

Helicopter Extraction Above Bangkok.

Walker was hanging off the side of the landing rail, barely gripping the bar. The metal was slipping in the rain. Bucky was piloting. Ava was too far. You were closest.

You watched him dangle.

Then grabbed his wrist and hauled him up with a grunt.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” you replied. “You’re heavy.”

He never brought it up again.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Your Bedroom

The dossier was spread out on your desk.

Pages torn. Notes scribbled. Photos frayed.

Each marked with opportunities.

Moments you could’ve taken.

Didn’t.

You stared at them in silence. Lips parted slightly. A strange pressure blooming beneath your ribs—one you couldn’t quite place.

Not guilt. Not fear.

Something worse.

Attachment.

You shut the folder. Locked it back inside the drawer.

And told yourself the same lie you always did:

It’s not over yet.

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Nightfall

The city burned behind you. Smoke coiled through the rain-slick streets, orange glow flickering against soaked concrete. Gunfire had finally stopped, but the echoes still rang in your ears like the ghosts of enemies who didn’t get out fast enough.

You and Bucky moved as one.

Shoulder to shoulder. No orders. No plan.

Just instinct.

You’d both bled for this one—him from a deep graze on his thigh, you from a cut along your temple—but you hadn’t stopped moving. You never did.

It was the alley, two blocks from the evac point, where it finally snapped.

You pressed your back to the wall, pulse hammering in your throat, blood trickling past your eyebrow. Bucky stood across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild and locked only on you.

No words passed. Just tension. Just truth.

And then he moved.

Fast. Certain.

His hand hit the side of your face, pulling you to him, and his mouth crashed into yours like something that had waited too long to be allowed.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

And instead of reaching for the knife at your thigh—

Instead of taking advantage of the distraction like you'd trained your whole life to do—

You grabbed him by the collar. Fisted the fabric. And devoured his mouth like you’d been starving.

The kiss turned sharp—teeth and breath and need—his metal hand on your waist, the other in your hair, your back hitting the alley wall like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

The blood didn’t matter. The bruises didn’t matter.

Only the way he kissed you. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

And the way you kissed him back? Like maybe you wouldn’t let him stop.

──────��─────────────────

Late Night — Days After the Kiss [7 Months In]

It was never supposed to go this far.

You weren’t supposed to let it.

You’d trained your whole life for control—for the cold clarity of distance, of mission, of orders. You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get close.

And yet—

His hands were on your hips, bruising and reverent all at once, as you moved above him like the war inside you was the only truth left. Your thighs clenched around his waist, slick heat swallowing him again and again, his name bitten off your tongue like something sacred and forbidden.

Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to crave him.

You weren’t supposed to know what it felt like to be wanted like this—devoured like this. His lips had trailed down your collarbone, your chest, worshipped the slope of your neck like he was memorizing a language only your body spoke. He said your name like it was the only word he remembered.

And now he lay beneath you, naked and sweat-slicked, muscles straining, head tilted back in awe as you rocked your hips harder, chasing your release on top of him.

“You weren’t supposed to be this,” you whispered, breathless, the confession splitting you open.

His hands gripped your ass, guiding your pace, mouth parted with a groan that made your spine arch.

“I don’t care,” he rasped. “I don’t fucking care.”

He looked at you like he’d give anything—everything—just to keep you here.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because you felt it, too.

The break. The fracture. The pull of him inside you—not just physically, but the way his presence cracked something in you you’d spent a lifetime keeping sealed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips met his again, harder, faster, like if you just kept moving you wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

But you did.

You felt him everywhere.

And the conflict that had haunted you for days—the guilt, the mission, the lie—faded to static when his hands slid up your spine, pulling you down to him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so desperate, so hungry, you could’ve drowned in it.

“You ruin me,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.

You didn’t respond. You just kept moving.

Because if you stopped—if you let the silence in—then you’d have to admit the truth,

You weren’t a weapon anymore.

You were his. Even if only for tonight.

Your breath hitched as he thrust up into you again, your hips slamming down to meet him—harsh, unrelenting, perfect. The headboard rattled behind him, a soft percussion against the wall, drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together again and again.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, dragging his fingers over the curve of your breasts like he didn’t know what to touch first. His lips were parted, flushed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like you were something he was praying to and falling apart under all at once.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel so good—God, you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, crushing your mouth to his, swallowing every ragged sound like it would keep you from shattering. His tongue met yours with the same hunger you were trying to deny, messy and wet and real, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you rocked harder, faster, chasing the rush that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with him.

He met every grind of your hips with thrusts so deep, so precise, they had you moaning into his mouth, your fingers digging into his chest hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice wrecked, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you there, close. “Please, baby, look at me—”

You did.

And that was your end.

The way he looked at you—like you were the last thing in the world worth bleeding for—sent a white-hot spike down your spine.

Your body trembled as you fell over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you like a current, your thighs shaking around him, a broken gasp ripped from your throat as you came—hard, clenched tight around him.

Bucky cursed, bucking up into you, desperate and lost.

“I’m not gonna last,” he choked, voice raw as he held your hips down, driving into you faster, deeper, chasing his own high. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless, your lips brushing his ear. “Come in me.”

That shattered him.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips stuttered beneath yours, jaw clenched, body taut like a drawn bowstring.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors. His hand cradled the back of your head. Your heartbeat thundered against his ribcage.

And for a moment—just one quiet, burning moment—you let yourself stay there.

In the ruin. In him.

────────────────────────

The light outside was a soft gray, bleeding through the curtains like regret. The room was still. Still humid with the afterglow, your bodies tangled in a quiet that should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it sat like a blade in your throat.

You lay on his chest—skin to skin, heart to heartbeat—listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He was asleep. One arm loosely slung around your waist, the other resting against the sheets, fingers curled gently inward like he’d been dreaming.

His head tilted slightly down, as if instinctively drawn to you even in unconsciousness. His brow, usually furrowed, had smoothed. And his lips—those soft, ridiculous, obscenely pink lips—were parted just barely, like a secret trying to escape.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem.

Because he looked so human like this. So real. So unguarded.

You could kill him.

Right now.

Your knife was in the drawer next to the bed. Seven inches of forged steel. You could reach it in half a second. Press the blade to his throat in one. End it all before he even stirred.

And he wouldn’t fight back.

Not like this. Not with the way he held you.

He trusted you.

Fool.

Your chest tightened.

What were you doing?

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be with him. This wasn’t affection. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

You were the contingency plan. You were the weapon Val sent to finish the job.

And here you were—laying on the man you should’ve gutted by now. Letting his breath warm your hair. Letting his heartbeat lull you into a sleep you didn’t deserve.

This wasn’t mercy. This was weakness.

You clenched your jaw. Blinked slowly.

His arm tightened slightly around you in his sleep, like his body knew you were thinking of leaving. Like it would pull you back in even if his mind couldn’t.

And the worst part? You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the blade.

You just stayed. Hating yourself for it. Hating that you didn’t know why.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady as ever. Unaware. Unafraid.

And that only made it worse.

You closed your eyes—but the darkness behind them felt louder than the room. Thoughts crashing like gunfire, one after another.

You were supposed to kill them.

That was the job. That was always the job.

Every decision Val made, every lie you echoed—it all came down to this: infiltration, then execution. Simple. Cold. Efficient.

And they’d made it so easy. They trusted you. All of them.

Bob with his stammering kindness. Ava with her guarded nods. Yelena, teasing you with every spar but pulling you closer with every glance.

Even Walker—dumb, righteous Walker—looked at you like maybe you were the one person who didn’t pity him.

And Alexei… the fool. He already had your name etched in some bizarre corner of his broken heart.

You could end it tonight. Slit throats. Slip poison. Vanish before sunrise.

And yet—

You couldn’t.

Not to them. Not now.

Especially not to him.

You looked up again—his face still soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. Hair tousled across his brow.

The man who should’ve been your first target. The one whose past was wrapped in so much pain, you recognized it in yourself.

You were never supposed to touch him.

But now you knew how he tasted. How he whispered your name. How he looked at you like you weren’t a weapon, or an operative, or a mask.

Like you were worth saving. You could never hurt him.

But you already had.

Every kiss, every touch, every breath you took beside him—a lie.

If he found out—if he ever knew why you were sent here—he’d never forgive you.

And you couldn’t blame him.

It was a no-win scenario. There was no exit that didn’t leave something broken behind.

Tell the truth? He’d turn on you.

Run? He’d never understand why.

Either way, it would end the same—

In ruin.

Because you weren’t built for happy endings. You were built to destroy them.

And he’d never see it coming.

Unless you stopped this now. Unless you left. But you stayed.

Even when every cell in your body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear before the sun came up and this all became something real.

You stayed.

Because there was no happy ending for people like you—not with him. Not with anyone.

But God, you wanted it. You wanted him.

And that need burned louder than the guilt.

So you shifted—slowly, carefully—until you were hovering above him again, chest brushing his, hair falling forward around your face like a veil of shadows.

His arm was still around you, limp in sleep. His face turned toward you, jaw soft, lashes fluttering against his cheek. He looked younger like this. Human.

Yours. And it hurt.

Your lips brushed his jaw first—light, tentative. Then his cheek. His temple. And finally—finally—his mouth.

A soft kiss. Then another.

He stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering, lips parting as he blinked himself awake.

“…hmm?”

He was groggy. Beautiful. Confused.

You kissed him again—firmer this time, lips trembling now, your hand resting on his chest like it was the only thing holding you together.

And against his lips, you whispered—

“I need you again.”

He blinked, still caught in the haze. “You—what?”

Your hands slid to his shoulders as you straddled him, slipping fully over his waist, grinding down slowly, purposefully. “I just—need you,” you repeated, breath catching. “Don’t ask why. Just… have me.”

His hands found your hips, warm and grounding. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the way he looked up at you—that gaze—it was like you could ask for anything in this world, and he'd be willing to give it.

And you leaned down—pressing your mouth to his again—like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Because it was. Because he was.

And even if it would all burn down soon, for now, you could pretend there was something here worth saving.

Bucky was still half-asleep, blinking up at you with those soft, dazed eyes, his voice low and rasped with confusion.

“You okay?” he asked, hands instinctively anchoring at your hips, warm and callused and so steady it nearly undid you.

You didn’t answer.

You just rocked against him once—slow and deep—and watched his lips part with a breathless gasp as your heat slid over him again. Not teasing. Not playful.

Just aching.

“Shit,” he whispered, his brow furrowing, but his hands didn’t stop—they gripped tighter, like he was scared you’d disappear. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You kissed him instead of answering. Pressed your lips to his jaw. His cheek. His mouth. Each one slower, deeper, needier. You weren’t trying to get him hard. You were trying to feel him—to burn every inch of him into your skin like it would somehow keep you from unraveling.

He was already thick and aching beneath you, body reacting to you even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

But it didn’t matter.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down slowly—so slowly—with a broken breath that scraped the back of your throat. His hands shot to your thighs, mouth falling open in a groan as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck—oh shit—” he hissed, jaw clenched as you took him inch by inch, your nails digging into his chest for balance. “What is this—why now?”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered, voice barely there.

He didn’t. He just watched you. Let you move. Let you set the pace.

And God, you moved like it was the last time you’d ever get to—hips slow and deep, rolling in a rhythm carved from sorrow and want and a need to forget everything else.

Bucky’s hands roamed—your hips, your thighs, your waist. He kissed your sternum. Your ribs. Over your heart. He whispered your name like it was a prayer, trying to read you, trying to understand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And still—he gave you everything.

He thrust up just enough to meet you, not rough, not rushed. Just there. With you. Matching your rhythm, matching your breath, letting you take and take and take.

Until your head dropped to his shoulder and your body trembled against his, thighs quivering, your moan caught between a sob and a plea.

His arms locked around you.

Holding you as you shattered again, pulsing around him in a slow, aching climax.

And still—he didn’t ask.

He just kissed your temple. And held you tighter.

Like that would be enough.

────────────────────────

Weeks Later

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just what you did, but how it felt.

And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was him.

Bucky.

The way he held you. The way he whispered your name like he knew you. The way he looked at you with that stupid, open-eyed devotion, like you hadn’t spent every hour of your life perfecting the art of being unlovable.

And now… you hated yourself for how easily you let him in.

Your unbreakable mask—gone. Your hardened shell—disarmed.

That perfect, glacial facade you built with blood and bone and discipline was slipping more every time he touched you.

And he touched you a lot.

Not just in bed, but everywhere.

His hand brushing yours in passing. That lazy, half-smile he wore only for you. The way his arms curled around your waist at night like he couldn’t sleep without anchoring to you.

It was addicting. And it made you sick.

Because every time you let yourself melt into his warmth—his breath against your throat, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath sheets—you felt less like a weapon and more like a lie.

He trusted you. And you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You were supposed to be stronger than this. Sharper. Smarter.

But now all it took was his voice in the dark and his fingers on your skin to make you forget that this was all a fucking trap.

That you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Want this.

Crave this.

────────────────────────

Late Night [10 Months In]

The sheets were a mess. Twisted low on your hips, warm with the heat of two bodies tangled together and wrecked by want.

Bucky’s chest rose beneath your cheek, slow and steady. His arm was wrapped around your back, fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The room was quiet.

But not empty.

He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t lift your head. “You already are.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “You’ve been on this team for ten months,” he said, voice low, rough with exhaustion but laced with something… earnest. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

You stayed still, heart tightening.

“I mean—” he continued, “I know you. I’ve fought beside you. Slept beside you.” His hand slid up your back, palm warm. “But I don’t know where you’re from. Or how you got to this point. Or what made you… you.”

You exhaled through your nose. Still didn’t lift your head. “That’s three questions, James.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

He sighed. You could feel the frustration in his chest. Not anger—just that same yearning that always bled into his voice when it came to you.

And maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the warmth of his skin. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept in days without him beside you, because of the team's last mission.

But something in you cracked just enough.

“My favorite color’s blue,” you said softly.

Bucky blinked. “Blue?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at the ceiling. “Okay… blue. What else?”

“I like summer.”

“Yeah?”

“And I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

That made him laugh—soft and surprised, mouth curved against the crown of your head. “Fiji? Seriously?”

“I said I wanted to. Doesn’t mean I ever will.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You just…” he started, then stopped. His voice was lower now, honest in a way that made your skin itch. “You say things like they don’t matter.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

You finally lifted your head.

Looked at him.

And the weight of that gaze—so open, so damn earnest—made your chest tighten in ways you hated.

“I don’t do sentimental,” you said flatly.

He nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just… let me know you.”

The silence returned. That soft, almost sacred hush that filled the space between your breaths. His fingertips brushed slow circles over your lower back, his heart steady beneath your hand.

Then, softly—almost like it didn’t want to be heard—you whispered, “If I told you all my secrets… you’d probably hate me.”

His hand stilled.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat stutter once. Then,

“I could never hate you.”

He said it so firmly. So damn sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Like he didn’t care what you were hiding. Like he’d already decided you were still worth loving. And that was too much.

And it hit you square in the chest.

Too deep. Too close.

You couldn’t let it linger.

So you leaned in—lips brushing his, then pressing harder, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Your kiss was slow at first, soft and searching—then it shifted. Changed. Turned sharp and demanding.

A distraction.

The best kind.

You kissed him again, your tongue slipping against his as your hand slid down his chest, and then you shifted—swinging a leg over and settling into his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist.

Bucky pulled back with a breathless laugh, still half-caught in the tangle of sleep and heat. “Already?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that familiar hunger blooming in his gaze.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his mouth.

And you kissed him again.

Harder this time.

Grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling him already hard beneath you.

He let out a small grunt, fingers gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or help you go faster.

You rolled your hips again, chasing that friction, burying the ache in your chest beneath the ache in your body.

Because this—this—you could control.

This, you understood.

You kissed him again. And again.

Until the words you didn’t say disappeared into the dark.

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

It was quiet again.

That kind of stillness only the early hours knew—when the world outside was asleep and nothing dared to move. The room was cloaked in shadow, the only light spilling from the streetlamps outside, soft and gold against the sheets.

Bucky slept beside you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, his body pressed close, legs tangled in yours like he was trying to become a part of you.

He held you like you were home.

And it broke you.

You watched him, barely blinking, your eyes tracing every line of his face like they were sacred. The furrow in his brow. The faintest scar near his temple. Those lips—soft and parted in sleep, exhaling slow, even breaths.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Wanted to keep him like this.

But that was a fantasy.

And you didn’t get fantasies.

You got orders.

And you’d failed them.

Worse—you’d betrayed them.

And now everything was coming to a head. Every secret. Every night. Every lie you fed into his mouth while he kissed yours like it was salvation.

So you made your decision.

The coward’s way out.

Not a confession. Not a fight. Just… disappearing.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted.

His arm around you was heavy—solid, warm, safe. You held your breath as you lifted it just enough to slip free, your chest clenching at the soft noise he made in his sleep.

His brow furrowed, his body shifting toward yours, almost instinctively trying to pull you back.

You froze.

Waited.

Watched him settle again.

His hand landed on your side, reaching for you like he could sense your absence even in sleep.

You closed your eyes.

Bit your lip.

And pulled away anyway.

