a/n: My heart's doing something weird and scary in my chest so I couldn't finish writing pt.2 to "Something to take the edge off", it'll be my next Dean fic but while I get checked up and cleared, here's a little something to read!
Classification: Smut +18 | Oral sex/fingering on the stairs after a win!
Word count: 1,3k
The house was empty and silent, the air thick with the lingering adrenaline of the game and the electric tension that had been building between you and Dean all night. The entryway was bathed in shadows, the only light filtered in from the streetlamps outside, casting long, jagged silhouettes across the walls. You didn't even make it past the foyer before he had you pinned against the wall, his mouth crashing onto yours in a kiss that tasted of victory and desperation.
As he began to guide you both down the stairs, the kiss deepened, tongues dancing in a slow, sensual battle for dominance. Dean’s hands were everywhere, mapping your curves with a possessive urgency as he lowered you onto the carpeted steps, body heavy and warm against yours, trapping you between his muscular frame and the hard edge of the stairs.
You let out a soft moan, hands clutching at his shoulders.
His bedroom was just a few more steps away, a sanctuary of privacy but Dean seemed to have lost all patience. He pulled back just an inch, darkened eyes boring into yours with pupils blown wide with lust.
"If I wait any longer, I'll implode," he rasped, voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine.
His hand slid down, gripping the hem of your dress and scrunching the fabric upward in one fluid motion. The cool air hit your thighs but you were burning up from the inside. Dean couldn’t look away, he kept his gaze locked on yours with an intense, predatory focus that made you feel completely exposed and utterly desired.
As he stared you down, he brought his hand to his mouth and you watched breathless, as he slid two fingers between his lips, coating them in warm saliva. The sight alone made your stomach flip with anticipation. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and slid those wet fingers beneath the elastic edge of your underwear, driving them deep into your pussy, making your eyelids flutter shut at the intrusion.
"Look at me," he commanded, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Look at me or I'll stop."
You gasped, lips parting as the sudden pressure of his slick fingers made your hips jerk upward.
You obeyed instantly, staring into his eyes, vision already blurring slightly as the pleasure hit you like a wave. Your knees fell open wide, giving him total access as your heels dug into the stairs behind you.
Dean began to move his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curl, hooking them against your G-spot with agonizing precision. He watched your expression, savoring every flicker of pleasure, your dilated pupils and shaky breaths. He wasn't just fucking you with his fingers, he was claiming you and using the eye contact to anchor you to that sensation.
As he increased the pace, his fingers began to slide in and out with a wet, rhythmic slushing sound that was only slightly muffled by the soaked fabric covering the area. The friction was intense, the lubrication of his saliva and your own mounting arousal creating a slippery, visceral heat. You felt the tension building in your lower belly, in a tight coil of need that threatened to snap.
While his hand worked relentlessly between your legs, Dean shifted his weight from where he knelt on the stairs, his other hand coming up to brush against your chest. Through the thin fabric of your dress, he could see your nipples peaking, hard and calling for his attention. He let out a low growl of approval at the sight as he leaned forward, tongue darting out to lick the fabric directly over your nipple, the dampness of his tongue seeping through the cloth.
The combination of the rough fingering and the teasing stimulation of your breasts pushed you toward the edge.
"You're so fucking wet for me," he murmured, fingers driving deeper and faster, stretching you open and preparing you for his cock.
Your breath began to hitch, coming in short, jagged gasps. You were hovering on the precipice of an orgasm, your internal muscles clamping tightly around his fingers in preparation. The slushing sound grew louder and more frantic, as you neared the peak but just as the first wave of the climax began to crash over you, Dean suddenly cursed under his breath and ripped his fingers out of you.
The sudden loss of stimulation left you reeling, a whimpering sound escaping your throat. You looked at him, desperate and aching, as he reached down and hooked his thumbs into your panties, sliding them down your legs and tossing them carelessly onto the stairs.
Dean stared at your exposed pussy, glistening and dripping with juices that smeared against your inner thighs. He looked back up at you and his expression was one of pure, unadulterated hunger.
"I'm so fucking thirsty," he groaned.
Without another word, he dove down, burying his face between your legs and licking you with a ferocity that made you moan openly into the empty house.
Dean didn't just lick you, he devoured you. The moment his face hit your heat, he buried his nose deep into your folds, inhaling your scent with a primal hunger that made your toes curl. His tongue was a weapon, broad and powerful, as he delivered one long, sweeping stroke from your perineum all the way up to your clit, coating you in his saliva.
You let out a loud, shattered whine that echoed through the foyer, fingers digging into his hair and pulling him closer as he began to lap at you with a rhythmic, slurping intensity, tongue swirling around your clit in tight, dizzying circles before suctioning the small nub into his mouth.
The sensation was a concentrated bolt of pleasure that shot straight to your core.
"You taste like fucking heaven," he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled by your pussy.
He shifted his angle, using his chin to press firmly against your pelvic bone while his tongue flicked rapidly against your clit, mimicking the motion of a cock. The speed was relentless. He was slurping your juices with an audible, wet greed, making no effort to be respectful about it.
You were shaking, hips bucking uncontrollably against his face, dress bunched up around your waist as you offered yourself to him completely.
The first orgasm hit you like a freight train. It wasn't a slow build, it was a violent explosion that ripped through your body, making your internal muscles clamp down on nothing as your back arched off the stairs and you wailed his name, still, Dean didn't stop. As your body began to shudder in the afterglow, he doubled down, tongue driving deeper into your pussy, swirling and probing, refusing to let the pleasure fade so fast.
He pushed you right back over the edge before you could even catch your breath. The second orgasm was even more intense, a rolling wave of ecstasy that left you sobbing, legs trembling so hard you could barely keep them open around him. He continued to eat you out with a focused, predatory hunger, tongue working your clit into a frenzy, slurping every drop of cum and juice that leaked from you.
By the third time you peaked, your vision was swimming and your voice was hoarse from so much moaning. You were a shaking, dripping mess on the stairs, completely spent and utterly ruined by his mouth.
As the final tremors subsided and you slumped back against the carpeted steps, gasping for air, Dean finally pulled away. He looked down at you, lips glistening and wet with your cum, a smug, dark satisfaction in his eyes.
Without a word, he reached down and gripped your waist, hoisting you up with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he flipped you over his shoulder like a piece of luggage. The sudden shift in position made you gasp, your breasts hanging down and your bare ass exposed to the cool air of the stairway.
SMACK!
The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek echoed loudly. He hit your ass hard, leaving a stinging heat that sent a fresh jolt of arousal through your exhausted body. You let out a small, surprised whimper, clutching onto his back as he began to march up the stairs toward his bedroom...intent on fucking you the rest of the way to heaven.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
SUMMARY: Facing terminal illness, you and Oscar chase one last bittersweet adventure together, holding onto love, loss, and the fragile hope written across the sky.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader
WARNINGS: major character illness (terminal cancer), death, grief, mentions of hospitals/medical treatment
NOTE: I was listening to chemtrails by Lizzy Mcalpine, and oh my gosh, that song makes me feel so ill, I cannot.
You didn’t cry when they told you.
You watched the doctor’s mouth move like it was underwater, slow and rounded, clinical and soft. Every word landed like a feather, and still, somehow, each one managed to bruise.
Stage four.
Aggressive.
Unlikely to respond.
Best to prepare.
She didn’t meet your eyes.
She looked just past your shoulder, the way people do when they’re afraid of becoming part of the story. Like if she made it impersonal enough, you’d stay a statistic and not a person unraveling right in front of her.
You didn’t cry.
You just stared at the wall behind her, at the framed photo of two golden retrievers chasing a tennis ball down a sunlit stretch of sand. The ocean was bright and endless behind them. You wondered if they were still alive. If they still ran like that.
If she knew what it felt like to say terminal to someone and keep breathing like she hadn’t just stolen the air out of the room.
You nodded politely. Like she was explaining a cracked pipe or an insurance clause. Like this wasn’t your body she was talking about, your life, your time, now mapped out in clinical estimates and worst-case timelines.
Oscar didn’t cry either.
He sat to your left, knuckles pressed white against his knee, jaw so tight you thought it might shatter if he moved. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the floor like if he could burn a hole through it, maybe he’d fall through to some version of the world where this wasn’t happening.
Where you were okay.
He helped you out of the chair when the appointment ended, though neither of you could say what had really been said. His hand hovered near your back the whole walk to the elevator, not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of it. The way it shook.
You walked in silence through the lobby. Past people laughing at the café. Past a little girl with a sticker on her cheek and an ice cream in her hand. Past the parking meter that wouldn’t print receipts.
Everything felt normal. Ordinary. Unbearably so.
In the car, you buckled your seatbelt with hands that didn’t feel like yours. The air was too still. Oscar didn’t start the engine. He just sat there, eyes forward, like he wasn’t ready to move. Like if he turned the key, the world would keep going, and you weren’t sure either of you could handle that.
You reached for the AUX cord.
You weren’t even sure why. Habit, maybe. Instinct.
You fumbled it between your fingers, like you’d forgotten how it worked, like maybe music could press rewind on the day and take you both somewhere simpler.
“Let’s just go home,” you said.
The words felt weightless coming out of your mouth, not empty, exactly, but hollowed out. Like they had once meant something and now they were only shape and sound. You barely recognised your own voice. It didn’t tremble or shake. It didn’t beg or break.
It just…floated.
Oscar turned toward you slowly, eyes rimmed red, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin.
Then he broke.
No warning. No drama. No sound, not at first.
Just a sharp inhale. A full-body wince.
Then the dam cracked.
He folded forward over the steering wheel like someone had taken the ground out from underneath him. His whole body shook, silent at first, then loud, gulping sobs that scraped their way out of his throat like they’d been waiting all day to be let out.
He cried like he was trying to reverse time.
Like if he said your name enough, over and over again, soft and desperate, like a question and a prayer, the story might change.
“Hey,” you whispered, reaching across the console.
Your fingers curled around his hand. His knuckles were ice. “I’m still here.”