Each movement felt like a sin. Your feet hit the cold floor like a finality. You turned, standing there in the dark, watching him one last time.

And for a second, you almost climbed back in.

Almost said fuck it. Almost stayed.

But instead—

You walked out.

And didn’t look back.

────────────────────────

The Next Morning

The first thing Bucky felt was the cold.

A strange emptiness across his chest where there had, without fail, been warmth. Soft, steady breath against his skin. A thigh draped lazily over his own. Fingers curled into his shirt like they belonged there.

But not this morning.

This morning, there was only space.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy and disoriented, the light through the window pale and early. He ran a hand over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, your warmth, the familiar curve of you still curled against him.

Instead—just linen. Cool. Still.

His brow furrowed.

He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. Your clothes weren’t there. The chair where you always dropped your heels was empty. The bathroom door was open.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.

She probably went back to her room.

That’s what he told himself. Logical. Reasonable. No need for alarm.

He slid out of bed, standing slowly, cracking his neck as he moved to the bathroom. The shower hissed on—he stepped under the spray, the water beating against his shoulders, grounding him.

She had an early start. Maybe she had to prep something for Val. Maybe she’s just avoiding feelings again.

He pushed down the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

That sense that something was… off.

That you never left without kissing his jaw. That your heels were still gone. That your scent wasn’t lingering the way it usually did.

He shook it off.

Don’t spiral, Bucky.

You were probably fine. Probably just fucking with him. Playing aloof like you always did after things got too soft between you.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly. Dressed. Pulled on his boots.

Still—

That feeling didn’t leave.

That cold in his chest stayed.

But he forced it down. Forced a breath into his lungs.

He stepped into the kitchen, toweling off his damp hair, still trying to shake the unease from his bones.

The room was already buzzing.

Yelena sat on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box like it was an art. Walker leaned back on the couch, boots on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. Ava sat curled in an armchair, sharp eyes flicking toward Bucky as he entered. Alexei was… well, loudly chewing something questionable. And Bob was somewhere behind the fridge door, mumbling to himself.

Bucky grunted a quiet greeting, opened the cabinet, pulled a mug from the shelf.

“Anyone seen… her?” he asked, voice low, neutral. Too casual to be casual.

Yelena looked up first. “Probably passed out in your bed,” she said around a mouthful of cereal. “Or under you. You know, standard Tuesday.”

Bucky froze mid-pour.

Walker snorted. “Took long enough, honestly.”

Alexei thumped his fist on the table. “I knew there was something! You always look at her like she’s the last shot of vodka in the room.”

Bucky turned slightly. “What are you all talking about?”

Ava didn’t even glance up from her tablet. “You’re not subtle, Barnes. The way you stare at her? Please.”

Bob peeked around the fridge door, cheeks already red. “Yeah… you uh… you hover. A lot.”

Yelena grinned, sharp and smug. “I am jealous you didn’t let me ride your motorcycle first.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hmm.” Ava finally looked up. “Sounds like deflection.”

He muttered something under his breath, jaw tight, the discomfort turning into quiet agitation. His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Forget I asked.”

He set the mug down—untouched—and turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

Bucky reached your door, knuckles lifting halfway to knock—

But something stopped him.

A feeling. A chill.

He frowned, then pushed the door open. The room was… still. Not quiet. Still. Like no one had moved in it for days.

And that was the first red flag.

He stepped inside slowly, his boots too loud on the floor. The bed was perfectly made. Not military-perfect, but untouched. Not slept in.

He blinked.

The chair in the corner—empty. No discarded jacket. No shoes. No weapons.

He moved toward the dresser, a cold weight forming in his stomach.

The top was bare. No hair ties. No mug. No trace of your usual chaos. And then he pulled open the drawers.

Empty.

He turned to the closet. Swung it open. Gone. Everything. Your clothes. Your gear. Your dresses. Your coat. Even the scent of you—faint, fading.

His stomach dropped.

Hard.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. Sudden. Brutal.

You were gone.

Not just left-for-the-morning gone. Not “I’ll be back later” gone.

Gone gone.

Completely erased. As if you’d never been there at all.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His hands at his sides. His breath shallow. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The room blurred. His throat burned. And somewhere, under all of that…

A voice whispered, She left you.

Bucky stood frozen in the center of the room, the emptiness of it clawing at his chest—

When something caught his eye.

A folder. Sitting alone on the dresser. Plain. Unassuming. Perfectly placed. Like it was meant to be found.

He stepped toward it slowly, his breath shallow. His fingers brushed the cover.

A small note sat on top. Folded once.

He flipped it open. Four words.

“Please don't hate me.”

His chest tightened instantly. Something hot twisted in his throat.

He stared at the handwriting—familiar now, too familiar—and turned the note over with a slow hand.

Scrawled in the same ink:

“Valentina still wants you all dead.”

His blood turned cold. The air left his lungs. With shaking fingers, he opened the folder. And there it was.

Page after page.

Files.

Meticulous, terrifyingly detailed notes. About all of them.

Yelena Belova: Range, reaction time, pressure points. Preferred weapons. Known trauma responses. Jonathan F. Walker: Blind spots in combat. Trigger phrases. Patterns of behavior. Ava Starr: Phase irregularities. Nervous system anomalies. Strategic isolation preferences. Robert Reynolds: Emotional leverage. Psychological profile. Manipulation tactics. Alexei Shostakov: Adrenaline patterns. Hand-to-hand vulnerability. Mental deterioration markers. James Buchanan Barnes: …his stomach clenched.

Your notes on him were brutal. Precise. You’d seen everything.

Handwritten notes. Tactical sketches. Surveillance photos. Labeled files. Bullet-point lists.

It was you. All of you.

Strengths. Weaknesses. Combat habits. Psychological profiles. Interpersonal tensions. Detailed analysis of the the New Avengers.

And suddenly he understood.

You were the failsafe.

The one she kept hidden. The one she trusted to take them all down if they became a liability.

And you’d been with them the whole time.

Sleeping in his bed.

Waking up in his arms.

Loving him.

Lying to him.

His fingers curled around the folder so tight the edges bent.

And still—he couldn’t let it go.

Because beneath the weight of betrayal, beneath the rising devastation, one thing stood out above all:

You’d told him without telling him. You’d warned him. You left him the truth.

This was your assignment. Your mission. And you didn’t complete it.

Instead—

You left this behind. For them. For him.

Bucky’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the folder. He stared at the wall in front of him, jaw locked, heart pounding.

And somehow… even now—

He still didn’t hate you. He didn’t think he ever could.

Six Months Later

The skies above the compound were slate gray, a low growl of thunder humming across the horizon as if the world itself was unsettled.

Inside the facility—steel, silence, surveillance. Maximum security. Triple-reinforced cells. No exits that didn’t require biometric clearance, retinal scans, and six layers of authorization.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine sat in the center of it all.

She wasn’t in chains—of course not. Not her style.

But she was contained.

Her hair had grown out. Her posture was still impeccable. And her smirk? Untouched.

Through the glass, a monitor flickered with news feeds: charges listed in bold. Conspiracy. Treason. Unlawful black operations. Attempted political destabilization.

The Thunderbolts—no, The New Avengers—had done what she never expected.

They had turned on her. And they had won.

The victory had been quiet. Painfully methodical. But every step had followed the trail you left behind: the file you abandoned in your room. The names. The operations. The buried contracts. The coded transactions.

Every lie she’d built unraveled. Every secret surfaced. And now? She was a traitor to her country. A ghost of her former power.

And the world was watching.

────────────────────────

Time passed.

But not in the way that healed.

Not for him.

The New Avengers, now officially recognized—were busier than ever. Diplomatic calls. Rogue cleanups. Recovery missions. Global surveillance detail. Big threats. Bigger egos.

And Bucky? He did the work. Showed up. Fought hard. Kept his head down when he had to, stepped in when it mattered. The world was grateful. Headlines were clean.

But the ache never left.

Because even in the victory—even with Valentina locked away, even with the press finally calling them heroes—you were gone.

No sign. No contact. No coordinates.

Just silence.

And it haunted him.

Every mission, he looked.

Not deliberately—never enough for the others to question it. But it was there, always. In the way his eyes lingered too long on unfamiliar silhouettes. In the way he checked behind every mask, paused too long on female contacts with a certain walk. In the quiet that came after every debrief, when his jaw tightened just slightly as he scanned the room.

You weren’t in Moscow. You weren’t on the Omega Bunker list. You weren’t at the safe house in Tbilisi, even though it still smelled faintly of your perfume, though that was definitely his imagination. You weren’t on the encrypted black ops list Ava recovered from the Andes.

You weren’t anywhere.

And that—that—was what hurt the most. Because if anyone could disappear, it was you.

And you’d chosen to. You didn’t leave a signal. Or a clue. Or a damn apology.

Just that folder. That warning. And him. Alone. Still reaching for something that wasn’t reaching back.

────────────────────────

The briefing room was quiet.

Dim light. Flickering monitor. Stale coffee left forgotten on the edge of the table. The latest mission files spread in a neat arc—intelligence, recon, target maps.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at any of it.

He sat in the corner, arms folded, brow furrowed—not in focus, not really there.

Yelena noticed it first. Of course she did. She always noticed.

She crossed the room slowly, boots soft on tile, then leaned against the edge of the table across from him—arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Hey,” she said, flat. “Earth to Sad Eyes. You here or still hoping Ghost Barbie shows up mid-mission?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Yelena snorted. “Jesus Christ. Still with this?”

He looked up, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t have to.” Her voice sharpened. “You haven’t been present in months.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been chasing shadows. Running recon like you’re not hunting leads, and we all know who you’re really looking for.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I said drop it.”

Yelena stepped in. “You do remember she betrayed us, da?”

He stared.

“She was Valentina’s insurance policy. The kill-switch,” Yelena went on. “Sent to eliminate us if we got out of line. Got information on all of us—every weakness, every flaw—and you still look at her like she’s gold.”

Bucky stood. “She didn’t use it.”

“Yet.”

“No,” he insisted. “She had it. And she didn’t use it. Not once.”

Yelena scoffed. “You think that’s love? That’s not loyalty, Barnes. That’s indecision. That’s unfinished business.”

“She had every chance to kill us. You. Me. All of us. And she didn’t.”

“Because she got in too deep. Doesn’t mean she loved you.”

Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “It means something.”

Yelena didn’t soften. Not even a little.

She crossed her arms tighter, her stare unwavering as Bucky stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, drowning in every word she’d just thrown at him. But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You need to wake the hell up, Barnes,” she said, her voice low but sharp, the kind of voice that cut because it had to. “You’re chasing a ghost. And I get it—I do. She had that perfect face, that mystery, that voice—we all felt it. We were drawn in.”

Bucky didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, like maybe if he stayed still enough, he could hold onto the last pieces of you.

“But I need you to feel this,” Yelena continued. “She played us. Every single one of us. For months. She gathered data, memorized habits, logged vulnerabilities like a fucking Hydra operative. She knew how to kill us before we even started to like her.”

She stepped closer.

“And you let her in the furthest. You let her crawl into your bed, into your chest, into your head. And now? Now you’re acting like maybe she was the victim in this. Like she just didn’t know any better. That she was confused.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s the thing, she knew exactly what she was doing. Every calculated smile. Every touch. Every slow night where you let her inside and thought she'd actually stay—she planned that.”

His hands clenched at his sides. She saw it.

“And maybe—maybe she cared, somewhere in there,” Yelena added, a bitter twist to her voice. “Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger because some part of her felt something. But she still left. No note, no trace. Like you were just another mission she couldn’t finish and didn’t want to explain.”

She took one more step. Right into his space.

“So you’ve got two choices, Soldat: keep pining like a lovesick idiot and let her haunt you forever, or get your head back in the goddamn game and remember who you are. Because while you’re busy looking over your shoulder, the rest of us are picking up the slack.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just sat there, hollowed out and burning, her words settling like ash in his chest.

And Yelena, finally, exhaled.

“I’m not saying forget her,” she added quietly. “I’m saying either find her and get answers… or stop bleeding for someone who doesn't care.”

And with that, she turned.

Left him sitting there alone, in the echo of all the things he didn’t want to hear—but needed to.

One Year Later

Yelena didn’t look up from the mission tablet at first. Her boots were propped on the edge of the table, fingers tapping absently as she scrolled through next week’s ops schedule. Bucky stood near the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his reflection faint in the glass.

“I’m leaving.”

She didn’t react at first. Just blinked, brows pulling together as she slowly looked up.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

Bucky didn’t turn around.

“I mean I’m done.”

Yelena sat up straighter. “Done with the mission? Or…?”

He finally turned, his eyes tired—not just from the day, or the month, but from years. From everything.

“With all of it.”

She scoffed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re quitting? You?”

Bucky just nodded. No bite. No drama. Just done.

Yelena stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“I am.”

Silence.

She stood now, closing the tablet, crossing her arms. “Okay. No offense, Barnes, but what the fuck are you even talking about?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’ve been giving pieces of myself to someone else’s mission for a so many years, Yelena.”

Her jaw tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been alive a hundred years. Most of it, I’ve been used. As a weapon. As a ghost. As some tragic propaganda machine. First, the Army. Then Hydra. Then the U.S. government, then Congress, and now this—superhero bullshit.”

He looked back out the window. The city shimmered.

“I’ve done what everyone needed. What they told me was ‘right.’ What would ‘make it right.’ And it never did. It never will. There’s always another war. Another mission. Another reason to shove who I am back down just to fit the narrative.”

She opened her mouth. He cut her off.

“And don’t tell me I matter. Or that I make a difference. I know that. I’ve made peace with that. But I’m tired. Bone deep, soul deep. I’m tired. I’ve never done anything just for me. Not once. And I’m not gonna die with that still being true.”

Yelena was silent for a beat.

Then, quietly: “So what? You just walk away?”

He shrugged, voice soft. “Why not?”

“You’re a leader.”

“You’re better.”

“You’re still needed.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be down my partner.”

That one hung in the air.

Bucky exhaled, finally meeting her eyes. “You don’t need me. You never did. You just didn’t want to be alone at the top.”

Yelena’s jaw worked for a moment. But she didn’t argue.

Didn’t because—damn it—he wasn’t wrong.

He looked at her, something in his expression softer now. “You’re the best shot they’ve got. You always have been.”

She swallowed thickly.

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on her shoulder. “But I can’t keep doing this, Lena. I need to figure out what my life looks like without being a weapon. Or a mascot. Or a ghost.”

“…So what does it look like, then?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to find out.”

She blinked fast. Then, finally—finally—nodded.

“Just… don’t disappear without a damn postcard.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

If someone had asked him ten years ago—hell, even five years ago—where do you see yourself? Bucky Barnes would never have answered Fiji.

But here he was.

Fiji.

The sun was hot. Unrelentingly so. Not in the way that choked or scorched, but in a way that settled into your bones, warmed you from the inside out. He’d never felt heat like this without the edge of a battlefield waiting on the other side.

There were no missions here. No directives. No knives tucked under pillows. No coded radio chatter in the dead of night.

Just waves.

Just air thick with salt and lazy breeze.

And quiet.

He sat barefoot on the edge of a wooden deck, knees drawn up, sunglasses slipping slightly on his nose. His metal hand—gloveless, finally without shame—rested on the railing beside him, catching the sunlight like it had been born to. For once, it didn’t feel like a relic of war. It just felt like part of him.

The water below sparkled like someone had poured diamonds across it. The breeze brought the scent of fruit and ocean and something sweet he couldn’t name. Every few minutes, a bird called out, or a scooter whirred by in the distance.

It felt like another world.

One he didn’t belong in. Not really.

But he was trying.

Trying to belong to himself, finally.

He’d never taken a vacation before. Never even thought to. The idea of sitting still without guilt had always felt foreign. But now? Maybe this counted. Maybe this—quiet mornings, soft shirts, no schedules—was vacation. Maybe it was also retirement. If he let it be.

He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what came next. But for once, that didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like freedom.

The beach bar was little more than a thatched roof, a polished wood counter, and a few half-drunk tourists slowly melting into their plastic chairs.

The scent of citrus and rum hung in the air, and some lazy guitar version of an old Marvin Gaye song drifted through the speakers.

Bucky stepped up to the counter, brushing a bit of salt off his sunglasses, the sand still warm between his toes. He leaned against the bar, gave a polite nod to the bartender.

“Beer, please. Whatever’s cold.”

The bottle landed in front of him with a satisfying clink. He popped the cap one-handed and brought it to his lips just as a voice slid in—smooth, familiar, laced with something sharp and knowing.

“You’re a long way from New York, Sergeant.”

He didn’t turn right away.

Just took a sip. Swallowed. Let the faintest smirk touch his lips as he rested his beer back down.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Guess I finally figured I deserved a vacation.”

A pause.

“Why Fiji?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still forward, letting the sea wind hit his face for a beat longer.

“Clear skies. Soft sand. Water so blue it hurts to look at.” He finally turned, his gaze sliding to the left—to you.

“And… beautiful women.”

There you were.

Hair sun-touched and swept back. Skin glowing from the sun. Dressed like you belonged to this place—effortless, radiant, wild. And yet you didn’t blend in. Not at all. You never blended in. You could’ve been wearing armor or silk or nothing at all and you’d still feel like a presence.

His eyes lingered on you.

And when they met yours?

Everything else—every sound, every breeze, every wave—faded.

For just a second.

You leaned one elbow on the bar, casual like the past hadn’t happened, like this was just two people on a beach at the end of the world. Your eyes flicked over him—sunglasses, salt-tousled hair, beer bottle sweating in his hand like he’d actually managed to settle into this place.

You lifted a brow, just enough mischief behind it to crack the tension.

“So…” you said, voice like silk. “Planning on staying?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze was still fixed on you, the way it always had been. Steady. Intent. Like he was memorizing every new beauty mark, every glint of heat behind your eyes.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a pretty good reason to.”

Something flickered across your face. The faintest pull at your lips. You could’ve said something sharp, something defensive—but instead, you just turned slightly toward the bar, tapping your fingers once on the counter.

“Then buy me a drink, James,” you said, flashing a sly smile. “So long as you're planning to make it a roundtrip to forgiveness.”

His mouth curled.

And for the first time in a long time, the air between you wasn’t just heavy with uncertainty.

It was full of possibility.

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

The first thing Bucky felt was the warmth.

Not the sun, though that was already creeping in through the wooden shutters, slanting across the room in golden bands. Not the heat from the open window, or the lazy tropical breeze curling through the linen curtains.

No—the warmth was you.

Your body sprawled across his, half-draped over his chest like you’d always belonged there. Bare legs tangled with his, skin soft and sun-kissed, your breath slow and even where it fanned against his collarbone.

He could already hear the waves outside, steady and close. The faint rustle of palms, the rhythmic hum of island life waking up. It should’ve been loud—but it wasn’t.

It was perfect.

For the first time in… maybe ever, he’d woken up before you.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he just lay there, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, the other resting behind his head. Relaxed. Grounded. Not braced for attack. Not aching from loss.

Just present.

His eyes drifted over your face—peaceful, still, impossibly beautiful. And he let himself look. Really look.

No dread curled in his chest.

No panic waited behind his ribs.

Because you were here.

You’d stayed.

And he’d woken up to warmth.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

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[aoi-targaryen]

Kinfolk // The Darkling x Fem!Reader; Kaz Brekker x Sister!Reader

Summary: Kaz Brekker is reunited with his childhood hero only to find they aren't who he remembers them to be.

Pairing(s): Aleksander Morozova (The Darkling) x Fem!Reader; Kaz Brekker x Sister!Reader (Shadow and Bone)

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: family reunion, dad!Aleksander, hurt/comfort, betrayal in two instances.

Quick Links: Masterlist // Request Guidelines

Kaz Brekker had few memories of beauty to cling onto. As his life was filled with struggle and strife, the young man was left defenseless in Ketterdam at the young age of 9—after years of death and abandonment from his own flesh and blood.

Nothing stung him more than the memory of his family leaving him to defend for himself in the cruel world of Ravka.

If one were to enter the man’s psyche, travel through the hard-fought accomplishments and failures, they would find the farm he has grown up on as a child. The house was small for a family of five, the animals roamed freely in the pastures that extended far beyond his child-eyes could see, but it was home. A home that he had grown to love and remember, but envy and hate all the same.

On nights when the sun shone bright against the sky, the clouds and blue would turn yellow and pink, hints of orange and white would transform the drab world around him. Kaz breathed in deeply—as deep as a four-year-old boy’s lungs could go—and smelt the pine, the hay, the unfortunate manure stifling his scent master at the moment his savior would arrive. Dinner was surely served, and as Kaz wandered the land, his hero came to fetch him.

“If you spend any more time out here you’ll turn into a weather sprite… or worse—a creature of the sky. Then you can see all the colors through your fingers and toes.”

The boy was swooped up into the arms of the oncoming savior, giggling freely and filling his soul with joy. There were no sounds of protest, no screams of terror upon being lifted into the sky, careening like a bird in a windless night. This was freedom—something he would learn to yearn for against the dark alley in Ketterdam where scoundrels would scurry around every corner, trying to catch a bite of fresh, naïve meat.

“Higher, higher!” Kaz squealed as he was almost put back onto the ground. The hero wavered and lifted him again, higher and higher until they could no longer reach the sky and he had to be put down. Although he wanted to protest, Kaz had learned the routine and could only go so far. He was put back down on the ground and sat in the grass. The fine blades soft between his small fingers, a familiar prickling sensation against his palm. His hero sat behind him, drawing Kaz into their lap and holding him tightly.

“Why are you leaving me?”

For a boy so young, Kaz was incredibly intelligent. The boy read others like simple books, their emotions worn onto their sleeves without a thought, and it made them vulnerable. He was young, nearly fifteen years the hero’s minor and read people better than they. It was a gift—not a Grishan gift, but one he would never grow out of.

“Because of the water, of the war. You know people like me are required to go.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

A heavy sigh escaped the lips of the hero and Kaz could see the longing in their eyes divert between two roads. On one road there was family. It was familiar and safe, not filled with unknown people and abilities that could end a life in an instant. The other road longed to go and see the world. It wanted to travel and fight, show more than school children what summoning water can do. No one had heard of a water summoner in centuries. Saints, they weren’t even sure what to call it.

“I have to leave, Kaz. Besides, you’ll have Papa and Jordie. They’ll take care of you and protect you against the cows.” The boy shivered thinking of the cows and it drew a laugh from the hero. Their eyes gleaming together at the thought of their farm, the sun setting before them like an omen of the future. It was warm and happy yet filled with a mystery. The sight of his hero with a tiny boy cradled in their arms. Everything would come rushing back in fifteen years when he would visit The Little Palace on an assignment.

“Jordie can’t protect me against the cows. He is scared of them too!”

“Then I’ll be sure to enchant the cows so they’ll never hurt either of you. Papa will know just what to do to ensure the spell stays on this farm forever.”

“You can do that!?”

“Of course I can! You don’t truly believe a great Grisha like me can only summon water?”

The hero couldn’t enchant the cows. The hero couldn’t ensure that their family would be safe, or that something wouldn’t go terribly wrong when they were whisked off to (what felt like) another world. But Kaz didn’t know any better. He might have been able to see the truth of people, but in a moment of uncertain fear, he believed his hero could do the most.

“I believe you, voda.”

Voda; water in native tongue. It was one of the boys first words and one that stuck as a nickname. It was better than sibling, or sister.

As Kaz Brekker, the small boy who would learn to despise physical connection and build walls of concrete around his wavering heart, and his hero—his sister, sat on top the soft grass of their family farm, he watched her face fall against the warm colors of the sky.

His hero longed for more. They were no longer elusive or secretive, a mystery to him. She was a fighter, a hero amidst mortal people in a family that had no further abilities. Kaz Brekker’s sister was unlike any person he had ever met before. She was a mysterious beauty of old, one that could reflect the portraits that hung in the halls of grand palaces, a reincarnation of sort. Perhaps a former queen, a lover, or a great witch who was hunted for nothing more than unwarranted powers. She had the softest touch, wavelengths of soothing abilities that transcended her understanding of herself.

Kaz Brekker’s sister would outlive them all if given the chance, but he saw a woman who longed for something more than just a quaint little farm on the edge of nowhere. She was meant for more. As much as the boy yearned to have her by his side in the coming years, he knew that she couldn't and wouldn't stay.

"Will you come and visit us? Mama will miss you too."

His hero frowned at the thought. As smart as the boy was, death was still an unfamiliar concept to grasp. Mama wasn't returning home from the plot they had buried her in. The flowers he brought weekly would continue to pile up before he makes his own trek in a few years, but the four-year-old boy did not understand that she was never coming back from the afterlife.

"I will visit whenever I can, I promise." The promise was faulty from the beginning.

Kaz nodded enthusiastically, drawing a smile from the frown on his sister's face. He jumped up from her lap and began running toward the small house behind them, yelling at her to catch up or she would be late for dinner. His hero let out a breathy laugh, following behind him for one last family meal before making the journey to Os Alta the next morning.

As the small family dined in relative sadness at the thought, they'd never imagine the horrors that would follow. With the disappearance of his hero and her return non-existent, the world nearly crumbled to pieces. First his father fell ill and died within a week. He was eight, almost nine, with Jordie panicking beside him. The two boys made the decision to leave for Ketterdam in hopes of finding a better life but were quickly met with resistance and more tragedy. Kaz would never fully recover from his sickness and when Jordie died, he was left alone in a cruel world. His one lifeline was far away, detached from his life for good and he would never see her again. He despised what cards were handed to him–the way he struggled while chosen ones were gifted with fine clothes and food.

So, when the word of a Sun Summoner presented the opportunity to damage the prospects of the Grisha who took his sister away, Kaz nearly jumped across The Fold himself.

The collar of the guard uniform was stifling. It was stiff, itchy, and as uncomfortable as the air around him. The snobbish rich aristocrats and Grisha that filled the halls of the Little Palace made him want to gouge his eyes out of his head from sheer annoyance. Kaz Brekker had to remind himself that he was there on a mission and slowly the clock was ticking, the Sun Summoner was not going to wait around forever for their opportunity window to widen, and his confidants were gaining on his anxiety.

The Crows had seen it all that evening. The Shadow Summoner, the Sun Summoner, the different types of Grisha that exhibited their abilities to the less fortunate. Commoners across Ravka and surrounding nations would have killed to be in a room with all those people, but Kaz and his fellow criminals scammed their way in as if it were the easiest task in the world.

Inej Ghafa was one of those criminals–per say. Positioned against the archway that separated a hallway from the grand ballroom Alina Starkov had lit up an hour ago, the girl was filled with a giddiness she had forgotten existed. She had seen a saint, in the flesh, and the rumors of her existence were not a lie. Over the years stories of gifted Grisha flowed freely in The Menagerie from guests who believed their words meant nothing to the girls who'd satisfy them. Inej always listened. The girl listened to the men, to the women, to the others who worked the same job she was forced to, and their gossip all mushed together into one clump of unwelcome topics except when it came to Grisha.

Grisha's were a topic of controversy depending on who one was conversing with. They were loved, hated, hailed, or mysterious, though the idea of a particular Summoner ending the war-torn state of Ravka was exciting and new. Centuries had passed with families waiting for an end to their suffering and now with Alina's introduction, that future was a possibility. One of those Grisha that she had longed to see was the Tide Summoner. To Inej, the Grisha was a myth. She had never met a person who had seen her, nor had she ever heard anything more than small rumors of her existence.

On a particularly sweltering evening at The Menagerie, Inej had fallen into the company of a soldier from General Kirigan's army who claimed to have met the mysterious woman. He had recalled her being the partner of the General in both battle and life, though no one had ever seen her aboard a skiff. In the man's increasingly drunken state, he divulged that she trained Grisha at The Little Palace where she lived with her son.

No one had ever mentioned General Kirigan having children–let alone a son with another Grisha of great power.

Inej managed no further information. No name, no physical appearance, or race. The Tide maker remained a mystery and she had rather hoped to witness her existence alongside Alina Starkov and General Kirigan. Perhaps the longing was evident on her face as she watched the guests flow in the hallway, Kaz could pull a look like that out of the darkness of his mind.

"Was the Sun Summoner not enough?" His voice was hallowed, quiet against the laughter of the group of Grisha around the snack table feet away from them. Alina was nearly in their grasp. She glowed with pride as she giggled with her "friends" and suspected nothing of the two guards watching her.

"She was plenty. I just thought-" Inej caught herself. Kaz had a particular distaste for Grisha she had learned over the last few months, yet there was no explanation as to why. The girl boiled it down to their privilege and status but was never sure.

"Thought what? Surely this was a sight to behold if you believe in Saints."

"It was, it was. There was one I heard about from the-well, you know..." Anything that gave away their act would have been detrimental if heard by the wrong ears. She couldn't mention the life before. She was a guard for The Little Palace and needed to act like it.

"... and She summons tides. I would have liked to have seen that. I have an affinity for the ocean, you know."

"I've heard that the woman was a rumor made up by the Grisha to prevent enemies from traveling across the waters and attacking from behind." His comment was curt, full of an attitude reserved for those who spoke of fairytales and fictions beyond reality.

"Don't be so harsh. It's not a lie because I heard it from one of his soldiers."

"Who was drunk beyond comprehension, Inej. Do you believe everything strangers tell you?"

"You can say whatever you please but remember that we just saw the impossible become possible. The woman could exist. She supposedly is the General's wife so she very well could be here."

The universe aligned in a callous way in that moment. Against the sounds of laughter and chatter amidst guests, the distinct sounds of a child laughing broke through the air like a blade summoned from the shadows. Neither Inej nor Kaz had heard a child, especially one of an age so small, in many years. It was carefree and resilient–far beyond what they had become familiar with over the years.

Inej turned from her position against the frame and witnessed what she had been wishing for, though, her back was to Kaz and never saw his reaction.

When Inej mentioned the one who could summon Tides, Kaz swore his heart stopped for a minute. He had known no other who could muster that kind of power, let alone heard whispers of more than one. After his sister left, his hero, you left, he had never heard another word. He did not know that you were alive, or if you had been captured and executed by the enemy. Kaz knew nothing more than his nineteen-year-old sister leaving Jordie and himself behind for a new life. He never forgot it and would never forget it. When he heard the key words of "Tide Maker," "Wife," and "Woman," Kaz knew it could only mean one thing–and he was not prepared to face the truth.

Over the dark hair that grew from Inej's skull, he could see Alina Starkov nearly drop the sweet from her hand as she turned her head (along with all the others in the hall) toward the child's laughter. It was a sight unseen to many of them.

A woman, smiling brightly at the boy in her arms who couldn't have been more than three-years-old in a Kefta. Her's was a light blue, almost white with darker decor on the shoulders and bottom, her hair flowing freely around her and the boy on her hip. The dark hair was indistinguishable. That was the General's son if he had to bet his life on it and he was dressed in a Kefta that reflected the two colors of his parents–black and light blue, with white gloves that protected his hands. Not even noticing that others had stopped and stared, the woman approached the table where Alina and her friends were, grabbed a sweet off the table and handed it to the boy who grappled at it excitedly.

With one glance around the room, the woman’s eyes sparked a series of reignited conversation of nothing as the concentration broke. Alina shifted away from the gaze and began softly speaking to her friends once more. Inej watched in pure curiosity while Kaz was near speechless at the sight. Never had he thought a day like this would come—but the feeling he had dreamed would accompany it was bubbling. He wasn’t ecstatic to find a missing piece of his life—nor was he thrilled to see someone who had abandoned him to face the worst years of his life while enjoying the comforts of the palace. Kaz was saddened, angered by the sight of you, his hero, grown into a woman with a child. A child that resembled the best parts of two people physically and the attitude of the child he once was. To make his feels exceedingly upset, General Kirigan was only moments behind.

The sight made him feel another sort of way. It was partial disgust, just at the thought, and the other was suspicion that creeped up in a wave of goosebumps. Evil cast a fine spell around the people who buried it the most, and General Kirigan was certainly one of those people. Elusive, mysterious, handsome with a wicked gaze; it was ingredients brewing in a stew that blinded the people around him, though Kaz was certain he could see through it.

The Shadow Summoner smiled fondly at the boy, at his hero, you, before whispering unknown words into your ear that he wished he could decipher. There was a nod of agreement and the General walked off in the opposite direction–his hand lingering behind as it neglected to retract its touch from you before no longer being able to reach it. He saw the life you had been living flash before his eyes. Looking no older than the day you had left; you've moved on and became a new person. Someone who wears a kefta, someone who feasts with these abominable people, and perhaps worst of all: you were devoted to a man who had ruined so many lives.

The trance Kaz had been stuck in was striking the clock faster than he realized because Inej was the one to set the plan in motion. His attention had been so preoccupied with visions of the past, memories that were nothing more than that, that he had forgotten his purpose. Inej turned back to Kaz, snapping him out of the stupor but not before noticing his hesitancy. Kaz Brekker never hesitated to carry out a plan.

"We have to move, now." Inej started off without him for the briefest of seconds before he joined her, striding the hall side-by-side in pursuit of the Sun Summoner. A determination in every footfall against the marbled floor.

In their string of luck, Alina's friends had vanished when they noticed guards coming toward the girl with their having assumed they were there to escort her to dinner. Except the hurdles never truly stopped. Five steps away. Kaz had been counting them from the moment he turned to join Inej. Four, three, two, one. If he wanted, he could reach out and touch Alina but he would never have the chance. General Kirigan reappeared suddenly behind Alina, not his wife or child, and offered a hand to her. Oblivious to Kaz and Inej, Alina took his arm.

"No–" Inej started, however Kaz lifted his hand to stop her. Alina was gone. Their mission ending before they even had a chance to begin.

"What do we–"

"Not. Here. Inej." Kaz gritted and turned to leave in an attempt to salvage a plan that was stretching far too thin to be fool-proof and safe.

As Kaz and Inej made their escape from the golden hall of The Little Palace, their haste did not go unnoticed by anyone. Several onlookers who were there for petty gossip and to fawn over the beautiful Grisha stared at the two guards acting as though an explosion had gone off on the other side of the palace. Neither had noticed the small boy who had been set down from his mother's arms, neither hearing the small pattering of steps behind them as they skirted through the waining crowd.