He gripped your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His head turned just enough to press into your palm. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t, but he nodded once, a jerky, broken thing that made your chest ache.
You didn’t cry then, either.
Not because you weren’t sad.
Not because you were strong.
But because somewhere, deep down, you knew if you started, you wouldn’t stop. And you had to stay in the moment, had to hold him there, keep both of you from falling off the edge of it.
“I’m not gone yet,” you said, softer this time.
But the yet hung in the air between you, louder than anything else.
It wrapped itself around your words like smoke.
It curled into the corners of the car.
It pressed itself into Oscar’s lungs until he was crying again, quietly now, the kind of grief that lingers after the first wave crashes and recedes.
You rested your forehead to the window and closed your eyes.
The silence wasn’t comforting, but it was honest.
And for now, that was enough.
That night, the house was too quiet.
Not peaceful, hollow.
Even the hum of the fridge felt loud, intrusive. The shadows on the walls stretched longer than they used to, like time had started pooling in the corners.
You lay curled on the couch, your body tucked into Oscar’s like you were trying to disappear inside him. Or maybe he was trying to pull you in. His arms were wrapped around you tight, chest pressed to your back, one leg hooked around yours as if anchoring you there. Like if he stopped touching you, even for a second, you might evaporate.
His hand rested at your waist, fingers spread like he was trying to memorise the rise and fall of your breathing. His nose was buried in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing skin every time he exhaled. He hadn’t said much since the hospital, just stayed close, unbearably close, like he could feel the clock ticking and was trying to run out the timer by holding you still.
You both stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the familiar cracks and shadows like they might suddenly shift into answers. A message. A reason. Something. Answers written in the cracks you’d never noticed before. A message only meant for the dying. Or the ones they’d leave behind.
You were the one to break the silence, your voice soft and steady, like a confession whispered into a pillow.
“Is it weird,” you said, “that I feel more sorry for you than for me?”
Oscar flinched like the words physically hit him. His arm tightened instinctively around your middle.
“Don’t,” he said, rough and quiet. “Please don’t say that.”
“But it’s true.” You shifted just enough to look back at him, your cheek brushing his. “I wish I could… make this easier for you.”
He shook his head once, sharply, jaw clenched like he was chewing glass. “You’re the one—”
“I know.” Your voice cracked just a little.
A beat passed. Then another.
You reached up, covering the hand he had on your waist with your own. “But I’m not the one who has to stay behind.”
Oscar’s breath hitched.
And then he did what he’d been holding back from all day — he pulled you in tighter, impossibly so. One arm wrapped around your shoulders now, his hand flat against your chest, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat like he was afraid it might stop mid-beat if he let go.
“Don’t say that,” he whispered again, voice breaking apart on the edges. “Please don’t.”
So you didn’t.
But the truth settled into the space between you anyway — undeniable and brutal.
You were going.
Not today. Not yet.
But soon.
And he would be the one left behind.
You felt his lips press against the back of your shoulder, lingering like a goodbye he wasn’t ready to say.
His hand gripped yours like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.
You turned your head and leaned into him, until your forehead touched his, until your noses brushed, until the space between your breaths disappeared completely.
“I’m still here,” you whispered. “Right now, I’m still here.”
Oscar closed his eyes. Let out a shaky breath.
“I know,” he said. But he didn’t loosen his hold.
Not even a little.
Because the truth was still there, heavy and quiet and cruel.
You were still here.
But not for long.
The first thing you lost was your appetite.
It didn’t happen all at once. Not like flipping a switch, but like the slow dimming of a light you didn’t know was fading until the room was almost dark.
Meals became chores, not comforts. You’d pick at food, a bite here, a bite there, but the taste wasn’t there anymore. The flavours felt muted, as if everything you put in your mouth was wrapped in cotton. Even the smell of cooking, once a signal of warmth and home, turned sour, twisting in your stomach before you could swallow.
Oscar watched you shrink away from the dinner table, but he still made your favourite meals. Sometimes he even sat with you, trying to force the ordinary back into the day. He’d laugh quietly, sharing some dumb meme on his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his hopeful smile.
But the meals grew colder. The laughter faded. And you stopped pretending to be hungry.
The second thing you lost was your mornings.
Not just the hour when the sun climbed over the horizon, but the feeling mornings used to bring, the soft promise of a new day, wrapped in sunlight and warmth and slow sips of coffee.
You used to wake with a smile half-formed on your lips, a tangle of sheets and hair and quiet contentment. Now, you woke with a weight in your chest that pressed you back into the mattress, breath shallow, muscles heavy.
Oscar learned to keep the room dark. He’d draw the curtains tight to keep the early light from cutting through your closed eyelids.
He’d sit beside you, gently tugging socks over your cold feet, the touch light as a feather but filled with the fierce love of someone trying to protect a fading flame.
Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, you’d hear him whisper your name like a prayer, or feel the brush of his lips on your temple as if saying goodbye just in case.
The third was the ordinary, the everyday moments that used to fill your life with quiet joy.
The small rituals you never noticed until they stopped: the way your fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of a table when you were lost in thought; the stacks of books gathering dust beside your bed; the music that once wove through your days now silenced or forgotten.
You stopped caring about the little things.
The routines that made life feel safe, predictable, yours, unravelled thread by thread.
Oscar saw the spaces widen between who you were and who you were becoming.
He tried to hold onto those fragments, a laugh, a glance, a sigh, as if gathering pieces of you might keep you whole.
He tried so hard to pretend everything was normal.
He still made you tea, even when you couldn’t bring yourself to drink it.
He still sent you ridiculous memes from across the room, knowing you’d smile, even if only for a second.
He kissed the top of your head every time he passed, pressing his lips like he was trying to seal a promise into your skin.
Every touch was a silent vow to stay, even as the world slipped away.
But you knew.
You saw it in the way his eyes searched your face when you thought he wasn’t looking, desperate to memorise every line, every flicker of emotion.
You felt it in the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck when he tucked you beneath the blankets, as if trying to imprint himself on you.
You heard it in the quiet shudder of his shoulders when he thought you were asleep, the weight of a grief too big to carry.
He was memorising you.
Not just the person you were now, but every version of you he’d ever known.
Every laugh, every softness, every half-smile held like a secret treasure.
He was folding your voice into the quiet spaces of his heart, turning moments into keepsakes, laughter into lasting echoes.
He was grieving you already, before the world had even finished telling the story.
It wasn’t fair.
None of it was.
But it was happening anyway.
And some days, the only thing you could offer him was a smile, small, fragile, fading, that said I’m still here.
For now.
One day, you found him sitting on the cold tile floor of the shower.
Fully clothed.
Silent.
The water ran relentlessly over him, a steady, unyielding torrent that blurred the hard edges of the world and washed away everything but the weight in his chest. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked through, heavy like the grief pressing him down, pinning him to the floor. His head lolled forward, chin nearly resting on his chest, eyes closed tight against the flood inside.
You didn’t say anything.
You just stepped in, the water immediately soaking your pajamas, plastering your hair to your scalp, chilling your skin in contrast to the hot cascade. You moved slowly, as if afraid your presence might shatter the fragile moment, and curled into his lap, folding your body against his like two pieces desperate not to lose their shape.
Your arms wrapped around him, trembling but fierce, as if your hold could keep him anchored to the world. His breath hitched in his throat, shaky and uneven, a broken sound swallowed beneath the steady rush of water.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw, like he was admitting defeat for the first time.
“Yes, you can,” you said, though your own voice shook with the weight of the truth you wished wasn’t real.
He shook his head slowly, barely audible. “Why do I have to?”
You didn’t have an answer.
There was no reason that could fill that hole.
No explanation to soften the unbearable.
Just the two of you.
Just the warmth of your skin against his, the soft pulse of your heartbeat beneath his ear, a quiet, steady drum in the silence.
I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still—
The words caught in the thick wet air between you, unfinished and fragile, the ache of everything left unsaid hanging heavy.
He pressed his face into your shoulder, the tremor of his body slowly loosening in your arms. You could feel the heat of his tears mixing with the cool water, hear the soft hitch of his breath as the grief broke through his walls at last.
And in that moment, in the quiet surrender of everything he’d been holding inside, you both felt the full weight of what was coming.
The terrifying, endless stretch of days where time would slip away like water through your fingers. The nights stretched wide and empty, echoing with the absence of what could not be fixed. The slow fading, piece by piece, of everything you loved about each other.
And still, you held on.
Not because you had strength left to fight.
But because you couldn’t let go.
Because the last thing you could do was be there, raw and broken and real.
Together.
Even as the water ran cold and the world narrowed to the two of you, clinging to the fragile hope woven between whispered promises and shared silence.
I’m still here.
And sometimes, sometimes, that was enough.
The decision was sudden but not surprising. After weeks of drifting through hospital visits, scans that blurred into one another, and tired days that felt longer than nights, you looked at Oscar with a spark of something almost like rebellion in your tired eyes.
“Let’s get out of here. Just for a little while.”
His eyebrows knitted together, like he was trying to puzzle out if you were serious, or if this was just another passing daydream you might let go of by morning. His eyes searched yours, wary but hopeful, like he was trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘you’ that existed before the hospital rooms and the whispered diagnoses.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked, voice low and careful, as if afraid the walls might hear and pull you back.
“Anywhere but here,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching into a small, tired smile. “Somewhere I can feel the sky.”
Oscar blinked, a slow smile breaking through the tension. “The sky, huh? That sounds good.”
You both knew it wasn’t about the place. It never was. It was about a break from the endless waiting rooms and the smell of antiseptic. About breathing air that didn’t taste like fear. About catching a few stolen moments where the future wasn’t hanging over your heads like a storm cloud.
Packing was quick, no big plans, no suitcases, just whatever fit in a bag tossed on the passenger seat. You slipped into your favourite jacket, the one with the worn cuffs and the scent of home, and Oscar tossed you the keys with a grin that was equal parts nervous and excited.