Kaz only stopped when he felt a tug. It was a tug so light a bird wouldn't have been able to feel its feather being plucked away. Kaz had learned to observe and feel when he didn't truly touch anything himself. The feel of another person reaching for his clothes, however innocent, startled him. The crow instantly spun around, looking for the culprit at his height but found none until he looked down at his feet. The little brown haired boy staring up at him with eyes as dark as night, his white gloves holding on to the black cape that hung over his shoulder.

"Mama!" The boy all but screeched when he let go of the cape. Kaz was unfamiliar with children as it was. He had no idea what could have been going on inside his head. As the boy called out to his mother, you immediately realized he was no longer by your side and down the hall. Faster than they had been walking, you rushed over to him and crouched down so he could clutch onto you.

"I told you to stay there. Why didn't you stay there?" Your voice was scolding enough to criticize the child, but not enough to scare an adult. The boy felt the tears begin to bubble as he motioned to be picked up–an action you complied with naturally. In the swift motion of scolding the boy and comforting him, you barely had time to register who he had gone to. You looked to your son, drying his tear with his small hands, to the two guards and something stopped.

Or maybe it clicked.

But your heart constricted as if it were playing tricks on you. The man felt so familiar, his aura frigid and cold, yet surrounded by an air that pulled you toward him. Then it was his eyes–so clear and big, just as they had been when he was a child. While he did not look the same, the man looked like the brother you left behind. You'd be mistaken if it were Jordie... he was brutish and had less character in his face. There were differences that quickly made you doubt the brief assumption of the stranger. If you remembered Kaz correctly, his features were childlike and soft. This man looked stony and toughened from the world around him. He wasn't the Kaz you remembered.

"S-Sorry about him. He just slipped away from me." You managed and the other guard, the girl, bowed her head.

"Not a problem, Ma'am. Excuse us." The girl was first to dismiss you and your son. Brushed off as if you were no more than an average guest, you knew they were no guards of the palace. Even with all the observations, you knew it was Kaz. It had to have been because you swore that you'd never forget the faces of your family even a million miles away.

"We need to be escorted to dinner. If you aren't otherwise busy, I think it'd be best if you'd take us."

You were quick with a test. Firstly, did either of them know where the dining room was? Secondly, they were making haste toward the exit and dismissed the General's wife which no guard had ever done. Lastly, the man made no effort to greet or make eye contact with you. Perhaps he was taken aback by seeing you again, or maybe he had never outgrown the shy phase he had entered when he turned two. Nevertheless, an element of their presence was greatly off the axis of normal.

"I-"

"Of course, Ma'am." Kaz was the one to respond. Still keeping his eyes diverted from you, he took the lead while the woman followed behind.

As you began to move through the hall, less and less people surrounded you and a feeling of uneasiness built within you. While you felt that Kaz would never do anything to harm you, the intentions of the woman were unclear and with his body so rigid it was like getting a statue to move, the hourglass of concern continued to rise.

"I've never seen either of you before. Are you new?" You proposed a conversation which they would be right to respond to.

"Yes. We were recruited as part of the extension of security due to the fête." The woman answered shortly to which you responded with a hum. No extra security had been hired due to the festivities. The moment Alina arrived at the palace security had been heightened and remained the same since. You clutched the boy in your arms tighter, his head resting in the crook of your neck.

"And tell me, who do you report to Kaz?"

You took the leap.

The man turned around, his eyes ablaze with an indescribable fury and the woman had grabbed your arm, holding a small knife to the small of your son's back as she pushed you against a closed door in the hall.

"Who do you think you are?" Kaz spat at you; his emotions boiling over.

"Do you think I wouldn't remember my own brother?"

"You tell me. You're the one who left us."

"I had no choice, brother. Why are you here? You're not a guard of the palace and the compromising position you've put me in–" You glanced down at the knife positioned an inch from the boy's back and tried not to move him at all. Kaz could see the brief panic that flashed across your face at the sight.

"–makes me think your intentions are less than desirable."

"It doesn't matter what my intentions are, Voda." The nickname had taken you back. Never did you think you'd hear it again. He wouldn't even say your name.

"Where is the Sun Summoner?" His partner in crime hissed at you and you covered your son's head with one hand.

"Dinner. So, this is what you want? To steal away Alina Starkov for what? To keep the war raging? I hear there is quite the price on her head."

"Where is she? Take us to her and you'll be spared, I promise you."

"Only after you let your girlfriend hold a knife to my son's back! The Kaz I remember wouldn't be a customer of crime, let alone the murderer of a child." Kaz scoffed but did not order for Inej to pull the knife away.

"A child that will never understand the people his parents truly are. Did he woo you away with promises of gifts and money? Is that why you left?"

"I am not some villain to be afraid of. My son has nothing to do with this and you know it, I know you do. Why would I give you Alina? As penance for being a Grisha? It wasn't a choice I had a say in."

Kaz nearly imploded from despair. His emotions heightened to where they had never gone before and if you hadn't been his sister, he more than likely would have ended your life then and there, except he always had something standing in his way. It was the way your eyes told the truth of no choice, the realization that he had been harboring an anger over the events of his childhood that he knew you had no influence over. If he had told you what happen to father, to Jordie, you surely would have been devastated to hear how difficult his life was. You had your own child now. A little boy to nurture and grow and love and guide through a life he would not understand. Kaz's eyes softened, but before he could speak anymore, the lights had dimmed the slightest bit to notify a new piece in the puzzle to capture the Star Summoner. For Kaz and Inej, the entrance of The Shadow Summoner brought that chance.

"What is going on here?" General Kirigan was imposing as it was. Kaz was not going to lose his life in the halls of the Little Palace when he could save the one of his sister and fulfill the goal he, Inej, and Jesper had set out on.

"Nothing... I had just lost one of his gloves. The guards were kind enough to find it for me."

Inej retracted the blade in a flash, Kaz stepped away from you and the boy in a motion that questioned if you were telling the truth or not. Aleksander did not buy it, but as the two guards extracted themselves away from his family, he could breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. I am sure you'll find your way to the dining room just fine." You stared at Kaz with an apology written across your face. This was not the reunion you had wished for.

Aleskander pulled you close with a hand wrapping around your waist, watching the two guards bow and leave. It did not go unnoticed that the man had looked back not once, but twice.

"Are you alright?" Aleksander's thumb rubbed comfortingly into your side, and you leaned against him with a nod that gave him little reassurance, but enough to move on for the moment. He looked at his son whose eyes were tired and closing, his head resting against your shoulder and neck uncomfortably. You and Aleksander had both been learning that the boy was getting far too heavy to carry around and he reached one hand out in a motion to take him.

"Come on. Let's put him to bed."

"But dinner..."

"They can have one dinner without us."

You agreed and allowed him to take him out your arms. The boy snugged against Aleksander in a way that made your heart melt. Aleksander could see it in your eyes and held out a hand for you to take. Just as you had done fifteen years prior, you took the path of the Grisha and not turning around to follow Kaz and your past.

Though the past was far from gone. An hour later Ivan showed up at your door stating that Alina had been taken and her double had been killed. There was no doubt in your mind that Kaz and his crew was behind it.

Darkling Master Tag (CLOSED):

@mrs-brekker15 @aleksanderblack @shawty-writes-a-little

[aoi-targaryen]

Last Words of A Shooting Star (3)

A/N: this one is considerably shorter than the others. fat sigh. But at least I wrote it. I figured out I ended up putting most of the story in the first two chapters, so this is now mostly development from here on out. I'm not too happy with this, but will most likely edit in the future (I'm lying to myself).

Main masterlist

People to be tagged (sorry if not):

@myanmy @noortsshift @archangelslollipop @vaguekayla @budugu @inlovewithfictionalmen444 @weallhaveadestiny @dreamlandcreations (oh my god I'm such a fan you have no ideaaa oh my god oh my god how did I not realise) @bookloverfilmoholic @lost-tothe-centuries @oliviaewl @wonderland2425 @kaysav608

Part One. Part Two.

Word Count: 3,412

Aleksander’s headache comes on in the early hours of the morning. Still hunched over his desk and working by the flickering light of a steadily declining candle, his eyes strain to focus on the paperwork in front of him and to ignore the throbbing pain slowly travelling from the base of his head to the gap between his eyes.

After ten minutes of trying to battle through Aleksander gives up, his head falling to his hands with a huff of exasperation. It’s moments like these that no one else will ever see - moments when the exhaustion catches up with him, his body overwhelmed with the nausea of overexertion and aching for sleep. It’s moments like these when he finally sets his work aside and rises from his desk, his black Kefta rumpled and his hair a mess from the amount of times he’s run his hand through it.

Aleksander sets his pen down, kicks his chair back under the desk and picks the candle up off the desk. He doesn’t bother to pretend to tidy his desk, abandoning it to move over to his bed. He sets the candle on his bedside cabinet - an elaborate piece of woodwork, a deep coloured beautifully varnished piece, covered in various books and papers and maps, and huffs.

He sits himself down on the edge of his bed to unlace and kick off his boots before unbuttoning his Kefta and hanging it over the end. He barely unlaces his shirt or his trousers and climbs into the sheets, his eyes shutting almost instantly.

The Shadow Summoner’s sleep is restless, filled with thousands of things he’d rather forget, people he’s killed, mistakes he’s made, world destroying choices for some, lifesaving for others. And yet, this particular night he’s back in a field, and it’s so dark he can’t see anything in the sky - not the moon, not the stars - and nothing in his surroundings but the tree line in front of him and the field he stands in. He’s barefoot, in simple clothes from hundreds of years ago, and he’s sure if he had a mirror he’d hardly recognise his face. He knows he’s looking for something, in that way that dreams work, but he doesn’t know what. His eyes scan the woods in front of him, deep and dark and unyielding, searching and searching some more.

And then a soft pale white light begins to glow from the heart of the woods, casting a soft dance of shadows across the field, twisting tendrils reaching for him in the shape of branches and darkness. He takes one step forward and the field falls out from under him, and his back hits hard dirt floor and the sun’s too bright in his eyes and he’s back in one of his mother’s training sessions. He sits up and sees Baghra’s figure but he can’t focus on her face. Aleksander’s aware that while this is a training session, it’s also a funeral of some sort. There’s a makeshift grave in the corner of the scene, a hand carved cross and a bunch of wildflowers. But his mother’s shadows are lurching at him once more, her voice scolding him for his slow reaction. But it’s not her voice.

It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in a very, very long time. Not even in his dreams.

Aleksander wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at the bed sheets twisted around him, panting heavily with tears in his eyes. He blinks them away, taking a deep breath as he hunches over slightly. He’s not just crying, he’s quietly sobbing into his hands - albeit against his will. But he can’t help the harsh tide of emotions in his chest, his heart beat loud in his ears, the memory of love he had attempted to bury under piles of paperwork, saving his people, fighting a war.

This lasts for ten minutes before he gathers himself, sinking back into his bedsheets. He turns his head a fraction to the drawn curtains, made of the finest fabrics, to witness the sunrise through a slither of a gap in the curtains, the gradual shift of the sky from a dark blue to a sunny morning.

The day must go on.

-

Zoya Nazyalensky is a perfectly nice Squaller.

More than perfectly nice, she theoretically matches him to a T: sharp wit and a biting mouth, confident and ambitious. It’s easy to see how Aleksander fell into an affair with her, using her to fill his lonely nights, the nights where he didn’t want to sleep, when the work wasn’t quite hitting the right spot. But right now, standing across the mess hall from her, running on less than half a night’s sleep and with regrets swirling in his chest he can’t help but regard her with disdain. It’s not something he means to do - she’s been nothing but good to him.

But she’s giving him eyes, dark, half-lidded, knowing and enticing… and he turns away. Someone might’ve seen the way her face slightly falls. It’s not often he turns her down but he feels like he’s betrayed something. Someone. It’s too much.

He’ll call upon her later when he needs a distraction, he thinks, when it all comes crashing down. But right now, he’d rather stew in his thoughts. Alone.

The Darkling leaves before she can question him, before she can cross the hall and convince him to bed her. In his state, he’d probably cave and regret it afterwards, kick her out of his chambers with subtle scathing words. He can’t bring himself to deal with her right now.

He goes through the corridors, down a set of regal stairs, and out into the courtyard. People stare as he goes - something he’s gotten used to. He’s a dark stain in the middle of bright shimmering colours, some regard him with fear, others with reverence. Either way, he ignores it, pretends not to see, and goes to collect his horse.

He knows where he’s going.

The stables are a well-maintained structure, wooden, housing a handful of horses - some for riding, some for work. A number of stablehands maintained the animals and the building - and the first time one of them had tried to ready his horse for him (a couple hundred years ago) he had found himself deeply offended at the notion he was incapable of maintaining his own animal, like the other nobility. But now, he had settled into it.

As he had settled into other things - people cooking for him, making his bed, preparing his clothes, writing his orders, so on and so forth. It had taken some time and he had certainly fought against the luxury for the first few years, but now he saw very little point in disallowing menial tasks to be done for him, especially when he rarely had the time.

And so his own horse was a dark haired beautiful thing, tall and strong and very well taken care of. The moment one of the stablehands saw him coming the young boy had slung a saddle over the horse’s back, and given the animal a quick brush down before bringing the horse out of the stable, and round to him.

He nodded, a quiet “Thank you.” As he accepts the horse by the reigns, running a gloved hand down its nose, before guiding it out to the main area of the courtyard. He swings up onto it, hooking his foot into the stirrup before finding a comfortable position. And from there, he commands the Little Palace gates open, and rides.

The unmarked grave is a medium sized rock, just tucked into the tree line of the clearing. He knows there’s no body there, no disturbance in the soil save for the rock lodged into the ground. But it matters to him. It matters that she’s remembered, at least somewhere. Whether that’s a story, whether it’s ‘Y/N and Sasha were here’ written on the wall of some random historic monument, whether it’s an actual grave stone, dedicated to her, or a rock shoved in the soil a long long time ago.

It still matters. She still matters.

And yet, he sits there, the sun high in the sky and his back against the rock, and he thinks about her. He knows, a long time ago, she had a face. She had a laugh. He knows she held his hand, and kissed his lips, and cared for him and loved him as much as he had loved her, and yet, he can’t remember any of it. Her face is a blur of faded and fading memories, over one hundred years, four mortal lifetimes. His brain is pushing out those distant things, the things he holds most valuable, to make room for war planning and maps.

Aleksander hates himself for it. Hates what he’s become. He hates how tired he is all the time. And he knows if she were here… he sighs. His fingers trace the blades of grass around him before he leans his head back, eyes shutting, and he tries to remember her. Not just what he knows is true, not just the colour of her hair and the shape of her nose. No, he tries to really remember her, tries to carve the shape of her face and the crinkle of her laugh out of the darkness behind his eyelids.

His heart breaks when he can’t.

His chest seizes in defeat yet he keeps his eyes shut as he feels a wave of something between frustration and devastation. Hadn’t he fought hard enough? Wasn’t his entire life’s work in dedication to her? And now he couldn’t even remember her face? What sort of man, what sort of lover, was he?

His hand sharply grasps the blades of grass and tugs them out of the earth without thinking, before tossing them to the side, a soft huff leaving his lips. He opens his eyes and rises awkwardly, dusting off his Kefta and trousers, before settling a hand on the rock, a gentle goodbye, an unspoken ‘see you soon’, before he moves to collect his horse.

There is work to be done. The sun is moving through the sky. Time waits for no one, not even an immortal.

-

That night, Zoya is in his bed. And the night after that, and the night after that.

The dreams subside for a day or two. But when he bolts up out of his bedsheets, heart racing, eyes wide and teeth bared like an animal as he sucks in harsh breaths, he knows something is wrong. He can barely fill his lungs, his skin is too hot, and just the sight of the woman sleeping beside him is irritating to the point of making his skin crawl. Saints.

As quietly as he can he climbs out of the bed and pulls on his breeches, running his hand through his hair. He’s unable to settle the discontent inside him, that unending restlessness that plagues him in moments like these. Soundlessly he pads over to the window, parts the curtains and cracks open the latch, filling the room with cool air which seems to soothe him, just a bit.

It’s then that Zoya stirs, the sheets rustling as she mumbles, “General? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He grumbles, not even turning around to look at her, guilt eating at him. It’s been hundreds of years. Hundreds. Part of him longs to cling onto the feeling, while the other feels pathetic for it.

He hears the sheets rustle some more, before a hand places itself on his bare back, “…Aleksander. Come back to bed.” She says gently.

He hates it. Without thinking, he bristles away from her touch, his eyes still glued to the night sky, “Leave me, Nazyalensky.” he orders, more war commander than lover, “This ends tonight.”

The woman’s brow furrows, a frown settling at her lips, “But-”

“No ‘But’s.” He snaps, “Leave. We are through.”

Zoya huffs, and retracts her hand sharply, shaking her head as she moves to dress herself, “I’ll see you when you come crawling back.” She mutters, gathering her things and hurriedly leaving.

The comment stings and if she were anyone else he wouldn’t have let her get away with it. But he supposes he has to leave her some leeway. He doesn’t think too much about it, eyes pinned to the night sky, examining the stars like they might mean something, like they might transform before his eyes into something more than burning balls of gas, a million years dead. He knows they’re more.