The car hummed to life and pulled away from the hospital’s heavy gates, leaving behind the relentless buzz of machines and hushed voices.
Windows down, wind tangled in your hair, you felt something flicker inside — a small pulse of freedom, fragile and bright.
Oscar glanced over, catching the light in your eyes, and reached out to squeeze your hand.
“Where to?” he asked, grinning like a kid about to take you on an adventure.
You laughed, soft, real, and a little breathless. “Anywhere that feels like we can just be. No doctors, no tests. Just us and the sky.”
He nodded. “Let’s find it.”
And with that, the road stretched ahead, endless and wide, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, the weight could lift for a little while.
One evening, you sat on the balcony, the sky a wild canvas bleeding orange and pink into the horizon, the sun slipping slow and stubborn toward the edge of the world. The air was salty and heavy with the smell of the sea, thick with the gentle lull of waves crashing far below.
Oscar’s hand found yours, fingers curling around yours like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough. His squeeze was gentle, careful, a silent question, an anchor.
“You look happy,” he said softly, voice low as if he didn’t want to disturb the delicate peace.
“I am,” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear — something solid in a world that felt like it was tilting.
He kissed the top of your hair, the touch feather-light but full of everything words couldn’t hold. For a moment, time folded in on itself, past, present, future blurring into a quiet, sacred now. There was no illness, no prognosis, no shadow looming over what came next. There was only this, this fragile, perfect breath of life.
You breathed it in, the salt in the air, the distant cry of a gull, the rough grain of the balcony railing beneath your fingers, and the warmth of his body curled close beside you.
“Dance with me?” he murmured, voice rough with everything he was holding in.
You nodded, unable to find words that could hold the weight of the moment.
There was no music except the distant crash of waves and the whisper of the night breeze, but it didn’t matter. He moved with a careful grace, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Your bodies swayed together, slow, unsteady, but sure, like the world had paused just for this. Your head rested against his chest, feeling the pulse of his heart under your ear, steady and real. You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm of him, of the night, of the fragile life between you, carry you.
His breath warmed your skin as he whispered, “I don’t want to let go.”
You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, voice barely above a whisper. “Then don’t.”
And for those quiet, suspended moments, with the sky fading from gold to ink, and the stars just beginning to blink awake, you danced.
Not because the future was promised,
But because right now, this was enough.
On the last night, the world outside faded until it was just the two of you, the quiet hum of the night air, the whisper of the ocean, and the soft rhythm of your voices.
You stayed up late, tangled in blankets and memories, talking about everything you’d never made time for, dreams you’d dared to whisper in the dark, regrets folded tight inside your chest, the little things that made your life yours.
Oscar pulled you close, his breath catching as he spoke.
“I don’t want this to be goodbye.”
“Neither do I,” you said, voice thick but steady, every word wrapped in the weight of love and loss tangled together.
“But if it is…” His voice cracked, raw and broken.
“You’ll carry me,” you promised, pressing your hand over his heart. “In the sky, in your heart, in everything.”
He nodded, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, held back by sheer will.
He held you tighter, like if he let go, you might really disappear.
And under that vast sky, with the world so wide and quiet around you, the two of you held on, to each other, to the moments, to the fierce, impossible hope that love could outlast even the darkest nights.
You slipped away on a morning so soft it almost felt like a dream, a quiet that wasn’t quiet, a stillness so delicate it threatened to break under the weight of all that had come before.
Oscar was right there beside you, his fingers intertwined with yours like they were trying to hold your soul tethered to the world. His thumb traced small, endless circles on your skin, slow, steady, a silent rhythm meant to steady the breaking.
“I’m here. I’m here,” he whispered, over and over, like those words could pull you back, could slow the slipping, could make the unbearable pause just a little longer.
The room was hushed, the kind of hush that presses into your chest, heavier than silence. The only sound was the slow, steady beeping of machines, heart monitors and oxygen levels, a mechanical heartbeat echoing in the stillness. A lifeline counting down seconds neither of you dared to measure.
And then, suddenly, the beeping stopped.
The world tilted on an invisible axis, time fracturing in that fragile space between breaths.
Oscar’s hands, so full of trembling life, moved instinctively to close your eyes, his fingertips brushing the long lashes as if afraid the faintest touch might shatter the fragile peace.
He bent forward slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft and broken and sacred. The same kiss he had given you a thousand times before, but now it held the weight of a thousand goodbyes.
It was a thank you for every smile, every whispered secret, every brush of fingers in the dark.
A goodbye without words, heavier than anything either of you could say.
And an I love you, fierce, fragile, and absolute, folded into the quiet spaces between them.
His breath hitched, a soft, broken sound swallowed quickly, but the tremble in his body betrayed him. The weight of everything, loss, love, fear, pressed down like an ocean, and for the first time, he let himself collapse into it.
The room felt colder now, emptier. The light slipping through the window seemed too bright, too sharp, cutting through the haze of grief that wrapped around him like a shroud.
He stayed there, holding your hand long after the machines went silent, as if by holding on, he could keep you from truly leaving.
Minutes passed, hours maybe. Time blurred and folded in on itself.
He whispered your name, again and again, like a prayer, a plea, a thread back to you.
And in that fragile, aching dawn, all that was left was the echo of your touch, a whisper on his skin, a ghost of warmth he could never quite forget.
The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac in Australia, but Oscar felt like he was still falling, endlessly, spiralling through a darkness he couldn’t escape. His chest was tight, his lungs gasping for air as if the very atmosphere was too heavy to breathe.
His hands clenched so tight around the strap of his bag that his knuckles blazed white, fingers digging into the worn leather as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. Around him, the airport hummed and buzzed, people rushing past, rolling suitcases and distant chatter swirling in a chaotic current, but it all felt muffled, as if he was submerged underwater, watching the world drift farther away.
He moved forward with a hollow weight, stepping through the sliding glass doors, and was immediately hit by the thick, humid air of the late afternoon. It wrapped around him like a damp blanket, sticky against his skin, carrying the sharp scent of eucalyptus and salt from the nearby sea. The sounds of cicadas droned in the background, persistent and relentless, but the familiar noises, the calling birds, the rustling leaves, felt foreign, distant, like fragments of a dream he couldn’t quite reach.
Everything that should have felt like home, the sky stretched wide and heavy, the heat clinging to his clothes, instead sliced through him like shards of glass. The ache inside twisted deeper, sharper.
When he finally reached his mum’s front door, his hand hovered over the handle, trembling. His heart pounded fiercely, a wild, desperate drumbeat that threatened to shatter his ribs from the inside. The silence around him pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint creak of the wooden porch beneath his feet.
Before he could knock, the door swung open.
His mum stood there, her face a mix of surprise and dread. The usual warmth in her eyes flickered and faltered when she saw the hollow emptiness in his gaze, the way his shoulders slumped, carrying invisible burdens too heavy for words.
“Oscar,” she breathed, voice soft and catching somewhere between heartbreak and fear.
He didn’t answer. He barely nodded, stepping inside like a ghost crossing the threshold of a place that should have been sanctuary but felt more like a tomb. The door closed behind him with a hollow, final thud, the sound echoing in the sudden, suffocating quiet.
The walls were lined with photos, frozen smiles from holidays long past, birthday candles flickering in bright colours, moments captured in laughter that felt impossibly distant now. He barely glanced at them, his eyes glazed over, as if the memories pressed too close, too sharp.
And then, without warning, he broke.
Tears spilled free, hot and unrelenting, streaming down his face in thick rivers of grief. He sank to the floor, collapsing into himself, shaking violently as sobs tore through his chest like knives. The sound was raw and ragged, a primal cry of loss and desperation that filled the empty room.
His hands covered his face, fingers digging into his skin as if trying to hold the pieces together, but the weight of everything shattered him again and again.
His voice came out as a broken whisper, ragged and pained, repeating you name like a fragile lifeline, a mantra to keep you near.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His mum was there in an instant, sitting down beside him, arms wrapping around his shaking shoulders like a fragile shield. Her own tears fell silently, wetting his hair, and in that moment, two broken souls found solace in their shared grief.
They stayed like that, locked together in the unbearable silence that screamed everything they couldn’t say aloud. Minutes stretched into hours, time bending under the weight of sorrow and the fragile thread of comfort between them.
Oscar didn’t know how to move forward, how to find air again in a world that had suddenly stopped breathing with him. He didn’t know how to live without you.
All he knew, in that quiet, shattering moment, was that here, in this room filled with memories and loss, he could finally fall apart.
Because if he didn’t break, completely and utterly, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive at all.
The cheers still echoed around him like a distant storm as Oscar stepped away from the podium, trophy cradled awkwardly in his arms. The flashes of cameras burned behind his eyelids, but his vision felt blurred, not from sweat or adrenaline, but from the tight knot of something raw and hollow inside.
Out there, under the dazzling lights and roaring applause, he was the champion. The winner. The man who had crossed the finish line first.
But here, in the quiet of the cramped, dimly lit corridor behind the scenes, the victory felt fragile, a beautiful mask stretched thin over the ache in his chest.
He sank down onto the cold floor, back pressed against the rough concrete wall, the trophy resting beside him like a cold, distant relic. His hands trembled as they unfolded from his lap, and the weight of the moment finally crashed down, the victory and the loss tangled impossibly together.
His breath hitched as the tears came, slow at first, then spilling free like a broken dam. No one saw. No one could see the way his body shook with grief, how every sob was a quiet scream for you.
He whispered you name into the silence, a fragile prayer, a desperate call across the distance between now and then.
I did it.
I’m here.
But I wish you were too.
The memory of you smile, soft and steady, flared through the dark like a candle flickering against a storm. The way your hand felt in his, the warmth of your voice in the quiet moments, the laughter they’d shared in those impossible, beautiful times.
He pressed his forehead against the wall, breath shallow, heart breaking in slow, jagged pieces.
There was no crowd here. No cameras. Just the quiet, the unbearable stillness that screamed louder than any cheer.
And in that stillness, he allowed himself to grieve. To miss you. To feel the weight of the empty space beside him that no trophy could ever fill.
Because winning without you was its own kind of loss, a victory marked by absence.
Slowly, painfully, Oscar wiped the tears from his face. He picked up the trophy, fingers curling around the cold metal, and for the first time, he let the grief and pride coexist, two halves of the same fragile truth.
He wasn’t just racing against others now. He was racing against the shadow of what had been taken.
And maybe, just maybe, holding onto that ache was the only way to keep running.
Late at night, when the world finally softened and the noise of the day fell away, Oscar sat alone in the quiet of his room. The darkness pressed close, swallowing everything but the small, smooth stone resting heavy in his palm, cold and unyielding, a cruel reminder of all he had lost.
He traced its worn edges, fingertips lingering over scratches carved by time, each one a ghost of a memory, a fragment of a past he could never reclaim.
His mind drifted to mornings they’d never have again. The way sunlight once spilled warm and golden across the sheets, catching the dust in lazy beams. The soft weight of your head against his shoulder, the quiet rhythm of breath mingling in the stillness before the world woke.
He missed that lightness. The effortless comfort of ordinary days where love was as simple as a shared smile or a hand held tight.
He thought about the laughter that once filled rooms, bright and unrestrained, now only an echo in the hollow chambers of his heart.
The ache was sharp and raw, a jagged pain that settled deep and refused to fade. It twisted through his chest like a slow, relentless burn, hollow and heavy all at once.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight with the weight of unshed tears, and whispered into the silence, to the shadows, to the empty space beside him, to the ghost of a voice that had once been his world —
“I miss it. I miss it so much. The way things were, the way you were. I miss every quiet morning, every stolen moment. The way love felt like breathing, easy, natural, endless. I miss you. More than words can hold. More than I can bear. Sometimes it feels like my heart is breaking all over again, a thousand small fractures in the same place. I want to hold onto it, this ache, because it’s all that keeps you alive inside me. But God, it hurts. It hurts like hell.”
His breath hitched, tears spilling slow and steady down his cheeks, soaking into the dark fabric of his shirt.
He closed his eyes and let the grief wash over him, fierce, unyielding, endless, because in that brokenness, in that aching longing, there was still love.
And love, even when it’s pain, is never truly gone.
Every race day, before the engines roared and the world blurred into a frenzy of speed and adrenaline, Oscar found a moment of sacred stillness.
In the dim light of the garage, surrounded by the hum of preparation, he’d reach for his helmet.
On its sleek, polished surface, tucked near the visor, was a small but unmistakable mark: a delicate symbol, something only he truly understood. It was his homage to you, a silent thread connecting him to the memory that fuelled every lap, every corner, every heart-pounding moment on the track.
Before pulling the helmet down over his head, he’d press a soft kiss against that mark, his eyes closing for a brief, trembling second. A whisper in the chaos. A promise carried in the brush of his lips.
“I’m here. I’m racing for you.”
And after the race, whether triumph or struggle, when he peeled off the helmet and the roar of the crowd faded into distant echoes, he’d bring it back to his lips again.
That kiss was a benediction, a thank you, a quiet “I miss you” folded into the space where words failed.
Those around him began to notice the ritual, the way his eyes lingered on that mark, the gentle reverence in his touch. They understood, without needing explanation, that behind every fearless driver is a story of love, loss, and the rituals that keep us grounded.
And for Oscar, that small, sacred mark on his helmet was the tether to a love that still raced beside him, lap after lap.
Life moved forward, slow, uneven, and beautifully imperfect. It wasn’t a sudden leap or a sharp turn, but a gradual unfolding, like a sunrise pushing through the horizon after a long, dark night. Each day brought new colours, new sounds, new moments that slipped quietly into the spaces left behind.
Oscar met new people, strangers who became friends, conversations that blossomed into laughter, and faces that softened the edges of his loneliness. He learned to smile again, not because the pain had vanished, but because it had found its place beside something hopeful, something gentle.
He laughed, sometimes unexpectedly, a lightness that surprised him. He loved again, too, though not the same way, not the way he once had. It was quieter now, slower, a love shaped by loss and tempered with gratitude for every small connection.
But beneath all of this, beneath the smiles, the new beginnings, the growing light, there was always a space in his heart that belonged only to you.
A soft, sacred corner, untouched and unwavering. No matter how full his life became, that space remained, a silent sanctuary where your memory lived on, tender and alive.
Sometimes, in the stillness of evening, when the sky faded to gentle shades of lavender and gold, Oscar would find himself pausing. He’d look out at the vast expanse above and feel a quiet presence, as if you were there, watching, whispering in the soft rustle of leaves or the warm brush of a summer breeze.
You weren’t gone.
You had simply changed form, no longer beside him in the way he wished, but woven into the very fabric of the world around him.
A part of the light that filtered through the trees, the warmth that lingered long after the sun had set, the hush of night folding gently over everything.
In that knowing, there was comfort, a subtle, enduring truth that love doesn’t vanish. It shifts, it transforms, but it never truly leaves.
And so life moved on. Not perfect, never easy, but filled with the quiet grace of memories carried softly, like whispers carried on the wind.
Because love, real, lasting love, holds a space for forever.
And in that space, you remained.
Always.
Um, I think I'm evil what the actual heck did I write. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. As always, I am always open to suggestions and thanks for all the support!
Summary Hanks been on edge ever since he brought home a cat named Bud, and now you wonder just how safe you are when you’re both startled awake in the middle of the night
❤️🔥Passionate Smut ❤️🔥 Hank protective • savior mode • kiss it better • affectionate • adoring •fingering • don’t wake the neighbors • sex against a headboard • p in v • nipple play • clit play• simultaneous orgasms • creampie• aftercare 🔗 Masterlist
✨ Inspo recent Caught Stealing pics
False Intruder
Your apartment with Hank is a shared haven, the kind that feels alive with both of your most cherished belongings, each one decorating the place with the life you’ve built together.
The bedroom is bathed in the glow of the city skyline as New York hums outside, a distant blend of car horns and the low rumble of the subway passing by… but inside, it’s just you and Hank, wrapped in your own little world.
You slip under the cool sheets after a long day, the bed settling softly beneath you. You’re wearing one of Hank’s t-shirts, the fabric soft and worn, carrying the faint scent of him, and the tart detergent of the corner laundromat.
Lying back, you watch Hank through the partially open bathroom door, his movements slow and methodical as he pulls his black boxers on, sliding them up his thighs in a way that has you mesmerized, the waistband snapping against his hips.
He brings a dark gray tee over his head, the fabric stretching over his broad chest, and you catch a glimpse of the faint scars across his torso…remnants of trauma he never speaks about.
Hank’s been off lately, you can see it in the way he’s lost in thought after he clicks off the bathroom light, the usual easy charm of him undercut by a jittery edge.
Ever since he took in that scrappy cat Bud to watch for a neighbor, he’s been paranoid, glancing over his shoulder, triple-checking the door locks.
You don’t know if it’s the cat or something else, Hank’s not the type to spill his guts unless you pry, and even then, it’s like pulling teeth.
Bud climbs on the bed beside you his green eyes glinting in the dim light as Hank comes to sit on the edge. The cat proudly settles onto his lap, and Hank’s broad shoulders hunch as he scratches behind Bud’s ears, his calloused fingers gently moving in a way that makes you yearn for them.
“Love you, you little bastard,” he coddles, his voice low and warm as Bud purrs, a deep rumble that makes Hank’s lips quirk into a rare soft smile. “Yeah, yeah, you know it.”
You slide closer, resting your cheek against the pillow, watching them. “You gonna spoil that cat all night?” you jab, your voice playful and sleepy.
Hank glances at you, his blue eyes catching the city’s glow. “She’s getting jealous,” He whispers leaning down to press a kiss on Bud’s forehead and you can’t help but smile.
For a guy who’s built like he could break someone in half, Hank’s got a heart that sneaks up on you.
Bud stretches lazily and hops out of Hanks lap with a soft thud, padding across the hardwood floor with his tail flicking.
He curls up onto Hank’s worn green duffle bag in the corner and you let out a sigh of relief. That cat’s been a third wheel non stop, wedging between you and Hank like he owns the place.
Hank slides into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he brings his bicep under your head. He’s warm, and solid, his body a furnace as he pulls you against him, pressing your back to his chest.
His other arm snakes around your waist, heavy and possessive as you feel the steady beat of his heart against your spine.
He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in and a low hum rises from his throat. “You smell so good,” he whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive spot behind your ear, grazing it in a way that makes you melt into him.
“Better than Bud?” you quip, and you can feel his smirk against your skin.
“Close call,” he says, and you lightly elbow him in the ribs, earning a playful grunt. He leans in closer pressing his lips to your neck kissing the curve soft and slow. “Mmm. Definitely you,” he confirms and, you smile as you give in to him, the city’s hum fading as you close your eyes.
His warmth, his scent, and the weight of his arm are enough to pull you under, and your breathing slows as you drift off to sleep together.
Hours later, a loud crash rips through the apartment, sharp and jarring. It barely registers, your mind sluggish, still tangled in sleep, until you feel Hank sit up his hand pressing your chest protectively.
“Stay here,“ he whispers, and you nod, your pulse hammering sensing the danger as he slides out of bed.
Hanks broad frame is tense as he heads to the corner near the bedroom door. His hand lowers down, fingers curling around the handle of his old baseball bat, the one he keeps propped against the wall ‘just in case.’
The wood is worn and smooth from years of use…some of it not so innocent, and he grips it tight, his knuckles whitening. With his other hand, he pushes open the door and you sit up in bed watching him step out into the darkness feeling the fear rising in your chest.
The apartment is deathly still, the kind of quiet that amplifies every creak, every distant siren and you clutch the sheets, your mind racing.
Was it a break-in? Is someone after him? You’ve seen the way he flinches at loud noises, the way his eyes dart to the door sometimes, like he’s expecting trouble.
You strain to hear anything, your ears ringing with the effort, but there’s nothing.