-

It’s weeks later when a soldier comes bursting into his study.

It’s early morning, so early the sun hasn’t even risen, the sky a gentle shade of melancholic blue. He’s drowning himself in work, as per usual, when the young boy bursts in, breath heavy and face flushed, barking, “Sir!”

“What is it?” he glances up, rubbing at his brow.

“Sir…” The soldier swallows, his lanky frame leaning up against the doorframe, “Apologies, sir, but there’s been reports…” he’s trying to get out as much as he can through catching his breath and it’s irritating Aleksander.

“Catch your breath, boy.” He commands, setting his pen down and folding his arms. The boy nods, mumbling out ‘yes, sir’, as he takes a moment, before finally he speaks, “Sir, there’s been reports of… light, in The Fold.”

That has Aleksander’s eyebrows raising to his hairline, brow furrowing as his lips press into a line, “Light? What kind of light? Impossible.”

“The soldiers say white light, sir, like um-” The soldier’s brow furrows, trying to find some metaphor or simile.

“Forget it.” The General sighs, before he stands from his chair, “How did you get here? Horse?” he makes quick work of bundling up his projects, scooping them up in his arms and dumping them to the side.

“Yes, sir.” The soldier nods, eager and now standing straight instead of slumped against the doorframe.

“Good. Best go get it. We’re going to the front lines.”

-

The journey there is composed of long tracks and winding roads, but it doesn’t take long. They reach the front lines by the next morning, General Kirigan, his Oprichniki and the soldier. The only conversation is between the soldier and the Oprichniki, mostly the young boy's murmured and insistent conversation.

The General himself rides ahead, stoic and silent, his leather gloves gripping the reigns of his horse, his mind running.

When they reach the camp the air is alive with a buzz. It’s clear the news of this 'light' has spread far and wide, gossip already spreading - some saying it’s the Fold clearing, the other side, others saying it’s a trick of the light, others claiming the sun is shining through.

The wall of black stands vast and impenetrable. It shifts at the edges, shadows curling and tendrils licking at the sandy ground, stretching up into the sky as far as the eye can see. Aleksander feels the same pull he does whenever he’s faced with it, his own creation, the simple recklessness of love and heartbreaking dedication. He keeps that secret locked tightest.

And yet, sure enough, it seems to glow. There’s the faintest of lights, illuminating the wall of shadow like a light held to skin, betraying the way the shadow pulses and shifts, and the flitters of the evasive creatures within.

He spends no more time dwelling on it, climbing off his horse and handing the animal away, marching through the camp to find the first commander he can. The man he locates is tall, but thin, a young man, clean shaven with a scar across his cheek. He salutes upon Aleksander’s approach, barking, “General!”

Aleksander wastes no time, “Get me reports. I want our best working on this, Otkazat’sya, Grisha, I don’t care. Just get someone to figure this out.” He snaps, eyes flitting across the landscape.

The commander nods and scurries off, already barking out orders to any soldier in his sight. The vision of The Darkling, a pinpoint of black amongst khaki and green has people jumping into action, a flurry of activity around the camp.

Within about an hour it has been decided that the best way to figure out what’s going on is to send a Sandskiff. The crew is decided through lots, squallers placed at the ready to fill the sails. And The Darkling stands, waiting, watching the ship pierce into The Fold, hands clenched at the railing of the platform he’s on, jaw gritted.

He’s waiting for any result, anything, though he knows it will be some time before the skiff comes back. He doesn’t move from his post, eyes boring into The Fold, teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek.

The camp carries on around him, pretending it’s business as usual, more mapmakers and soldiers fussing around him, offering anything they can get him. He waves it all away. Whatever’s in there, he’s going to find out.

-

The sandskiff is a mess.

There’s the smell of charred wood, dismembered body parts, not to mention the remaining crew wide eyed and most likely traumatised. The top deck has been completely ruined, and at the moment a number of Grisha are trying to put out the flames eating away at the wooden structure, the air clouded with smoke so thick it’s hard to see the damage.

But Aleksander steps onto the deck anyway, waving away the smoke with a gloved hand, eyes hard. He watches the Tidemakers work from buckets of water to quell the fires. And finally it’s revealed.

There, in the middle of the deck, was a very large hole burned into the wood exposing the second floor of the ship. His brow raised just a fraction, and he took a step closer, trying to peer into the gape, attempting to see through the gradually clearing smoke. Gradually it began to clear, squallers pushing air to waft it away, to expose… a person?

A woman it seemed, H/C hair, as naked as the day she was born and completely passed out on the wood, face marred with ash, and what seemed to be… scars? No. Not quite. Something else.

His eyes widen and he moves fast, “All of you, back!” He commanded, before climbing down to the next floor, jumping through the hole. He didn’t take the time to look at her before removing his cloak and wrapping the woman with it, picking her up as he went, supporting her head with his arm, and her knees over his other, “Get me a stretcher!” he called up, moving through the lower deck for the stairs, and emerging through the hatch back to the top.

The Grisha and Otkazat’sya around him seemed stunned, a silence settling over the skiff and those around it, watching their General emerge with a knocked out woman in his arms, who seemingly had crashed out of The Fold and into the world. And he was calm. Suspiciously so. Though wether that was his demeanour or something else, no one could quite tell.

Meanwhile, Aleksander’s heart was racing. The woman in his arms looked different. She was older, more beaten, marks decorating her skin which weren’t there before. But so was he. He had scars, he had tired eyes that had seen too much and a face he hardly recognised.

But he hoped his love for her was the same. His Zvezda. His Y/N.

It took all he had, all his self control and composure, not to caress her face. Not to kiss her eyelids, not to burst into tears like a child. But he couldn’t. Not here, not with so many people watching him, watching them.

So he gently laid her on the stretcher, when it came, and ordered her to be brought to The Little Palace.

[aoi-targaryen]

Last Words of A Shooting Star (2/?)

A/N: Hello!! It's been a while!! This took me ages to start and ages to finish, it will probably need editing but that's alright!! Hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 4176 Thank you all for the sweet comments and reblogs!! unfortunately, my comments don't work!! but they're appreciated all the same!!! <3

people I thought might appreciate being tagged: (If not, sorry!!!):

@augustwithquills @myanmy @noortsshift @archangelslollipop @vaguekayla @budugu @inlovewithfictionalmen444 @weallhaveadestiny @dreamlandcreations @bookloverfilmoholic @lost-tothe-centuries @myanmy @oliviaewl @summersummoner-pat @augustwithquills @lost-tothe-centuries @wonderland2425 Part 1 - Masterlist -

The rumours around The Sanctuary start instantly. The change in the Shadow Summoner and the Star is clear to see - their little giggles which are closer than before, the casual touches - a hand on a back, a hip, an arm, the occasional kiss to the cheek or playful glance across the mess hall - it’s all noticeable to those who are watching.

And people are watching. It’s endearing in a way; it brings a warmth and a light to the halls which had previously been found in the other young couples. For a little bit, life in The Sanctuary is quiet and good and domestic.

Winter changes that.

Winter brings harsh winds and even harsher journeys. More groups of Grisha begin to arrive at The Sanctuary, with that familiar hollow gaze and blood stained nails, throats screamed raw and clothes muddied and singed at the edges. Winter brings an increase in Royal patrols and Druskelle raids. Winter brings war, and death and hunger: the sudden decline of crops means rations are implemented, and with the ever rising population it suddenly becomes very hard to feed all the Grisha.

Living becomes a team effort - it has to be, or else if one person goes, everyone goes with them.

The Sanctuary, once filled with warmth and sunlight and laughter, becomes quiet and cold, pensive and reflective, serene in a melancholy way. The world, once golden, has been bathed in grey.

They’re laying in bed together one night, an act done in intimacy, but also to preserve warmth, when Aleksander murmurs something against Y/N’s hair. When she hears the muffled noise, she pulls the lower half of her face out from under the patchwork sheets and glances up at him, “What’s that, lapushka?”

“I think we should leave The Sanctuary.” And her heart stops.

He pulls his face out of her hair to repeat, “I think we should leave The Sanctuary. For good. We could go - and make our own life. Away from all this suffering.” he says quietly, and he knows it’s selfish but suddenly he finds himself with something to lose - he refuses to lose her to this life.

Her eyes widen a fraction, her brows drawing together, “…How?” She says softly, “Everything we have is here We can’t just…”

Aleksander leans up onto his elbow to gaze down at her, his eyes almost pleading, “But it wasn’t always. We survived together when we first met, we can do it again until we find a… a home. Please, Zvezda.” And his spare hand came up to cradle her face, “Let me take you away from all this. Please.”

She swallows as she leans into his hand and lets her eyes flutter shut. The Star sighs, “Aleks… You really want to?” She asks hesitantly.

He answers instantly, “Yes. I do. Let me take you somewhere where we’ll be happy, and we’ll always be safe.” He leans his head down to press a kiss to the apple of her cheek, “I promise.”

-

They leave in the early morning, their few belongings packed into bags and placed on the back of a brown speckled horse, which they ungraciously name Madga, after the fairytale. It’s the type of morning where the sun doesn’t rise properly and instead paints the sky a pale blue, a low fog has settled on the grass and the mud has yet to thaw. The only noise for miles around is the brush of the wind and the leaves, and the crows calling down the morning.

The goodbye is hard. Consisting of furrowed brows and slight sniffs, Aleksander and Y/N hug, and shake hands, and kiss cheeks with the people whom they have lived with, survived with, for the past few months. The people who are the same as them, who they have an identity and kinship with - who know their struggles and feel their hardships.

They know they’re leaving together, neither one of them is alone, but it’s still the loss of a community. And a damn painful loss at that.

The final goodbye is said and done, and suddenly their backs are to The Sanctuary and the winding path in front of them is daunting yet manageable. One of his gloved hands is holding the reigns of the horse, the other finds hers. Likewise, one of her hands rests limply above the handle of her sword, tucked neatly into its holder, but the other’s fingers intertwine with his, an unspoken I’ve got you. And then they’re going, leaving their home and their friends and their cause, in hopes of a better life.

With each crunch of their boots the mud begins to melt, the winter morning sun doing very little to soften the blow of the winds which knife them. The horse trots happily behind them, whinnying and huffing sometimes but overall content with the gentle pace they’ve set. It’s the beginning of their journey and their not trying to exhaust themselves on the first day. The first day, which they spend walking among trees and branches which have been stripped by winter, is gentle. They talk idly and laugh occasionally, settling into their choice that they have made. Coming to terms with it.

They spend the first night in, what was once, a field, but was now mostly cold dirt and frozen mud. Aleksander and Y/N set up a small fire just big enough to cook the little meat they had decided to use with a tiny bit of bread, and they place their roll mats side by side, layering their thin blankets with their coats and jackets and curling up beside one another to preserve heat.

They exchange soft kisses and quiet murmurs, compliments and hands slipped under shirts, her fingers tracing over scars, his thumb rubbing circles over her hip. It’s comfort and sweetness in a journey that is unsure and vague, but familiar in its routine. They’ve been here before.

The first village they come upon is uninhabitable. The signs of struggle are clear - the piles of belongings abandoned on the road, the out-of-place burnt husks of homes, sandwiched between pristine cottages and buildings. Makeshift memorials and graves. The entire village buzzes with paranoia and anger, people’s heads whip around too fast and the entire market is full of yelled accusations - so they make a point to avoid it.

It’s clear what’s happened here: any and all Grisha families, travellers, people even so much as suspected of being Grisha, have had their homes and livelihoods stolen from them, their belongings, their toys, photos, trinkets and memories, tossed onto the street like rubbish. As they pass both Y/N and Aleksander keep their heads down with the quiet knowledge that, hopefully, those people had a peaceful end.

The Star and the Shadow Summoner pass through the village quickly, hiding any and all marks of being, or being associated with, Grisha - both their Kefta’s hidden by large coats and layers for warmth. They get a few odd looks but nothing that’s out of the ordinary for travellers. They pass through with pits in their stomachs and tightly clutched hands.

Their journey is long and never easy. Winter only gets harsher, only seems to punish them. There are moments where leaving the Sanctuary feels like a mistake - cold nights with only one another for comfort where they miss the food and the beds, and the warmth of a proper fire or the food-hall.

And it’s hard with both the Druskelle and the King’s Men suddenly being so much more vigilant. They’re everywhere, around ever village, town, city. Which means their journey is limited to lesser travelled paths and darkness - which isn’t too much of a bother. Aleksander is a Shadow Summoner, and Y/N’s a literal star. So, darkness is something they’re rather familiar with and is hardly a daunting or unwelcomed propsect.

However, an odd tension rises when they pass by another city - this one, ransacked by the King’s Men. And the flyers which litter the town: she manages to catch one under her shoe, and she bends down to pick it up, Aleksander’s brow furrowing, “What do they say?” He asked softly.

Y/N turns it around, her eyes scanning over the paper to read the words. A demand from the King, calling for the arrest of the Shadow Summoner. Her eyes flickered to him, wide and alarmed, “Sasha…”

“…damn.” He muttered, running a hand through his dark hair, “…Y/N, zvezda.” He sighed, taking the pamphlet off her, “…We’ll have to take extra care to avoid towns. C’mon.” And he took her hand, guiding her out of the town and to the path which went around the settlement, a good distance away.

During the journey he’d taken on that brooding look she was so accustomed to, which she recognised as him either being deep in thought, annoyed, or angry. And it seemed to be an odd combination of all three. She let him simmer in it for a bit, until she tapped his hand with her fingers, “Love?”

He glanced towards her, acknowledging her questioning. He simply squeezed her hand softly.

“We should talk about it,” she said gently, “This is a big threat, and we can’t just pretend-”

“I promised you safety.” he muttered, his eyes dark and focused on the path ahead, “I promised you safety and happiness, and just you being with me jeopardises that. Jeopardises you, and I refuse to be the reason that…”

Her brow furrowed softly, her eyes pinned on him as he continued, “I refuse to be the reason that something happens to you, all because you… and…” He swallowed, “You are… so, precious to me. And the idea that you just being around me may put you into danger - if anything happened to you-”

“I know.” She said softly, “Sasha, I know. We’re both hazards to one another.” She acknowledged, “I mean, Saints,” she playfully untucked a strand of her silvery hair from her hood, trying to lighten the mood, “I’m a glaring obstacle,” she weakly joked, “And- not to mention our Keftas. So, yeah, we’re risks to one another. A risk I’m willing to take.”

Aleksander sighed, finally glancing at her, still burdened but slightly relieved. He nodded firmly, his thumb tracing her knuckles.

-

The end of winter brings the husk of a tiny cottage, on the edge of a glade. The trees are sparse and the ground is mulch but there’s a stone structure, half falling apart, the walls slightly toppled and with little proof of previous inhabitants save for an old wooden table and the shell of a bed: just a wooden structure.

They spend the first night there, make a mattress out of their clothes and bags and coats, light a meagre fire in the unused hearth but it’s enough to provide heat. The first night, turns to two nights, then to three, and then a week, and all of a sudden things are… comfortable. Suddenly their belongings find homes - their little trinkets kept on mantles and sides.

By the second week, it’s decided they will stay. And they settle into domesticity. The first action is to fix the bed, and they quickly discover there’s a nearby village, tiny, but enough to purchase produce and other resources. She goes, having teasingly banned him from entering any villages or towns due to the declaration. The declaration which they keep as a slightly playful memento above the fireplace, pinned to the wall and the stones.

Gradually, the seasons change.

It gets warmer, sunnier, days become longer. They fix the walls, make a mattress, they take it in turns to chop firewood and cook, days are filled with joy and ease and love.

It’s a quiet evening, the two of them sat side by side at their dining table as the share intimate memories and stories, Aleksander’s voice low as he recounts the stories she knows on surface level, “…I travelled around a lot as a kid. My mother - well, we’re both Shadow Summoners - She works at The Sanctuary. She meant well when she raised me, I think. Now, she’s just bitter.” he murmured, “We stayed at a Grisha camp…” And the story goes on, as he finally tells her the truth of his childhood.

And his first incident with The Cut.

In return she tells him of her experience as a Star. The years spent above, witnessing human life, longing for that. Of having an unimaginable understanding of human civilisation and development and being entirely unable to partake in it. And the stories which the mortals make of her and her kind, this need to understand and name, to see figures and shapes in the constellations.

They listen to one another’s stories respectively, offering soft smiles and gentle encouragements. They listen to one another’s stories with love.

-

It’s been months since they’ve settled at the homestead, and it’s late summer. The air is thick and warm and comfortable, and they’re working in the field together. She’s hanging up their laundry, while he folds what’s been taken off the line and places it onto a chair they’ve brought outside. The line which they put up together, connecting from the side of the building to the treeline. He’s sitting in the grass as she rinses off and wrings the clothes, shaking them out and putting them out in the sun.

And then suddenly water hits her cheek. And she makes a show of gaping at him, “Oh, you did not.”

He’s got his hand in the bucket, sitting cross legged in the field with a mischievous grin on his handsome face, “And if I did?”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him, and then makes a show of dipping clothes in the bucket, wringing it out, and then shaking it out in his face so the water flicked all over him, “Milaya!” He cried out, as she chuckled at his reaction, “Fine, I suppose I deserve it…” And then suddenly, he pauses.