The weight of silence is suffocating making your heart pound harder until, a soft click—the living room light flicks on, a sliver of yellow spilling under the bedroom door. It clicks off just as quickly, and your breath catches as footsteps approach.
Hank steps back into the bedroom, his silhouette filling the doorway. The bat is loose in his hand, no longer poised to swing, and his shoulders are relaxed having lost their tension.
“Bud,” he says, his voice rough and tinged with exasperation. “Knocked over that damn lamp in the living room. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
You let out a shaky sigh, relief flooding through you so fast it leaves you dizzy. “Hank,” you whisper, pressing a hand to your chest. “Hank, I thought…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, setting the bat back in the corner, the wood clunking softly against the wall.
He turns, his eyes catching yours, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “You were worried about me,” he teases.
“Yes, always,” you admit, your voice still trembling from the remnants of fear. “Don’t act all smug about it.”
He grins, slow and warm, climbing onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“You don’t gotta worry about me,” he says, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, the air between you shifting into a different kind of energy…the kind that comes from facing danger and coming out unscathed.
Your heart is still racing with adrenaline and the way his eyes darken, you know his is too.
He pulls the blankets back, reaching for your thighs, his hands rough as he drags you down to him. He brings your legs around his waist, his blonde hair falling loose from behind his ears, his blue eyes warm and affectionate as his full lips curve into a soft smile looking down at you.
“You mean so much to me,” he confesses, his voice heavy with desire, his gaze locking onto yours like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded in this world.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he says, his hands gliding down your sides to your thighs, giving them a firm possessive squeeze that makes you ache for him, feeling the heat blooming deep in your core.
His hand slips beneath the hem of his t-shirt you’re wearing, and you sigh as his fingers slide into your panties, circling your clit, testing and teasing until you feel the hard press of his cock against your thigh, straining in his boxers.
“Fuck you’re so wet,” he whispers, his voice low and reverent as he slips his fingers inside you.
You gasp as they move slick and sure, stretching you with slow, deliberate thrusts, your hands clutching his forearms, fingers digging in as the pleasure begins to take over.
His piercing blue eyes stay locked on yours, his blonde hair falling messily across his face framing his handsome features as he watches you fall apart beneath him.
“Hank… yes,” you moan, your voice trailing off as he curls his fingers just right, hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision, thrusting harder as your moans rise, raw and desperate.
Your hips rock against his hand, chasing the rhythm he creates, fast and overwhelming, your breaths hitching with every slick, unrelenting stroke.
His focus is entirely on you, jaw clenched with determination, a low groan escaping his lips as he feels your walls start to flutter around his fingers, knowing you’re close.
“Come for me,” he pants, seeing you lost in pleasure and you moan, your voice breaking off as you climax.
He presses his thumb firmly against your clit, circling with unyielding pressure, and the sensation sends a jolt of heat surging through your core, pushing you toward release with dizzying speed.
You come hard, your walls clenching tight around his fingers as he coaxes you through it, his thrusts faster, feeling the slickness between your thighs.
“So fucking good for me,” he breathes, his voice full of awe as he finally slips his fingers away.
You shiver, but he’s already moving, guiding you up and turning you around.
“Hold the headboard,” he says, and you obey, your fingers curling around the cold metal as he kneels behind you, his hands sliding down your body, squeezing possessively.
“So fucking pretty like this,” he praises, his voice rough with want as pulls your panties down, the fabric skimming your thighs.
He lowers his boxers, and you feel the warm, blunt head of his cock glide along your slick folds, the sensation making you clench inside, your back arching to angle yourself better for him.
He lines himself up, his large hands gripping your hips, and he pushes in, slow and deep, filling you with a stretch that makes your clit throb as your walls squeeze tightly around his thick cock.
“Hank, fuck,” you cry out, a high-pitched moan escaping your lips as his thighs press hard against the backs of yours and his cock settles deep inside.
He pulls you against him, his chest warm against your back. “So perfect on me” he whispers, his lips finding your neck, kissing soft and slow, his mouth moving desperately, as if chasing away the fear still lingering inside of you.
He moves with purpose, holding you tight to him as he thrusts, paced and measured, his cock hitting so deep it steals your breath, and he groans in your ear, heightening your pleasure with every push of his hips.
“Feels so good,” he pants, and you moan your voice wrecked as he slides one hand to your breast, squeezing firmly as his fingers tease your nipple. His other hand moves to your jaw turning you to kiss him, his lips pressing harder against yours between every well timed thrust.
The city’s glow paints the room in shades of midnight blues and purples, casting shadows over his tight muscles flexing as he drives into you, each thrust pulling a desperate moan from your lips.
You don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, that the neighbors might hear, that Bud’s probably watching from his duffle bag with judgmental cat eyes.
There’s only Hank and the way he fills you, the way he makes the world narrow to just this moment with him.
“Need you so much,” he rasps against your ear, his voice rough with want, nearing the edge of release.
Your hands clutch the headboard tighter, your knuckles aching, your body arching to meet his thrusts. “Need you too,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need, urging him on.
He pulls you tighter against him, thrusting faster, deeper, harder, each stroke pushing you both closer, your bodies trembling on the brink.
He starts grunting, the adrenaline burning through you both as his thighs begin smacking against the backs of yours.
“I’m gonna come,” you moan, your voice breaking in to soft, helpless whimpers that drive him on.
“Fuck, come for me,” he whispers, hushed against your ear, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles as your orgasm surges through you, your walls clenching on his cock as your moans pour out into the dark.
He groans your name as he follows, spilling into you, hot and thick, his cock pulsing as he buries himself deep.
You both try to catch your breath as he wraps his arms around you, keeping you close, your bodies heaving together, until your drained and sated and he slowly pulls out as you shiver from the loss.
You collapse together and he pulls your back against him, his arms wrapping around you, his chest heaving.
The city’s hum is back, a soft reminder of the world outside, but it feels distant and unimportant as Hank’s lips brush your shoulder, his breaths shallow and warm.
“I’m worried,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. It’s not like him to admit something like that, and the vulnerability in his tone makes your heart ache. “I just… I need to keep you safe.”
You turn in his arms, facing him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as his blue eyes search yours in the dim light, heavy with uncertainty.
“You do,” you say, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “We’re okay, Hank. Everything’s okay,” you reassure him, your words soft but firm.
He squeezes you tighter, pulling you against him like he’s trying to make himself believe your words, and as you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you can’t help but wonder what Hanks been dragged into in the city that never sleeps.
I was so unsure for a minute there because on the one hand "duh, it's Frank," but on the other "is he going to win trust and then wreck Fisk's secret dungeon from within."
Summary Away from home settling in a new country to start college, you find solace in a handsome stranger. The connection is instant, a bond forming faster than you ever imagined, but just when everything feels safe he pulls you into a situation far more complicated than it first seemed, and suddenly, nothing about your new life is simple anymore.
Based on the intro to the film Grease. A new girl moves to America from Sydney to start school. She meets a biker boy over summer and they fall for each other, only for her to feel confused when he pretends it didn’t happen.
❤️🔥Passionate Smut❤️🔥 New girl in a new town • innocent • naive • shy• soft spoken• lacking boundaries • trusting • forming a crush • lured • coercion •dub con• oral on fem • fingering • size kink • overstimulation • P in V •used for gratification • multiple orgasms • protection • after care
🔗 Masterlist
📖 Proof reader @aust-een
🎉 Thank you for voting! That was so fast!
Good Girl Gone Bad
The Los Angeles sun blazes over Venice Beach, casting golden light across the sand. You spread your towel near the water’s edge, where the waves crash in a steady rhythm, drowning out the chatter of locals and the hum of skateboard wheels on the boardwalk.
You’re a long way from Sydney Australia on your first trip to America, where you’ll be staying all summer in a pastel-yellow vacation rental before you begin college in California for fall.
Your navy bikini feels daring to wear out as shy and soft-spoken as you are, but the sun demands it. You lie on your back, flipping through a worn copy of The Age of Innocence, your hair fanning out over the towel, skin tingling as the heat seeps in.
After reading a chapter you roll on your stomach to tan evenly, your hair spilling over one shoulder as you flip another page. The curve of your back arches gently, feeling the sheen of your skin kissed by the sun, as you settle.
You don’t even notice him at first, the tall biker returning to his black Harley parked near the bike path.
As you glance up at him, his leather jacket is slung over one shoulder, a white t-shirt clinging to his frame. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but you can still feel his gaze, steady and casual, like you’re the only thing worth watching on the beach.
You brush it off, so far Venice Beach teems with characters, and he’s probably just people-watching.
You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and dive back into your book feeling your body warm from the last strong rays of sun, and as the light softens to a peachy glow across the sand, you decide to pack up.
Standing up you pull on your sundress, and collect your towel, tucking it folded under your arm. As you walk from the sand to the palm-lined bike path, you dig in your bag grabbing your phone for an Uber before you hear someone approaching you.
“Hey, hold up.” The voice is low, smooth, with a drawl that doesn’t quite fit LA.
You turn, and there he stands, the biker. Up close, he towers over you, lean and solid, his sandy brown hair tousled from the wind. Without his sunglasses, his eyes are piercing and vividly blue, like the Pacific Ocean as they lock on yours.
Your breath catches as you recognize his face. He’s Austin Butler, the actor. You’ve seen him on screen, but in person, he’s sharper, more real, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he says, placing his hands in his pockets, head tilting slightly. “Just figured I’d say hi before you disappeared.”
You clutch your towel tighter, caught in his stunning blue eyes that seem to see right through you, your breath hitching as a flush creeps up your neck.
“Oh, um… hi,” you manage, your voice barely functioning as your gaze traces his striking features, and the way his smirk softens as he looks at you makes your knees weak.
He speaks smoothly, his tone warm and reassuring. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
You shake your head smiling as you force yourself to meet his eyes. “No, I’m not I’m from Sydney, Australia.”
His grin shifts into something genuine as his eyes light up with recognition. “No way, I lived there a few years back, Bondi Beach, the coffee shops on Oxford Street, the way the harbor sparkles at night… some of the most transformative years of my life.” He admits casually, his gaze drifting slowly over you as his voice drops just a little. “You’ve got that Sydney glow, you know. Hard to miss.”
Your grin deepens your face warming with a blush as you glance down, fidgeting with the towel in your hands. “Thank you…,” you say bashfully, your voice barely above the hush of the waves behind you.
“I’m Austin, by the way.” He says extending a hand, and as you take it in yours, his grip is warm and firm as you introduce yourself.
“How about I show you around. You can’t leave Cali without knowing the good spots.” He offers.
You blink up at him, surprised by his kindness. “I… I don’t know. I was just calling an Uber to head back—”
“Come with me.” He smiles, equal parts charm and mischief. “I’ll treat you to something American.”
A laugh escapes you, surprising yourself, and his smirk widens. “Okay,” you say, barely believing it. “But just for a little while.”
He gestures you to his Harley, and once there, he opens the seat, handing you a helmet. He slips his on at the same time as you, tilting his head with a grin. “First time on a bike?” he asks, his voice low and teasing.
“Yeah,” you admit with a shy nod, fumbling with the strap. He steps closer, adjusting it so the helmet fits just right, his fingers brushing your chin as he chuckles softly. “You’ll love it,” he says confidently.
You climb on behind him as you hesitate, your hands hovering before lightly settling around his waist.
“Hold on tight,” he says, tilting his head to glance back at you through his helmet visor, and as you press against him, fully wrapping your arms around his wait, you bite back a smile holding him close.
The bike roars to life, and you peel away from the lot, the wind whipping through your hair as Venice blurs past, neon signs flickering to life, palm trees swaying, andthe endless stretch of ocean glinting in the dusk.
Instead of heading into town, he takes you down the coastal highway before slowing in a hillside residential area. He stops in front of a large sleek two-story beach house with glass walls and a wraparound deck.
Your stomach twists with nerves as you both remove your helmets, having just met him and now heading into a house together, but as he pulls his key from the bike’s ignition, he flashes you a warm, disarming smile, you find yourself following him in without hesitation.
Inside, the place smells of fresh cedar and leather, all modern lines and open space. A vintage acoustic guitar leans against one wall, a stack of scripts sits on the living room table.
He leads you to the kitchen, all stainless steel, with wide windows, showcasing an ocean view stretching out like a painting.
“You hungry?” he asks, glancing over with a half-smile. “Yeah,” you say, your voice soft. “Come help me cook,” he says, and you smile, your nerves easing a little.
“You’ll be my assistant,” he says, handing you a knife with a playful wink. “Let’s make you an American classic.”
You watch as he pulls ingredients from the fridge, ground beef, buns lettuce and tomatoes. He moves with easy confidence, his blue eyes flicking to yours as he speaks. “So what brings a Sydney girl to Venice?” He says as he rolls you a tomato.
You begin slicing into it as he heats a skillet. “I’ve never been to America before, just wanted to get a feel for it before starting college in the fall.” you admit.
“Smart move,” he says, watching you with a steady gaze. “What are you majoring in?”
You pause, knife hovering over the cutting board. “Well..I’ll be majoring in theater because..I want to be an actress.”
His eyebrows lift, a slow smile spreading across his face. “An actress?“ he says with enthusiasm. “That’s my entire world.”
He flips the burger patty, the sizzle filling the air. “You’ve got the look, those beautiful , honest eyes. Casting directors are gonna eat that up.”
Your cheeks flush, as you try to focus on cutting the tomato evenly, “You’re just saying that.”
“I mean it,” he says, his voice softer. “You’ve got something real, I can feel it.”
Your gaze keeps drifting over to him as he works. His handsome face, his sharp jawline, his tousled sandy brown hair framing his features just right.
He’s captivating and as you watch the way he moves with ease and confidence to match, you get it, you understand why he’s famous. There’s a magnetism to him that’s mesmerizing, like every motion is a scene he’s mastered
You work together, assembling the buns with juicy patties, stacking them with ripe tomatoes and crisp lettuce, then you sit at the dining room table together, eating the burgers, messy, delicious, and perfect.
The sun sinks below the horizon, leaving a trail of purple and gold as he leans back in his chair, his blue eyes glinting in the twilight as he studies you. “So, as an actress? What kind of roles would you be pursuing?”
You take a sip of water, gathering your courage. “I want to play someone… brave. Someone who changes things. I’ve always been quiet, you know? Shy. Acting feels like a way to be more.”
He nods, his expression softening, a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. “You’re braver than you think coming out here solo.”
You smile, small but genuine. “Maybe you’re right. It is getting late, I should definitely be back in my Airbnb by now.” you admit.
He stands up, a spark in his grin, “Let me show you one more thing,” he says extending his hand, and you take it without hesitation.
You let him lead you up the stairs to the second floor, then the third, where he pushes open a door to a reveal a rooftop deck.
It’s immaculate with a plush daybed, a fire pit, a basket of blankets, a barbecue, a bar, a mini fridge. “Wow,” you breathe, seeing the panoramic view stretching from the coast to the city.
You place your hands on the railing, letting the wind kiss your skin as you stare out at the vibrant glow of the sunset. “It’s so pretty,” you say smiling, and he joins you, resting his forearms on the railing as he watches you take it in.
“If you’re really serious about becoming an actress, I can get you to the right people,” he says, his voice low and steady, cutting through the salty breeze.
Then it hits you, he’s Austin Butler. He knows all the higher ups in Hollywood, and your entire life could change just from this moment, like a direct line to your future clicking into place.
You pull off the railing, meeting his gaze, the weight of his offer heavy in your eyes. “I’d like that very much,” you say, your breath quickening.
He rises, stepping closer, his smile warm as he faces you, his blue eyes filled with admiration. He looks over your features, tracing the curve of your jaw, the flush in your cheeks, the way your hair catches the last light.
“Hollywood’s a different town,” he says, his voice low and infectious. “It doesn’t always work out for most people, it’s really not what you know, it’s who you know.” He admits, and as the moment lingers, your smile mirrors his own as the sunset fades to a soft purple haze, and then he leans in and kisses you.
Your breath catches, lips parting in shock as his mouth moves over yours, steady and warm, his hands sliding up your arms, drawing you in effortlessly before you even think of pulling back.
His hands glide smoothly down your back, thumbs tracing up your hips, until your thoughts dissolve into a haze.
He kisses you in a rhythm until your lost in it, his tongue slipping past your lips, smooth and sure, tracing against yours with a slow, teasing stroke that makes your stomach flip.
Your hands grip his waist, fingers digging in as your pulse hammers, a dizzy rush flooding your senses until you’re unsteady in his hold completely overtaken by him.
You never expected this, you don’t even know what this is, and as he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, breaths mingling heavily, you’re overwhelmed with a rush of arousal you’ve never felt before, wanting immediately to give in, yet desperately needing to hold back.
He guides you down onto the large daybed with ease, your chest rising and falling quickly as he lowers himself, kissing down your body, your words catching in your throat as he tugs your bikini down your hips, your eyes widening in disbelief.
You should stop him, you should do something, but as he spreads your legs and his mouth settles on you, it’s already too late.
You pant heavily as he works his mouth and tongue on you, torn between wanting him to stop and surrendering to him completely.
Your heartbeat thunders, thoughts spiraling, you’ve made yourself so easy, what does he think of you now? But as you glance down at him, his eyes are closed in bliss, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his beautiful mouth moving over you with care. He’s focused entirely on savoring you, and your body softens, the tension melting as you relax into his skill.
Your head falls back as his tongue flicks just right, and your hips twitch as he splays his palm gently on your stomach, calming you as you give in.
Sparks explode behind your eyes, small whimpers escaping your lips as arousal floods through you, and the pleasure rises higher and faster until your legs press against his head. His hands caress up your hips and down your thighs steadying you as you shudder, moaning in the air, hips rocking against his mouth as you start to come.
Pleasure and heat surge together as your core clenches tight and then snaps with a euphoric release, and you cry out feeling a rush of relief wash over you, leaving you in peaceful bliss.
As the intensity fades your core throbs as you try to catch your breath and regain your senses.
Austin sits up, pulling his white shirt over his head, abs catching the light as he unbuttons his jeans. You know you should say something, you know you should get up, but as you try he easily settles over you, laying you back down.
Concern flickers in your eyes in a silent surrender as his thumb strokes your jaw. “What’s the matter?” he whispers, searching your face with a gentle smile.
“I…I…don’t know,” you pant, your words scattered and incoherent as his hand trails down your side and carefully pushes between your thighs.
His fingers press against your soaked clit, drawing a loud sound from you, and his mouth finds yours again, your eyes squeezing shut tight as he pushes two fingers inside you.
He pulls back from the kiss, watching as you gasp softly, brows knitting as his fingers reach a depth that’s aching to be touched and you fall into his rhythm sinking deeper as he thrusts faster.
Tears well in your eyes as the knot in your stomach tightens and you’re not sure if it’s from the pleasure or the intensity of what he’s doing, but you don’t stop him.
Your mind hazes as his lips return to yours, his open-mouthed kisses pulling you deeper, his fingers thrusting inside coaxing small sounds from you as you near release again, and you squeeze your eyes shut tighter as he makes you come.
He kisses your neck softly as you moan beneath him, completely spent as he slowly removes his fingers from you.
He shifts his weight, bracing one hand at your side as he lowers his jeans down his legs, and your eyes snap open, watching as his heavy cock slides free, thick and intimidating.
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a condom before kicking them off.
You swallow hard as he brings the packet between his teeth, tearing it open, then sliding the condom all the way on his large rigid cock.
Uneasiness sinks in as he settles back on top of you, his gaze meeting your wide-eyed, vulnerable look as his thumb brushes your cheek. “What’s the matter,” he asks softly, his heat pressing against you.