She’s standing above him, the setting sunlight just behind her head, lighting up her hair like… well, starlight. Spun silver. And she’s laughing, and his heart stops in his chest.

“What?” She laughs, noticing his expression, “What is it?”

Finally, Aleksander shakes his head and returns to folding, an amused quirk at his lips, “Oh, nothing, zvezda.”

She mutters something in return, making another show of huffing as she returned to hanging up the laundry.

“You’re so pretty when you’re annoyed,” he teased, resting his head in his hand.

“Aleks…” She warns, a playful glare in his direction.

“What?” He laughs, leaning back on his hands, “I’m simply stating the truth.”

“You are insufferable.” She huffs.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

And he softens like ice cream on a hot day at her words, his smile shifting from teasing to adoring, dopey and warm, “I love you too, zvezda. Even if you think I’m insufferable.” In return she gives him a smile over her shoulder, finishing up the laundry, “C’mon. We’ll cook together tonight, love.”

“If you insist,” he muses, standing with a soft groan. As they go into the house together, he wraps an arm around her shoulder, “I’m getting old, lapushka.”

“Oh, please,” she playfully scoffed, “You’re barely…” She falters then, her brow furrowing, “…I don’t actually know how human age works.” She admits.

His brow raises a fraction, before he begins to explain to her how human’s - mortals - classify age. Which leads to their evening being full of age-based jabs and him explaining to her the concept of birthdays over stew. It’s easy, and they tumble into bed together that night in fits of giggles and quiet kisses.

It’s home.

They sleep peacefully through the nights beside one another and gradually the searching and persecution begins to die down. Just enough for them to toy with the idea of going out together for the first time in months. Typically, only one of them goes out a time, keeps their head down and focuses on getting whatever they left to get and returning as soon as possible. But things are changing, and Spring always has a certain… ability, to put a haze on life. Especially when you’re in love.

And so, on an early Saturday morning, they set out for the nearest town with the hope that the market will be busy and they can slip right in with all the other travellers and unfamiliars.

When Aleksander and Y/N arrive the market is busy. Thriving. Wonderfully convenient for the two of them to walk hand in hand and to browse things they’ll never buy: various fabrics and jewellery, cheeses and jams and expensive cuts of meat. It’s easy to get swept up in the current of the constantly moving bodies.

“Hey, look at that,” he lets out a soft huff of amusement through his nose as he points out a little stall of baked goods, already taking her hand and dragging her there, “Shall we?”

“Aleks-”

Before she can stop him he’s reaching into his pocket, handing over a number of coins to the vendor and receiving two slices of cake. He nods his thanks before turning to her with a cheeky grin, holding out the slice, “For you, milaya.”

Y/N sighs but takes the cake with a grateful smile, “Thank you.”

Simultaneously both the Star and the Shadow Summoner raise the cake to their lips and nod in agreement that it’s good. And they keep walking, arm in arm and eating their cake.

For a little bit they’re just… normal. He doesn’t have shadows at his fingertips, and she’s not a celestial body. For a moment, as they buy carrots and onions, garlic and cuts of meat, they’re just an average couple without an arrest warrant on their heads. They relish in it, the lack of stares in the busy market, their anxiety doesn’t spike, her hand doesn’t clutch his any harder. It’s sunny, and they’re browsing, and somewhere church bells are ringing, announcing mid-day.

They return home, arms full of produce to ensure good-tasting meals for the next few days. And they don’t suspect a thing.

-

“Milaya,” he says, entering with a panic and already gathering their bare necessities, “We need to go. Now.”

It’s a mild summer evening, she’s sitting at the table when he enters, her brow furrowing. Aleksander’s panicked and tense manner is clear. He had only gone into town for an hour or two, she doesn’t understand what’s changed.

“Sasha,” She stands, discarding whatever she was doing at the table, “Calm down - what’s wrong?” And then a noise from outside, the huff of a horse. “Sasha, why is Madga?- What- What’s happening?” As she watches her lover hurry around their small home, swiping things into two bags.

He doesn’t look up as he hurriedly answers, “We were too careless, Y/N.” She can hear his anger in his tone, “God- I don’t know what we were thinking,” He huffs. And finally pauses and looks up at her, “They’ve found us.”

“Who have?” she urged, rounding the table to stop him, taking him by the arms, “Aleksander, who have?”

His dark eyes, as dark as his shadows, meet hers and he swallows, his hands shaking slightly as he urges them to still, “…The King’s Men.”

“…The King’s Men.” She echoes, her eyes widening before she turns and hisses, “Shit. Shit. Alright, let’s go.” And begins to help him in gathering their belongings, “How? I don’t- we-”

“We were careless.” He says, his voice low as he begins to gather any food they can take with them, “Careless and presumptuous. We got too comfortable.” And it all clicks into place - busy markets and bustling stalls hide more than just Grisha.

“The market,” She mutters, “And then we just- kept going back.”

He glances up and nods, “Yeah,” he sighs, a shaky exhale, “The market. I noticed them there today and… well, they noticed me, Lapushka… we don’t have long, before-”

The sound of hooves on the dry soil outside still both their hearts and their eyes widen. There’s yelling - goading and jesting - laughter echoing through the summer air and causing nausea to well up in the guts of the two lovers.

They both know it’s too late but still Aleksander’s shadows swarm the room in a mass of black and extinguish the candles, she barely has time to see his hands move before they’re plunged into darkness.

The only thing she can hear is their breathing and, guided only by moonlight, her hand slips into his, their mutual fear palpable. She want to whisper to him, to tell him no matter what happens she loves him. She doesn’t. Instead she attempts to swallow her nerves and blocks out the sound of footsteps around the house.

And then a voice, low and teasing and menacing, “We know you’re in there, Grisha scum. And that whore you keep with you.” It earns a round of laughs, “Come out. Or we’ll have to come in.”

Aleksander can feel his heart in his throat. And Y/N’s hand in his. The decision isn’t hard, and he’s quick about it, too quick for her to stop him as his hand slips from hers, and he steps out of the house, moon and firelight flooding in through the door.

She watches him go with words of protest dying on her tongue as he steps out, his hands raised at his side, still and displayed, “I approach peacefully,” His voice low and calm as he steps into view of the King’s Men, “With a message for the king: if he or his men slaughter any more of my Grisha-”

She takes the chance to gather final belongings, her back turned to the door as she listens to the exchange, desperate for any kind of final escape.

Y/N can hear another man’s voice, a low chuckle, “The King wants you back alive…” there’s footsteps, she can see Aleksander’s expression in her mind’s eye: disdain and anger, “…but maybe you resisted, so…” it’s taunting and it turns her stomach.

There’s a sound of piercing clothes and flesh, a low grunt and her heart seizes as her head whips around to the doorway. But it’s too late, and she makes eye contact with a man in a royal uniform, twice her size. She lurches forward for her sword but he grabs her hair and yanks it back. Y/N falls against him, right up to his chest, whereupon the soldier wraps his arms around her neck and torso, keeping her pinned to his body and unable to struggle, his grip tight as he marches her out the house and into Aleksander’s line of sight.

She watches his face pale and fall, “Zvezda…”

“I’m sorry,” is all she can murmur, “I’m sorry…” And there’s an overwhelming fear running through her. This sudden realisation that this is it, her short-lived life as a human brought to an end by their own carelessness and comfort.

Aleksander turns to the man who is obviously the soldier’s leader, “Not her.” He says, “Please, not her, she isn’t apart of this- you don’t need her! I’m begging you-!”

And the soldier laughs, “Our orders were to bring you in. And you alone.”

“If you want our co-operation-”

“Not our orders.” The soldier repeats, and he glances at the other man, the one with his arm tightly around her throat.

It all happens so quickly. His knife is drawn, panic filling her eyes as she mouths the words I love you, a pit settling in both their guts. The blade shines in the twilight of the evening. The moment is slow, the drag of the knife across her throat, her eyes widening as she gargles, and the spilling of blood down her throat. Silvery blood, shiny and metallic, viscous and hot, which shimmers like the ocean in sunlight.

Aleksander can barely feel his hands, his legs, his face, for the pounding of his heart against his ribs, the lump bubbling in his throat. He is silently distraught.

The soldier sneers, “Still have a message for the king?” He taunts, holding his lover’s limp body, still twitching.

It isn’t long before the surrounding world is plunged into an irredeemable darkness.

[aoi-targaryen]

Last Words of A Shooting Star (Part One)

A/N: this is the longest fic I've ever written, and this is only part one. A lot of love has gone into this, I'm super excited to share it! If there any mistakes or stuff please let me know. Uh, Aleksander's kinda OOC bcs it's early days and I'm not traumatising him yet but I am gonna make everyone so miserable in Part Two, I promise, and then he'll become a mardy bastard. Masterlist will be up with the second part, and my main will be updated.

Main Masterlist

people I thought might appreciate being tagged: (If not, sorry!!!):

@augustwithquills @myanmy @noortsshift @archangelslollipop @vaguekayla @budugu @inlovewithfictionalmen444 @weallhaveadestiny @dreamlandcreations @bookloverfilmoholic @lost-tothe-centuries

Part Two Part Three

Warnings: Violence - murder, not too graphic, I don't think. I think that's all, if not please let me know. tbf, canon level I think but maybe I'm delusional

Word Count: 8260

Fic Playlist:

Aleksander has always had a fascination with the night sky. He can’t help it. It’s the darkness, he thinks, it runs in his blood and makes up his flesh, how couldn’t he be absolutely enamoured with it? 

Maybe it’s because it was the only constant. 

So much of his childhood, his years as a teenager and as a young adult were spent travelling, creating new identities, learning new landscapes, new faces, new names, new buildings, all of which would disappear and be replaced every two weeks. And sure, the daytime was nice with the sun and all. But it wasn’t as peaceful, didn’t bring him that same tranquillity as when he would lay down in a field, gaze up and try to name all the constellations, find new shapes and make up new stories. 

Perhaps it all changed due to the incident at the Grisha camp. He had loved sunlight, the dark had scared him. But now, something was different - that air of peace was replaced by a penchant for the tenebrosity that the night brought with it, and a love for the small lights which decorated the dusk. 

No matter where he went, whether he was North, East, South, or West, the night-sky was the same. Always that deep monumental blue speckled with little dots - little lights, little moons, little stories - which people like him called Stars. There was nothing quite like laying in a field, feeling the cool summer breeze or the biting winter gusts and knowing that you were so small, so insignificant compared to everything that burned up in the cosmos. 

He was young then. Young and naive. And it was before her.

Looking back on it, Aleksander should’ve known better. Hadn’t the incident at the Grisha Camp taught him that? Wasn’t it what his mother drilled into him constantly? Trust no one. Never show your abilities. Touch no one. He was, politely put, a fool. 

He was a young man when his life changed, for the better and for the worse. It’s hard to remember exactly, but he believes he was around nineteen, and he remembers it was a hot summer’s evening. The day had been spent working. He couldn’t have known then, but that ‘work’ was the beginnings of The Little Palace. But back then, it was him being - as his mother would put it - foolish, and helping other Grisha travel across Ravka. They were hard to find, and even harder to trust, but gradually, slowly yet surely, he was building a good network.

But during the nights, just for a little while he could let that go. He could lay in the tall grass, head tipped towards the dark vast sky and he could stare up at the stars and pretend he was normal, that shadows weren’t absentmindedly curling around his fingers.

For some reason he struggles to remember memories before that time. They’re blurry and vague, little snippets and days that he’s lost with his extended age. But that particular night, he remembers it vividly - his long hair brushing his cheek in the wind, the hard dirt under his head, the hum of nature and bugs, the bustle of a town not so far away carried on the wind, and the stars. They were the brightest he’d ever seen them, almost restless, buzzing in their eternal placeholders. Something, he could feel, was wrong.

The image of the star falling to Earth is eternally seared into his memory.

It appeared faster than he could comprehend - one second it wasn’t there, and then one second it was. He sits up on his elbows, completely transfixed and stunned by, what he at first presumes, is a shooting star. But gradually, he realises it’s getting bigger, faster… closer.

This burning bright ball of cream yellow light, tumbling through time and space and existence, tumbling towards him. Sitting there in the field, stunned by the sight, he’s sure he can hear it fizzling and crackling, knows it’s completely impossible from this distance, but he’s certain of it. Something tugs in his chest, somewhere between unbridled intrigue and panic, his mother’s words of warning echoing in his head. The intrigue wins, it’s an easy internal battle of common sense and childlike wonder which he thought he had long abandoned. 

Aleksander scrambles to his feet, accidentally getting dirt on his palms and his trousers but he barely notices, head still tilted to the sky and his breath caught in his throat. He can see the trajectory of the star, where it will land in a section of the forest just a bit off from where he’s camping out. His eyes widen, a small smile, and before he knows it he’s stepping towards the tree-line, his black boots thudding on the ground as his footsteps get quicker and quicker. 

To anyone else, the forest might’ve seemed daunting, especially so late at night. But the Shadow Summoner stepped into it without hesitation, the wizened terrain underfoot switching to a softer crunch of twigs and leaves. Once inside, he loses sight of the star, the canopy of the forest shielding it from him, its only indication being the unnatural light it shines through the leaves onto the forest floor, making his journey easier. He dodges twigs, branches, spider-webs, ducking and batting them out of the way quickly, balancing looking at the floor and where he’s going with gazing up at the foliage covered sky for any indication he’s travelling the right way. 

He doesn’t know why he’s following after the star. He doesn’t know how he knows it’s a star. It feels more akin to when you’re in a dream, and you just know something is. Something about it compels him, drags him forward and pushes him on, deeper into the forest.

When the star makes impact, he feels it. In fact, Aleksander’s sure the entire world might’ve felt it, the shake in the trees and the ground, the birds disturbed from their midnight peace quickly fleeing their homes at the rattle of the branches and leaves, the dust-like dirt stirring. And it guides him to the star - the cracking noise it made as it hit the ground unmistakably came from a fraction to his left and so, he followed that way. 

He knows he’s getting closer when the damage becomes more destructive. It’s no longer just disturbed birds and dirt, it’s entire trees tilted at an angle as if God had pushed a finger into the dirt and tilted them, their roots peeking through the soil. But in the middle of the makeshift clearing it is dark, the disturbed dirt floating and drifting through the air and concealing his surroundings. The ground is severely dented and compacted, forming a large dark crater which Aleksander can barely peek over. 

He shuffles from the damaged treeline, his boots creaking on the soil as he tries to catch a glimpse over the edge of the vast crater, but it’s wide and deep, and the edges are loose. He’s careful, his Shadows waiting obediently for his hands to move - for some form of attack or defence. But it never comes. 

Instead, as the clouds of dirt clear, the centre of the crater gradually became more visible. The middle was, overall, smooth but it slopes and nicks here and there. He had expected to see a rock, some large grey bland thing which ultimately would’ve made this all less exciting. But what he sees instead has his eyes widening. There, in the middle of the crater, is a young woman. She’s asleep - passed out maybe - her arms loosely stretched outwards, her hair splayed, messy and white. It’s not even like he can say it’s grey, or silver, or blonde. No, her hair is white, paper white, as white as the dress she’s wearing. It fits her well, skims over her body without constricting too much movement.  He notices she has no shoes on. It dawns on him that this sleeping woman, this girl, is the Star and his brow furrows softly. 

He barely hesitates before he’s sitting on the ledge of the crater and sliding down it, his boots landing on the compacted soil with a thud. In a few strides he’s standing over the sleeping girl, and then in another quick action he crouches down and picks her up, the back of her knees bent over his arm, her waist in his other as he supports her back and her head lolls. He huffs in soft amusement, and walks back the way he came, gently hoisting her up the wall of the crater with as much care as he can, using his shadows when he has a spare hand. It’s hard, and takes a bit of manoeuvring, but he gets there eventually before he pulls himself up. It’s a surprise to him that she hasn’t woken up yet. 

He didn’t feel comfortable leaving her there like that, asleep, vulnerable and barefoot where anyone could’ve found her and not have known what they had stumbled on. He picks her up again, and begins his journey back through the forest, a little slower and with a little more care, mumbling to himself - to her - as they go. She doesn’t stir once, her head propped against his chest, her hair tickling his arm slightly. 

The journey back to where he was camping out is peaceful. It’s quiet, save for his footsteps or the rustle of clothes. Occasionally, the moonlight catches her and she sparkles a bit. Literally sparkles, reflects it like a goddamn mirror. It really is a sight to see and it makes his lips quirk up a bit. 

When they get back to the field, he’s careful. Aleksander lays her down on his mat, adds a few more logs to the fire and covers her with his coat. He thinks of checking her for injuries or damage, but decides that can wait until she wakes up. He doesn’t want to be a creep, and if she’s in pain she’s probably better off telling him when she wakes up, than him finding out for himself. 

And so, he settles himself on the other side of the campfire. He leans his head on his pack - considering the girl next to him has his mat - and tries to get what little sleep will come. 