Your uncertainty swirls. “I don’t know,” you whisper, sharp and rushed as his fingers trace your hairline with adoration, his blue eyes steadily taking you in. “I want you,” he says with certainty, his expression softening. “The moment I saw you, I knew.”
You want him too, but everything is happening too sudden, too fast.
“I want to make your dreams come true,” he says, searching your eyes. “You want that, don’t you?” He asks gently, and your resistance slips as you whisper, “Yes,” your breath shaky.
He pulls you closer, kissing down your jaw. “Good,” he murmurs, nudging your legs apart, his cock pressing at your entrance. “Let me make your dreams come true,” he says as he kisses up your neck, and your eyes flutter shut as you surrender.
He pushes in, and your body locks tight, the pressure of his cock filling you as your walls tense around him. You squeal, feet pushing against the cushions, hands gripping the fabric as he kisses down your neck murmuring, “You’re so good,” waiting as you adjust before easing deeper until he’s fully inside.
Your hands tremble as they finally slide up his back, his broad shoulders flexing with each thrust and he pulls back, his eyes locking with yours as his heavy cock glides against your slick walls.
You moan in pleasure, everything about him is perfect, your thighs are soaked, the wet smacking of his thrusts hypnotic as you look into his eyes in disbelief at how good he feels.
Soft, breathy sounds escape your lips as each move jolts you, his sharp sounds of pleasure matching the spasms of your walls on his cock as your moans spill freely, addicted to the feeling.
His slick cock thrusts deep, hitting a spot that draws a loud, almost pained moan from you, as the pleasure becomes overwhelming.
You plead incoherently as your hands slide up to clutch the back of his neck, foreheads pressed together as you look between your bodies.
You watch his cock plunge in deep with every hard thrust and your eyes squeeze shut tight, feeling the tightness build in your core until it snaps, and desperate gasps and moans spill from you as you come.
He grunts, the sound harsher as his need takes over, and he picks up the pace, rocking into you with relentless force.
His hips clap between yours, thrusting deep with his thick unyielding cock stretching you wide. You lose your mind, sobbing and clawing down his back, nails digging into his skin as he moves against you, each thrust sending a shuddering jolt through your core.
His body locks as he comes, his breathy sounds fueling you as his cock twitches inside, a deep “Mmmmm” vibrating from his chest as he tilts his head back, spilling into the condom. He lazily thrusts a few more times before a shiver runs down his back and he slowly pulls out.
You lay panting and dazed, as he lifts of of you and pulls off the condom. He ties it tight before tossing it into a small bin, then he grabs a warm blanket from the basket, draping it over you both, before pressing a small remote.
The fire pit roars to life in front of you, its glow bright against the evening sky and as he rests against the throw cushions, he pulls you up to lay on his chest.
The warmth of his body, the blanket, and the fire wrap around you as your thoughts drift away, your mind getting lost in the dance of the blue flames in a trance.
He tilts your chin up to make you look into his eyes. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say weakly, still reeling from the intensity of it all.
“You can’t tell anyone about this,” he says, his tone serious, searching your eyes as a pang of guilt and confusion hits you.
“Okay,” you whisper, wondering what this even means to him.
The complications begin to swirl in your mind about your future, your college, and especially him. You begin to wonder if the carefree and kind Austin you met at the beach was genuine or if this was all just a lure to get you here to sleep with him.
You whimper, trying to get up but he stops you. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
Unable to meet his eyes you exhale shakily. “I should go,” the shame of your actions eating you alive.
“You’re staying” he smiles, pulling you back against him and he kisses you soft and slow, surrendering you into the unknown, changing your life forever.
Summary Your Na-Baron Feyd Rautha becomes dangerously obsessed with you, consumed by a need to have you entirely to himself—until a fateful event forces him to choose between his desire for you and his legacy.
🔗 Masterlist
🚨Depraved Smut🚨 Feyd feral • obsessive • constant claiming • Feyd impatient • oral on fem • nipple play • clit play •words of devotion • body praise • sex on a ceremonial table • sex after a battle • rough sex • missionary • girl on top • breeding kink • lactation kink • thigh rutting • Feyd jealous • multiple orgasms • creampies
*Can be read with or without 🔗Obsession for the wedding
📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @magicovento @psycheetamore ✨Inspired and dedicated to @lokisnapemalfoy 🗳️ Based on Unanimous 🔗 Poll Decision 🏆
The Harkonnens were never content to leave their future to chance. For centuries, their breeding practices had been as meticulous and calculated as their rise to power.
The Baron himself was the architect of these plans, ensuring that the Harkonnen bloodline remained as ruthless and potent as the poisons they used to eliminate their enemies.
The philosophy was simple: strength and ambition above all else, ruthlessness and cunning embedded in every generation.
When Feyd Rautha was born, he was hailed as the progeny of this breeding program,a perfect specimen of Harkonnen genetics.
His childhood was molded not by love but by calculated cruelty, ensuring he would grow into the precise tool the bloodline needed.
His beauty, his intelligence, and his lethal instincts were all results of an unforgiving strategy to create an heir who could dominate not only Giedi Prime, but the galaxy itself.
But the Harkonnen obsession with breeding didn’t end with Feyd. The Baron viewed every union as a transaction, every offspring as a pawn to be used in his intricate web of power.
Alliances were forged through bloodlines, with matches calculated for maximum political and genetic advantage.
You would be the first female to bear a Harkonnen heir, and were scrutinized for your lineage, physical strength, and intelligence.
The Baron had manipulated your ruling planet to approve the match, believing it would ensure a viable heir and secure his nephew’s position.
The union was never about love or even desire; it was about creating the perfect Harkonnen progeny, an heir born of cruelty, strength, and unyielding ambition.
It was a calculated transaction, a means to secure the future of House Harkonnen in the brutal game of power and dominance.
But the Baron, in all his scheming, underestimated one thing.
He didn’t know you.
You were no pawn in their dark schemes—every move you made, every choice you accepted, was driven by one singular desire:
You wanted Feyd-Rautha
From the moment you first laid eyes on him, you were bound to him.
When the Harkonnens arrived on your homeworld, flanked by imposing guards and the ever-watchful Baron to negotiate with your father, the bargain was sealed before the terms were even spoken
The Harkonnen presence was suffocating, their power overwhelming, but it was Feyd who drew your attention.
There was something in his dark intensity, the sharpness of his gaze, and the lethal grace of his movements that captivated you completely.
You saw the danger in him, the cruelty, but it only deepened your fascination.
As the negotiations wore on, you realized you were not being forced into the agreement—you were entering it willingly.
You were lured by the darkness that surrounded Feyd, and you knew you would surrender everything to be his.
After the grim Harkonnen wedding traditions of Blood Binding, the Trail of Chains, and the Bending of the Will—you belonged to him completely.
From your wedding night until the first light of dawn, you gave yourselves to each other, surrendering in ways neither of you had anticipated, driven by pure unspoken obsession.
Though he once seemed so incapable of love, over time the calculating and cruel Feyd Rautha began to surrender himself to you, piece by reluctant piece.
The Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, underwent a remarkable transformation since you became his Baroness.
The arrogant grin that once promised manipulation and danger now softens every time he looks at you, a rare tenderness breaking through his hardened exterior.
Instead of being bound by silent obedience to duty, you find yourselves infatuated with each other—an obsession that neither of you can resist nor wants to control.
Now, as you sit before the Baron in a meeting about your recent union, you are both restless beneath the oppressive weight of politics.
Seated across the long obsidian table, you and Feyd exchange stolen glances, the heat between you simmering just beneath the surface.
The sharp planes of his face are illuminated by the cold artificial lighting, his lips forming a signature smirk every time your eyes meet his.
Beneath his polished veneer of diplomacy, something far deeper stirs in Feyd as his gaze roams over you possessively, making it clear what he wants.
His jaw clenches in a way that makes your pulse quicken.
You know that look.
It’s the silent promise of what’s to come.
You try to focus on the Baron’s voice droning on about the future of House Harkonnen, but the weight of Feyd’s stare burns into you, his fingers drumming impatiently against the table.
By the time the meeting ends, the tension between you is unbearable.
No sooner than the words have left the Baron’s lips concluding the meeting than Feyd is on his feet, striding purposefully toward you.
His hand finds your wrist, his grip firm and commanding as he leads you through the fortress corridors with swift, measured steps.
His silence is more telling than any words as your heart pounds in anticipation.
He shoves open a heavy steel door to a separate hall, dragging you inside before kicking it shut behind him.
The echo reverberates through the chamber, and before you can catch your breath, Feyd’s mouth is on yours.
The air is cold, but you barely feel it as he presses you against the ceremonial table in the room’s center, the harsh edges digging into your thighs.
“I could not wait,” he rasps, his lips claiming yours in a demanding kiss, the force of it nearly bruising.
You whimper into his mouth as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your gown higher in a frantic search for skin.
When his fingers graze your bare flesh, a low groan fills his chest.
“You’ve worn nothing to keep me from you,” he rasps, his voice thick with need as his fingertips trace along your wetness.
You gaze into his blue eyes—sharp and vivid, unmatched by anything on Giedi Prime’s dark expanse, “Nothing could keep me from you,” you whisper pulling him into another searing kiss.
His hands grip your hips as he hoists you onto the table with effortless strength, your body yielding as he steps between your legs.
His kiss turns messy, his lips parting against yours as his tongue slides in, devouring you in ways that make your heart race.
You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers trailing into the intricate design of his pendant as his movements become methodical undoing his fastener, driven by a hunger neither of you can suppress.
“I will claim every part of you,” he rasps, savoring the evidence of your desire as his hands slide to your hips, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh.
With a possessive grip, he thrusts in sharply, a desperate plunge that fills you with a raw, searing heat that borders on pain.
His length forces its way deep inside your body as you give in to the relentless sensation.
His hand grasps the back of your neck as he penetrates you fully, your breath catching as a satisfied moan escapes your lips.
His blue eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, all of his arrogance and cruelty falls away.
His lips part, as his pupils dilate, and his face softens in a rare moment of unguarded bliss.