-

When Y/N wakes, it’s in unfamiliar surroundings. The first thing she’s aware of is the cold. It’s not freezing, but it’s uncomfortable, and she tucks her legs up under her until she’s in a ball, tugging the blanket under her chin. Blanket? No. She shouldn’t have a blanket. It shouldn’t be cold… 

She sits up fast and quick, all lethargy gone from her body as her eyes widen and she takes in her surroundings. She’s in a field. On a mat. And someone’s dark, large coat is over her body. It’s early morning, the sky a pale grey, a low mist settling on her surroundings and a light dew coating the grass. She can feel heat on one side of her, but her head is turned towards the foggy treeline. She tries to recall the last things she remembers… being in the sky, existing, and then a sudden gap which she can’t figure out, and then she wakes up here. 

She’s caught in thought, trying to make sense of her surroundings when a voice says, “You’re awake.” and her head whips around. On the other side of a fresh campfire is a young man, dark eyes, long dark hair, pale skin and dark clothes. He’s roasting a rabbit over the fire - no doubt freshly caught from the knife that sits beside him. His pack sits beside him, his eyes never leave her, even as she expresses soft panic. 

She tries to get up, but her body aches, and he holds out a hand, “Easy. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?” he asks softly, waving to her to relax. 

She answers hesitantly, her eyes scanning the boy, “Y/N.” she says eventually, “You?” 

“Leonid.” Aleksander lies, looking between the campfire and her, “Are you hurt anywhere? You took… quite the fall.” 

“Funny.” Y/N says drily, “How long have you been working on that one?”

From the grin that splits his face, he’s clearly secretly pleased with his dad-joke, “Just this morning.” Leonid - Aleksander - turns a bit more serious, “Are you, though? Hurt?” 

She shakes her head, kicking the coat off her and putting it to one side so she can sit up properly, “No, I’m fine.” she mumbles, “Just achy.” 

“Mhm, I suppose that’s to be expected.” he holds the cooked rabbit out to her on a makeshift fork, “Here, eat. You’ll need it.” 

Y/N takes it hesitantly, sniffing it before picking a bit of meat off it with her fingers and eating it, “Thanks… who are you?” 

“Leonid.” He repeats. 

“No, I meant like - where am I? Who are you - like - how did you find me?” 

“Well,” he leans back on his elbows, glances around, “You’re in a field, near Vernost, in Ravka.” he says, “and I am…” his brow furrows softly as he figures out how to phrase this. She’s a Star - would she even understand the difference between Grisha and Otkazats’ya? 

He says it anyway. 

“As I said, my name’s Leonid, I’m…” he’s hesitant - would a star really have prejudices? He hopes not. He takes a foolish chance. “Grisha. You know what that is?” 

She nods, offers him what remains of the Rabbit. He waves it off, indicating that she finishes it. “Why are you helping me?” She asks, tilting her head. 

“My, you’re just full of questions.” he sighs, “I saw you fall. I wasn’t just gonna… leave you.”

“Right.” Y/N’s eyes narrow slightly, “is this your coat? Here you can have it back.” she nudges the coat towards him. 

He gives her an amused look, his eyes moving down, then back up, “I think you’ll need it more than me, zvezda.” he muses, smug almost. 

She glances down at the dress she’s wearing. It’s simple, plain, and he’s right. It’s too thin for the current weather - she’ll be better off as it warms up during the day - but for now, she accepts the coat with a small, amused huff. 

"C'mon, eat that fast," he says, indicating to the rabbit, "We've gotta get going before the sun is too high." He's already tucking away the few things he got out, "I'm gonna walk you to the nearest town, Vernost, leave you somewhere safe, okay?" he glances at her, "Get you some shoes and some more suitable clothes. Until then…”

He reaches into his pack, produces a spare undershirt and hands it to her with an almost apologetic look, "Better than nothing." she nods in thanks.

She takes the shirt with a grateful nod. Once she's finished the rabbit, she stands and hands him the mat, watching as he rolls it up and tucks that away too, and then they're set to travel. She pulls on the undershirt over her dress and while it hangs loosely it provides a bit more comfort, and then she shuffles on his coat. It’s too big for her, completely contrasts her bright eyes and white hair, the sleeves hang loosely and she has to roll them up. 

 He wants to make her as comfortable as possible, and so shows her the map he’s using, highlights the path they’ll be travelling with his finger, showing their way through the woods, worries a bit over her lack of shoes and then they’re walking. 

The path to the town is simple, through the woods, past her crater, and then a little further for about fifteen or twenty minutes. He’s careful to go first, his harsh boots making some attempt at flattening the ground for her barefoot condition. Aleksander considers picking her up - no, too weird for someone he’s just met - and she doesn’t seem to be in any pain. 

They keep walking. The sun rises higher, the morning beginning just as they make their way into Vernost. It’s a small town, but a good town. The hustle and bustle of people, farmers, artisans, builders and blacksmiths is accompanied by the gentle murmur of the small local market, travellers and locals who move between stalls and shops, horses’ hooves on the cobblestone, the crowd parting for an occasional rickety wooden carriage.

He glances over to her. The look of awe on her face is somewhere between sad and endearing. She’s struck completely by this tiny town, the smallest, simplest form of inhabitance, and yet it brings nothing but awe and wonder to her gaze. There’s a sense of yearning in the way her eyes run over everything as they walk, as if she’s desperate to take it all in, to retain it, keep it held to her chest - to make life hers. To have all of it - to know the joys and the sorrows like the back of her hand. Aleksander could practically see the light come to life behind her eyes, as if she’d finally woken up to something wonderful. 

He smiles, somewhere between amusement and appreciation, and places a hand on her shoulder to steer her through the crowds which are slowly getting busier, “Easy tiger.” he says and she laughs sheepishly. 

“It’s just all so…” she doesn’t know how to describe it, the words to explain the way her heart is racing all jam up in her throat. She has a heart. The rushing of blood, just the wind against her skin, it’s all she ever wanted to feel, and now that she can feel it, now she’s no longer confined to the night sky, she’s in complete and utter astonishment, raptured by everything around her. 

“Kinda overwhelming?” He suggests, raising an eyebrow as they walk. He’s keeping an eye out for a Cobbler - or anywhere that sells shoes, really. Again, he casts his eyes down to her bare feet and feels guilt and concern rise in him, that the streets of Vernost, nor the woods are exactly clean, and they must be hurting by now.

But one glance at her face and he can tell she barely feels it. It’s just dirt - it can be washed off. However, it doesn’t ease the guilt. 

-

The first time she ‘shines’, is over a piece of cake. 

They’d been travelling together for a few weeks now. Aleksander was a fool to think he could leave her alone in Vernost, his worries, concerns and guilt over the Star getting the better of him. They stayed for a few days there, giving her a general introduction to the workings of human life in a contained and somewhat non-threatening environment. 

In their few brief days in Vernost she tries a range of food, stews, desserts. He explains money, the current politics of the country over a bowl of stew from the Inn they were staying at, explains the prejudices and segregation of Grisha, the violence. They get her clothing, a shirt, an overvest, trousers and boots, and a small bag to carry her non-existent belongings. She folds her dress into it for the first few days - that silky silver material which catches in the moonlight - and it fits surprisingly well, tucks into the corner of the satchel. He explains to her how to read the map, all the different little symbols. In some ways, she’s like a child. Her lack of general knowledge about the world is understandable, but she catches on fast, much faster than anyone else could’ve. 

Well, they’d been travelling together for a few weeks, developing a relationship that might even be called friendship. Aleksander had to make a few adjustments to the way he travelled - he was still telling Y/N his name was Leonid - occasionally they travelled at night. Honestly, it made more sense, he felt more comfortable in the darkness, and she had more energy. But it also made them bigger targets for suspicion, people travelling at night were often suspected of Grisha related activity… which is exactly what he was doing. She was just along for the ride, and the last thing he wanted was for her to get dragged into his problems and potentially harmed. Conflicting morals, he knows. 

They’d passed through a few villages on their travels, small places which minded their own business and were good for occasional stock ups on food, water, supplies. 

He doesn’t know why he bought the slice of cake. Aleksander had decided it was good for her to develop her own independence, and so she had gone to make her own way around this small town they’d stopped in. Meanwhile, he perused the sparse shops for anything of use. 

The slices of cake were sitting in the shop window, all of them uniform in their cream decoration and the small slices of strawberries which sat inside and on top of the layers of sponge, and all of them placed delicately on little porcelain dishes. He enters the shop without thinking, purchases a slice to take away, lets the person wrap it away in a small tissue and carefully takes it, slipping it into a safe part of his own bag. He’s careful for the rest of the day in the way he moves - making sure not to squash or compromise the baked good. He can’t quite wrap his mind - nor his heart - around why he’s done it. Why did he suddenly feel the urge to buy her a slice of cake of all things. But he’s glad he did. Aleksander hopes she’ll like it. 

He presents it to her over their campfire for the evening. It’s a small thing made of dried grass and twigs or any larger pieces of wood they could find but it provides light and heat and that’s enough. They’re sitting either side of it, across from one another, having just eaten bread and cheese for dinner. Twilight is setting in the sky, and he can see it on her - the way her eyes are slightly brighter, her laugh slightly more mellow as they chat over their food. 

He reaches into his bag by his side, clears his throat and says, “I got you something.”

Y/N’s brow furrows softly, and she tilts her head as he continues, “I just… it’s small, but I thought you might like it.” and he produces a square shaped thing, slanted, and wrapped in tissue, still preserved, offering it to her in the palm of his hand over the campfire. 

She takes it gently, “What is it?” as she delicately peels back the tissue. The cake is… well, cake. The sponge is a soft pale yellow, the cream delicately placed and the strawberries are slightly softer than they should be, but won’t make too much of a difference. She raises it to her nose and hesitantly sniffs it, which gets a chuckle out of him. 

“It’s cake.” he answers, “Go on, try it.” Aleksander encourages her with a wave of his hand. 

She raises her eyebrows and lifts the cake to her mouth, taking a small bite. Her eyes instantly light up, and he laughs at her reaction as she mumbles, “Oh, Saints, this is really good..” Around a  mouthful of cake. 

She eats a bit more, and then holds it out to him, “Want some?” 

And that’s when he sees it. She’s shining. Literally glowing. Radiating light, her very skin and hair giving it off like it’s nothing. His breath hitches as she lights up the field. It’s not particularly bright, but it’s strong and it makes itself known. She’s like a mellow night light, and it only causes his smile to widen, “You’re um…”  he gestures at her - at her glowing. 

Her brow scrunches up - it’s cute - and she laughs sheepishly, “Shining?” 

“Yeah. That.” he grins, leaning back on his palms. 

She huffs, a huff of mock exasperation, “I’m sorry - I can’t… it’s not something I can really control. It just happens, y’know. Like…” She averts her eyes to the flames of the small campfire, “If I’m happy. I shine - it’s what stars do best.” They both laugh a little. 

“Well, it suits you.” Aleksander says gently - his voice much softer than he meant it to be, or than he’s comfortable with. When did he get so… compassionate? He internally grimaces, but for some reason he feels an odd sense of endearment to this girl. 

“Yeah,” She responds with a wry grin, “I should hope so. I am a star, after all.” 

And again, they both laugh. 

-

Aleksander didn’t intend to keep her with him for so long. He didn’t intend to introduce her to his friends - to his connections, to the people across the country who help him with his work. He didn’t intend to get her involved. But they’ve been travelling together for three months and in that time, he’s discovered a wide array of things. 

The first is that she’s good with a sword. Perhaps good is an understatement. She has a natural balance about her, maybe it’s her celestial nature, but watching her with a sword is like watching art. The handle sits in her palm with an easy weight, she swings it with an air of freedom and lax, yet with complete control. The blade is, undoubtedly, hers. 

They had discovered her penchant for swords in a rather unfortunate situation. They had been a touch careless. He was feeling more secure with someone else travelling at his side. And so, had paid less attention to his surroundings. If there was one con of her having her around, it was that she was a touch of a distraction. 

They had passed through a village. They stayed to briefly eat lunch sitting in the town square, and then had gone to pass on just as quick as they came. It shouldn’t have drawn attention. But it did. 

They hadn’t noticed the group of men watching them, looks of disdain on their features as they eyed up the two of them, mumbling to one another. They’d managed to avoid trouble so far, steering clear of Druskelle and negative situations, but on that day, something had given them away as both travellers and Grisha. It was hard to say what - perhaps it was the way they murmured and laughed quietly with one another, maybe the tell-tale way his hands moved. Perhaps he’d been careless and a slip of shadow had been noticed. They couldn’t say for certain. But these men, standing and sneering, they knew.

Either way, Y/N and Aleksander were followed back to where they were camping out by the night. It was just a clearing off the main path they were following, and they had been very comfortably sitting, eating, laughing as they did each and every evening, lit by firelight and accompanied by the low hum of bugs and the weather slowly turning cold. She noticed the figures first.

They seemed to come out of nowhere, far enough away that she could tap his shoulder with a quiet, “Leonid. There’s people.” 

His brow furrowed softly, and he turned over his shoulder in the direction she was looking at. Three men, two shorter, one that was a bit taller and lagged behind - all three variously armed. One man - short, dirty blonde hair and a face marred by smudges of dirt - carried a small dagger. The second, slightly taller with a slightly more muscular frame, had dark hair that was greying at the roots, a knife, and a snarl. The third and final man, the tallest of the lot was passive, but his eyes glinted in the firelight with nothing malevolence, and in his goliath hand was a sword. 

The man with the dark hair speaks first, accented and gruff, his eyes pinned to Aleksander, “Grisha, aren’t you?” he asks the question in a way that betrays he already knows the answer. 

Aleksander doesn’t answer. He’s careful. Delicate. She’s sitting behind him, watching the interaction, hesitant to move. He needs to think this through in a way that puts Y/N out of harm's way. His eyes never leave the men. 

There’s a movement out of the corner of his eye - the second man, wielding his dagger up quickly, his movements fueled by disgust. Aleksander’s quicker, raising his hand with two fingers pointed up, creating a wall of shadow which the dagger clashes against, and in that moment he’s scrambled up to his feet, grabbing Y/N by the arm and pulling her up with him. He runs. 

He’s not used to running. He’s used to fighting. But at the moment he’s responsible for two people’s safety, and so he pushes forward, yelling at her to go. He expected the men to follow. He didn’t expect the largest to go after her, the three men separating into groups of one and two. The two come after him, dagger and knife, and he has little time to worry about Y/N before they’re gaining, 

Aleksander’s efficient, his hands move fast to bring forth his shadows, forming sharp points which pierce the chests of the two men with harsh crunches, their weapons dropping into the grass as their bodies go limp, blood drooling from their mouths as the light leaves their eyes. 

He breathes a sigh of relief, but then he’s alert again at the sound of someone crying out from behind him. His head whips around, and he sees Y/N, and the largest man. He’s backing her up against the tree line, she’s almost frozen in fear when she trips over her own feet and onto her back. Her eyes widen, the man leers over her, sword readied and in a brief moment of fear and desperation she rears her legs and kicks his knees. 

The man grunts, hisses in pain as the sword drops from his hand so he can clutch at where she kicked him. Amateur. And in the next instant she’s lunged across the ground for the sword, where he dropped it, scrambling for it. She’s still on the floor, and she turns onto her back as the man’s attention is brought to her again, large hands reaching to cause her harm. 

The sound of the sword cutting into the man is almost deafening. She does it without thinking, pure survival instinct as she cuts the man's stomach, her hands firm on the handle as blood coats them both, her breathing heavy as she pulls the sword out and the man falls back, dying slowly. 

She’s frozen, and Aleksander’s eyes are almost as wide as hers. He takes a few loose footsteps towards her, a few more which are a bit firmer before he’s by her side, kneeling beside her and cleaning the blood off her cheeks with his sleeve, gently taking the sword from her iron grip and laying it beside her. 

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, and it feels stupid. She’s covered in blood, shaking, tears in her eyes and the only thing he can think to ask is ‘are you okay’? Saints, he’s an idiot. 

He moves on, still wiping the blood off her as well as he can as she nods her head shakily, “It’s alright. You’re alright.” He says quietly. He remembers the first time he killed someone - the guilt, the fear, the horror at yourself. He frowns softly, as the thin shine of tears comes to her eyes and she looks away. 

Without thinking about it much more, he picks her up, scooping her into his arms, hooking the back of her knees over his arm as she turns and curls into his chest, her crying quiet and barely audible as he carries her back to their camp. 

-

After that, things are different. They’re closer, in a way.

Y/N keeps the sword, keeps it tucked by her side, takes care of the metal and the handle. She’s good with it, he knows for a fact, and he feels more comfortable knowing she has a means of handling herself. The emotional toll of the murder hit her hard. Perhaps, she thinks, she wasn’t meant to feel emotions like this. Her very existence is in conflict. She’s not meant to be able to feel this way, she’s meant to be a star for Saint’s sake! 

But there is something so very human in the guilt she carried in the days after the attack. She was quiet, much quieter than she usually was. At first, she was hesitant to carry the sword. So, instead he carried it for her, catching her eyes flickering towards it occasionally, the way it swung by his hip and the metal caught in the sun. 

One evening as they walked, she offered to take it instead. 

“Do you want me to take that?” she had said, a quiet, unspoken I think I’m okay now. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, “It’s not heavy, I’m okay to carry it for as long as-” 

“No, I’m sure.” She nodded, her look determined and firm, “My safety shouldn’t be your responsibility alone.” She explained, “We should be responsible for one another if we’re going to be travelling together. And I can’t do that if I’m unarmed.” 

He nodded in understanding, and softly unhooked the sword and the holder, and offered the handle to her. She took it, measuring the weight in her palm, before she put the holder on herself and slipped the sword into it. She took a breath. 

He spoke first, “I should tell you something, Y/N. Y’know, if we’re going to be stuck together for a while, I don’t want to keep you in the dark.” he said. 

She didn’t respond, simply nodded and waited for him to say what he had to say. 

“My name isn’t Leonid, I lied. I’ve spent most of my life having to conceal who I am, what I am, and so I hope you can understand and forgive my deception.” He paused, breathing relief into the night air, “My name is Aleksander.” 

“Aleksander?” She echoes, and a small, intimate smile finds her features, “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Aleksander.” She says, in that half-teasing tone he’s become so accustomed with.

He rolls his eyes but can’t fight back the grin, “You’re an ass, do you know that?” 

“Ah, you may have mentioned it once or twice.” She shrugs, unable to wipe off that teasing smile from her features. 

He huffs in mock exasperation before his tone turns softer. He’s found he has a habit of doing that. Something about her makes him better, gentler. He almost feels human around her, “I mean it Y/N,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry I lied to you, especially for so long.” 

“It’s fine,” she says with a small smile, nudging his shoulder, “You’re forgiven, if that eases your conscience.” She’s still slightly teasing, but her tone is mostly compassionate. Endearing, even. 

“Thank you,” he says, grinning as he nudges her back, “Saints, you’re insufferable.” 

She gasps, dramatically feigning offence. For a star, she’s caught onto the culture of sarcasm and drama rather well, and he laughs at her display, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as they walk. It feels right. 

“How are you finding it?” He asks, as they walk, “y’know, being human? Is it weird?” He checks in on her this way every now and then to make sure she’s not overwhelmed. But this is the first time she answers differently. 

“...As a star…” She sighed softly, weighing up her words, “You’re constantly watching. You’re up there, watching all these little people have adventures and lives and romance, and it’s… it’s yearning. You want those things too, y’know? You want to be flesh and bone as well, to feel emotion. To cry, and be happy, and be angry, and to know what love feels like. You want adventure, the big things in life like… meeting someone. Or having a family. Or getting an education. Making a difference.” She laughed softly, “But you also want the little things - like cake, for example. And music, and friendship, and to share meals with people you care about.” 

She glanced at him, and then back to the path, “I’m glad you found me. I don’t think anyone else would’ve done such a good job at making me feel welcome in a world that isn’t strictly mine.” 

Her words were soft, quiet, and sincere. And it made Aleksander’s heart stutter in his chest, but he kept his composure and managed, “I’m glad I found you too.” 

-

Aleksander takes her to a place he calls ‘the sanctuary’. 

He explains it to her on the way there - a building, a place, where Grisha can support, aid and train other Grisha. 

It’s been months since they first met, and by now the warm comfort of the summer is fading, replaced by cold golden sunlight and browned leaves, wetter grounds and harsher gales. And so, he takes her there.

The sanctuary is a medium-sized, pale stone structure, hidden away in the middle of nowhere, concealed by thick woods and trees. It’s squat, but wide, the front of it gives away nothing but a set of rounded wooden doors. He takes her hand - she’s not even sure he realises that he’s done it - and guides her with him to the front. Her sword swings at her side as she follows, standing beside him as he raps his knuckles on the wooden door a few times. 

The door opens a crack, she can’t see who’s on the other side, but Aleksander’s gaze meets theirs and they open it. On the other side is a man, short brown hair and green eyes. He’s rather skinny, but his strength is held in his eyes. He lets Aleksander in without issue, nodding his head softly. Their hands are still linked together and so, she goes to follow. 

But the brown haired man stops her, a hand coming to her chest to halt her, his eyes narrowed and dark, glancing back at Aleksander. He answers, “She’s with me, Andrei.” 

“Grisha?” The man interrogates. 

Aleksander huffs, “No, Andrei. But she’s been helping me for the past five months, let her through.” 

Andrei’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and he glances at Aleksander finally before letting his hand drop and allowing her entrance. She nods her head softly, and follows after Aleksander. Y/N feels him squeeze her hand, a quiet apology. She squeezes back as he guides her deeper into the sanctuary. They pass rooms, beds, people who nod at him as they pass and whose eyebrows furrow when they see her trailing after him, and her stark white hair. 

Inside, the sanctuary was busy. It was filled with the hum of people working, all in various clothing - some injured, some healing, some cooking, some reading, teaching, training - it was almost a wonderful study in the kindness of human nature and community that had her eyes widening. 

“Are you alright, Zvezda?” he asked softly, turning back to her over his shoulder, “Are you overwhelmed? We can…” 

“No, it’s… it’s wonderful.” She said quietly, her wide eyes meeting his, “I mean- it’s astounding. I’m good.” she nodded, indicating for him to keep going, “It’s just… in all our time travelling, I’ve never seen anything like this.” 

He laughed softly, pulling her closer by her hand, “I guess,” he grinned, “I’m proud of this place. I’m glad you can see it like that.” 

They spend at least three weeks at the Sanctuary. 

Aleksander takes his time to introduce Y/N to those around her. He shows her around to all the Healers, the Heartrenders, the Inferni, the Squalors, Tidemakers - technically, he shows her off to everyone. But no one knows, really, who - or what - she is. He doesn’t say. People press and ask and inquire, “Oh, what’s her Grisha order?” “Grisha, are you?” And everytime, one of them answers, “Oh, uh, No.” and refuse to elaborate further. 

It has the entire building utterly perplexed as to who this strange white haired girl is, and why she has the Shadow Summoner wrapped around her little finger. Not that The Star or The Shadow Summoner can see it, no, they’re completely oblivious. They don’t see how they’re quiet giggles, teasing, conversations might be perceived as intimate. Nor how the amount of time they spend together might be seen as suspicious.

But when you’ve spent everyday with a person for just over five months, all day, everyday, it’s very hard to separate yourself from the comfort they bring.

The confession comes late at night. 

Now that they’re in a place like the Sanctuary, they have their own rooms. They’re only small, and they’re a short walk away from one another, and it gives them each a privacy they haven’t experienced for a few months. For the first week - it’s nice. Having their own beds, their own time, being able to spend some of it alone with their thoughts. 

He notices it first. That he’s restless. It’s late at night, most of the building is asleep save for those on night watch, and he can barely close his eyes without feeling disturbed. He feels the need to do something - anything - and so, he gets out of bed, slipping back on his boots at the end of his bed and deciding he’s going to go for a walk. Maybe it’ll help clear his mind. 

Aleksander’s almost embarrassed. He can’t… he can’t stop thinking of her. He’s annoyed at himself for it, for letting him get that close, for letting him be so vulnerable to someone who wasn’t even human, who had a child’s grasp on the world… 

No, that was being unfair. He calms himself as he steps out of his room. He knows he’s just agitated, tired, a little giddy, and he takes a deep breath as he starts off down the corridor, careful not to let his boots thud too heavily. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he decides he’s just going to walk until he comes across something distracting or gets tired. 

His feet take him to her room. 

It’s the same size as his, and from the crack in the door he can tell she’s still awake, can hear a slight shuffling inside, candle light flickering on the floor. He realises now, why he’s there. What he’s come to do. And his heart lurches in his chest, but he understands that it’s now or hold his tongue for another few months and he doesn’t want to do that. 

Aleksander wants her to know about the Y/N shaped cavern she’s carved into his life. He wants her to know about how all those nights spent travelling in fields were not something he was willing to give up so easily - that when spring came he hoped to do it all again. With her. That he thinks of her endlessly. That when he wakes he hopes she’s still sleeping beside him, just a campfire away. And he wants her closer. He wants her. It’s as simple as that, that he wants to see her smile at him, and laugh - he doesn’t care if it’s at him or with him - Saints, he just wants her happy. 

The revelation comes to him, standing so close to her yet so far, on her bedroom doorstep. He takes a breath, steels himself to the sound of her soft humming from the other side of the door, and then raises his fist and knocks three times. 

By the first knock, the humming stops. By the second, she’s walking over to the door, he can hear her footsteps. And by the third, the handle is turning. The door opens and he lowers his hand. She’s standing on the other side. Of course it was her, he knew it was her. It doesn’t stop his heart from thudding against his ribs, nor his breath hitching quietly. 

The light from the candle makes her seem fully celestial, casting a golden hue across her features, and darkening half her face to accentuate them. It bounces off her silver hair, catching in the strands like a contained forest fire. 

“Aleksander?” Y/N greets softly, a small amused smile as she tilts her head in soft confusion, her brow furrowing. 

“Zvezda,” He greets softly, his eyes catching in the candle, so dark you can barely separate the pupil from the iris, “Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head with a small laugh, beckoning him in with her hand, “Always got more energy during the night,” she sighs, “And it’s taking some getting used to, not sleeping in a field, not waking up…” next to you. 

But she doesn’t need to finish the sentence, he simply hums in agreement and shuts the door behind him, leaning on it, “I know, it’s a big adjustment.” He runs a hand through his long dark hair, “How are you finding the Sanctuary?” 

“It’s nice,” she says softly, briefly fixing her words in a slight hurry, “Sorry, that sounded- it’s lovely. The people are kind, the community is wonderful, food’s much better than bread and cheese and meats,” She grins, “No offence.”

He laughs, his nose wrinkling with the action, “None taken. In fact, I completely agree.” 

She sits on her bed as they talk, tucking her legs underneath her, “Can’t sleep either?” She probes.  

Aleksander shakes his head as well, “No, feeling restless. Same reasons as you.” He admits, feeling a bit more at ease with the slight indication that the comfort they feel around one another may be mutual, “I guess,” he sighs, bracing himself to admit it, “We spent so long together. A week was fine - but it’s weird. I keep on… waking up and expecting to see you.” 

“I know,” she agreed quietly with a small laugh, her head bent down to her hands in her lap, “it’s strange, isn’t it? I feel weird not… walking with you, or doing something, seeing a new town or whatnot. And I have this feeling.” She frowned softly to herself.

He tilts his head, folds his arms, “What feeling, Zvezda?” He asks, his brow furrowing gently. 

“I… I don’t know.” she said, her eyes narrowing as she looked not quite at him - but just over his shoulder - “It’s like… this…tightness.” her hand came to her chest, her nose scrunching softly, “Here. Like… nausea. But not quite - I’m not going to be sick. And I can feel my heart. And it… it feels like wanting. But stronger?” 

His eyes widened a fraction, “And uh, when do you feel it?” 

She tilted her head, her eyes zeroing in on him in confusion and uncertainty, “When…” when I think about you. “Oh.” She said quietly, “Is that what that is?” her hand gently rubbed her chest, clearly where she felt it strongest, a sheepish laugh as she turned her eyes to the candle, anywhere but him, “They don’t describe it like this in the books.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that he wouldn’t have to explain to her that what she was feeling was, at least, a crush. If not more. Aleksander laughed softly, “No, no they do not.” 

Y/N laughed too, mildly embarrassed and still somewhat avoiding looking at him, her hands fidgeting, “Look, I’m sorry-” 

“Don’t be.” he cut her off, “Don’t be, please don’t be, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He cleared his throat and took a sharp breath, standing up from leaning on the door, “It’s… it’s  mutual, Y/N.” and he took a hesitant step towards her, “Zvezda.” He said the nickname to get her attention. 

It worked, her head turning slightly, and he continued, “Please don’t ever apologise for having feelings.” He said, his tone so much softer than he was comfortable with, “You’re a human now.” he laughed a little, crouching down in front of her as she sat on the bed, “It’s your job now. To feel. To make the most of life. So,” he said with a playful shrug, “we both have… crushes on one another.” It felt childish to say ‘crushes’ but he couldn’t think of a better word. 

“I mean…” he sighed softly, “That’s kind of… why I came here.” He confessed. 

“Really?” she asked quietly, watching him intently as he spoke. 

“Really.” he echoed, standing up. She patted the bed beside her for him to sit, and he gratefully took it, glad she was taking this all so well and she wasn’t clamming up about their feelings for one another, “Look, Y/N, Zvezda. You’ve changed my life,” he said with a small laugh of disbelief, “I mean… you’re a Star, for Saint’s sake. You are, by nature, brilliant. And you’ve been nothing short of that in the months we’ve been travelling. Even if your humour is appalling.” He softly teased, earning a playful grumble of, “It is not.” from her. 

“It is!” he insisted with a teasing grin, “You laugh at all my bad jokes, dear.” 

“Yeah well,” her initial embarrassment was beginning to fade as they engaged in their usual banter, “I think that says more about you for making the bad jokes.” to which he scoffed, and she dispersed into laughter, the two of them leaning back on the single bed. 

The laughter lasted a moment longer before fading out with a soft, content sigh. He grinned at her from where he was, a hand reaching forward for hers as he softly, half-teasingly, murmured, “You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what?” “Shining, Zvezda.” 

“What can I say?” she laughed quietly, her head finding his shoulder, “I’m happy.”

A/N: I cannot wait to go to bed. And also to start part two. Goodnight!! <;3

[aoi-targaryen]

Echo of Shadows || Masterlist

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!OCreader || Alina Starkov x Heartrender!OCreader || Malyen Oretsevx HeartRender!OCreader

Summary:

In Ravka's frosty heart, the legend of the White Death spreads. a woman with snow-white hair, frozen-fire eyes, and powers that rival those of Heartrenders under Jurda Parem. Once a slave in the Menagerie, the one who calls herself Heaven is now a myth, either leaving towns in ruins or former disease-ridden people crying with gratitude. A Sankta.

General Kirigan's interest soon turns dark and his desire obsessive. Never had he been so captivated and haunted by someone.  To him, she is more. More than power, more than an obsession. She is his other half — the soul he’s searched for through lifetimes of shadow.

But between his consuming love and Alina Starkov’s fragile promise of freedom, she must choose: Savior, monster… or destruction wrapped in a pretty bow?

One last thing: Heaven? She’s you.

TW: Explicit sexual content, slow burn, borderline consent, heavy pinning, toxic relationship [manipulation, obsession, extreme jealousy, controlling behavior], graphic sexual description, graphic depiction of murder and torture, blood!kink, size!kink, radioactive couple, codependency, reference to past SA and child SA, dark romance & mad romance trope, ambiguous relationship with Alina. This story is brutal, bloody and rated +18.

ACT I: A BURNING LIMERENCE

1. Keep Moving, Little Girl

2. Their Frozen Shackles

3. The Court of Shadows

4. The Fear Within

5. Beneath his Watchful Eyes 🔞

6. Until Nothing is Left

7. Dangerous

8. Blood and Honey

9. Gazed Into the Abyss, It Gazed Back Into Me 🔞

10. Raw

11. Every Last Piece of Me

12. Intoxicate Me Now 🔞

13. Burn Your Village 🔞

14. E.V.O.L.

15. Darkness Suits You Well

16. Light of My Life

17. My Night and Stars. 🔞

-> Prologue Act I: What’s the Night Without his Moon?

ACT II. RAPTURE OF THE DEEP

Queen of Spades

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Light

Like a Feeling of Déjà Vue

Blinding Light

I was Made for Loving You, Baby 🔞

It's in Our Veins

Your Darkness Flayed 🔞

After the Storm, the Sun

Safe in the Dark 🔞

Paint Me Black 🔞

Golden Cage for a Pretty Bird

Your Heart, My Chains

Good Ending? You Haven't Been Paying Attention

ACT III. THE CALL OF THE VOID

The Assasymphony

Never You

Barbwire Kiss🔞

It Has Always Been You 🔞

I'm Not Ruined. I'm Ruination.

Here Comes the Wolves

Your Love is an Open Wound 🔞

The Starless Saint of Broken Hearts

The Mask of the Red Death

Candy-Coated Suicide

Symphony of Our Ruins

Epilogue: Eternal Eclipse

ONE SHOTS

Much Ado About Jam Toasts- fun & fluff

A Dangerous White Tigress - action, Hurt/Comfort

Away From the Deep Shadow

Damaged

MODERN AU*

Mental Health Is Sexy Masterlist

*Amos is Aleksander's modern identity.

GAME OF THRONES AU

Damaged Masterlist

*Amos is Aleksander.

VISUALS

Light in the Dark

"Call me Aleksander" - trailer by the beloved @elizabethblood9

My Night and Stars

Heaven Lavey

VIDEO EDITS

Call Me Aleksander - by @elizabethblood9

E.V.O.L - by @peakyswritings

Lilith, You Siren - by @copinghex

Notes:

☾ I haven't read the 3 books yet so this work mainly based on the TV show even though I know it's fairly different from the original Grisha verse. If you're an adorable lore psycho, you might not want to read that! :(

☾ Taglist: @lunawants , @emtaz-art, @lightinbug, @kmc1989, @thepassionatereader @mystic-mara @m-riaa @kallista-diune @meadows5 @kasagia @watersquirtpewpewboomm @the-sweet-psycho @sarahsobsession @elizabethblood9 @ritzzzzz @sophialeiros @noortsshift @sassyvilliantrope @sherwoodforesttales @a-smidges-stuff