The way he looks at you in that instant, like you are the only thing in the universe steals your breath away.
“You are mine,” he whispers reverently, his lips pressing against yours as he slowly begins thrusting his cock deep inside.
You moan as he takes what’s his, reaching for his face, cupping his sharp jawline as he leans into your touch, his lips claiming yours in a rough, desperate kiss.
The stone walls of the fortress echo with your moans and the sharp, guttural sounds Feyd makes as he takes you.
It is his domain, his right, yet in moments when his passion subsides, when he cradles your face with a gentleness that no one else will ever see, when he brushes his lips across yours in reverence whispering your name like a vow, the cruel and calculating Na-Baron is nowhere to be found as he becomes entirely yours.
No place within the Harkonnen fortress or even the cold steel corridors of his warships remain untouched by the echoes of your passion.
As newlyweds, the intimacy between you is endless, and insatiable, a hunger that neither of you can resist.
The tension that once simmered beneath the surface gives way to an all-consuming need, and with every stolen kiss every hidden moment of intimacy, Feyd becomes more entwined with you—so deeply, so thoroughly, that he begins to lose himself.
His hunger for you becomes an obsession, a need that overrides his cunning nature, making him reckless, distracted.
And then, one night, something in him shifts entirely.
Feyd had been gone for weeks, sent on a brutal campaign to crush a lingering rebellion on the outskirts of Arrakis. The mission was relentless, hunting down insurgents through the planet’s caverns.
He relished the slaughter, the thrill of the fight, but something clawed at him beneath the surface. No matter how many bodies fell at his feet, no matter how much blood stained his blade, his thoughts always drifted back to you.
You, soft and waiting in his chambers, you untouched by any one but him. The thought of you is the only thing that soothed the rage simmering beneath his skin, the only thing that made the relentless crusade tolerable.
And now, as he strides through the fortress halls returned from his mission his mind is on one singular focus.
You.
His boots echo against the polished stone floors, his presence commanding as guards and servants alike step out of his way without a word.
His face is hard, his muscles tense with an impatience that only grows stronger the closer he gets to his quarters.
He doesn’t knock. He never does, the door opens with a forceful shove, and there you are waiting for him just as he had envisioned.
You stand in the dim glow of his chamber, draped in a delicate silk robe that clings to your form, tied loosely down the front in anticipation of him undoing it.
When word had reached you of his return aboard his Ravager, you immediately prepared yourself to see him, and now, as he stands before you, the intensity of him sets your heart ablaze.
He is clad in the stark, angular lines of his Harkonnen Warlord uniform, black as the void and edged with argent, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and tapering down to his lean waist.
The harshness of the attire only sharpens his beauty—his full lips parting as he takes you in, his blue eyes piercing like the ice of some distant planet with a heat that defies their cool hue.
He is the epitome of command and power, the sculpt of his face so handsome it feels like he is a blade honed to perfection.
Your smile is soft and welcoming, a quiet glow of happiness at seeing him again. But the glint in his sharp blue eyes tells you he’s missed you far more than you’ve missed him.
“You have returned,” you breathe, but you barely get the words out before he’s on you, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against his battle-hardened body.
His lips crash into yours with a desperate hunger, devouring you with a need that is raw and filled with longing.
Before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly in his arms as he carries you to the bed, laying you down with determination.
He only takes a moment to look at you, his gaze dark, reverent, his chest rising and falling in heavy anticipation.
“I have craved you” he whispers, his voice a hushed confession as his fingers pull at the lace of your gown, his mouth claiming yours again with a fierce hunger.
He kisses a trail down your neck, his lips hot and wet as he sucks heavily to leave marks for himself.
You gasp as his hands slide down your waist, fingers digging in possessively as he lowers himself, his mouth following the same path.
“I must savor you,” he whispers, his voice rough and low as his hands tear your gown free, exposing you to him.
And then, with effortless strength, he lifts your legs over his shoulders, holding your thighs on him as his breath fans over your skin.
The first flick of his tongue has you arching against him, your fingers grasping the silk sheets beneath you, reaching for anything, to ground yourself.
The pleasure is sharp, intoxicating, and as he delves deeper, his grip tightens on your thighs, holding you still as he works you open with unrelenting precision.
You moan as his tongue flicks against your clit before dragging down, slipping between your folds, tasting every inch of you with torturous intent.
Your body shudders, the sharp gasps spilling from your lips turning into a desperate moans as his tongue moves faster, stroking, coaxing, driving you higher.
Your hips push instinctively against his face until his hands tighten, pressing you firmly onto the bed and he holds you still as he devours you with ravenous sweeps of his tongue.
Your body writhes beneath him, your nails dragging against the sheets as your moans rise higher, desperate, uncontrollable.
He groans against you, his voice rough as his mouth seals over you, sucking hard before his tongue flicks in with relentless strokes, sending surges of pleasure racing though your core.
Your thighs tremble, threatening to close around his head, but he only buries his face deeper his tongue plunging in with unrelenting force.
Your back arch off the bed the tension coiling impossibly tighter inside you.
“Feyd—” you plead in a desperate breathless cry, placing your hands on his head as your body tightens, every muscle locking up as the pleasure peaks.
Your release crashes through you like a tidal force and Feyd groans into you, drinking it, lapping it up with a feral intensity that leaves you shaking in his grasp.
You lay panting beneath him as he rises above you, his lips glistening with your pleasure.
Without a word, he strips off his surcoat, the glow of the chamber’s dim lighting casting shadows over the definition of his pale muscles, every ridge and line carved to perfection.
His chiseled chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, his hunger for you burning in his eyes as he moves over you.
“How long have you endured since I have bound you to me?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel, a glint of possession flickering in his gaze as his fingers trace your skin.
“An..eternity,” you reply with soft breaths, your words sparking a fire in him that nearly destroys his composure, his breath catching as his control frays.
You crave him like this—feral, unhinged, completely yours.
He climbs on top of you, his weight pressing you down, his skin hot against yours. His hands pin your wrists as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with dangerous devotion.
“I can not escape you,” he confesses as he lowers his mouth to the curve of your breast. “Not for an instant have you left my mind,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your nipple before gently sucking it into his mouth.
His teeth tense with a punishing force, needing to make you feel what he feels. Then as you whimper his tongue soothes, licking gently, as if to atone for his obsession.
His hands slide down your arms around your breasts, kneading and squeezing as he claims them possessively.
Then his thumbs flick over your nipples, before his mouth follows, hot and relentless, his tongue licking heavily as he savors what he wants.
Your fingers trail over his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him just as much as he needs you, and he groans in response, pressing himself harder against you.
“You have missed me,” he whispers, his voice rough with certainty.
His hips shift as he lines himself up, and your eyes drop between your bodies, taking in the sight of his cock, thick and rigid, heavy with an aching need for you.
Your fingers slide down his chest, grazing over the defined ridges of his abs before wrapping around the base of his cock.
His breath catches, a low groan escaping his throat as you stroke him slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him in your hand.
“I have missed you,” you whisper in return, your voice filled with longing, your eyes locking onto his.
There’s no patience in him now, only the need to claim you, the need you to remind you that you are his.
His lips seize your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath as he nudges your legs apart, settling between them, his cock pressing against you.
He drags the head along your slick center, collecting your wetness with each slow, measured stroke, making you arch into him, making your body beg for more.
Then he thrusts his thick cock inside, drawing soft whimpers from you as your nails drag down his back, your pleading eyes locked on to his feeling him stake his claim.
Your slick walls tighten around him as he pushes in deeper, a rush of pleasure flooding your core as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation.
His thrusts are slow, methodical, but with each roll of his hips, his need sharpens. His hand slides up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on his as he drives into you with a primal urge to breed.
It feels impossible that he can go any harder, but he does, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you that leave you trembling.
“I want you swollen with what is mine,” he rasps, his thrusts growing more intense, his need for you all consuming.
His pace quickens, his hips snapping as he angles deeper, making you shudder and gasp clinging to him harder.
He groans your name, low and wrecked, lost in a pleasure that no one else has ever made him feel, and the sound of his voice, the raw, helpless way he gives himself to you makes you come undone.
Broken moans spill from your lips as he thrusts into you, relentlessly, ravenously, feeling you orgasm against him, each movement dragging more pleasure from you as you lie beneath him.
His grip slides to your hips, his muscles flexing with every thrust, groaning as he feels the depths of you that only he can claim.
His eyes, dark and fevered, lock onto yours- his pleasure raw and unrestrained, his body moving with one sole purpose.
He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow and his thrusts become desperate, punishing, consuming, as if the idea of stopping is unthinkable.
“Feyd,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your voice a tether in his chaos. “Give yourself to me.”
He tilts his head back as your words reach him and a groan of surrender tears from his throat. His rhythm falters under the weight of your command, and he thrusts once, twice more, before he spills into you, the heat of his seed flooding through your core.
The sight of his face and the way his mouth parts as his eyes darken with ecstasy, fills you with a devotion that leaves you entirely his.
He slowly collapses onto you, his body heavy and warm, his breath coming in ragged pants against your skin.
His lips find your chest, pressing soft, dazed kisses between your breasts as he basks in the aftermath.
“You have ruined me,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy as his fingers trace lazy circles over your skin.
“You are not ruined,” you reply, trailing your fingers over his neck. “You are mine.”
He hums softly at that, his lips curving into a rare smile as he leans up to kiss you again, slower this time, tender in a way that feels almost out of place for a Harkonnen.
In these moments, Feyd Rautha, the cruel and calculating Na Baron becomes something else entirely.
He becomes yours.
As he drifts to sleep in your arms, you know that you have satisfied him in every way imaginable, leaving him soft, surrendered, and completely undone by the force of your love.
It comes as no surprise when the proclamation is made that you are bearing the seed of House Harkonnen.
The fortress hums with whispers of your impending role, the air thick with the weight of expectation and legacy.
The Harkonnen bloodline, ruthless and unyielding, will continue through you, and the realization settles over you that you have fulfilled your role to Feyd in every way.
You are beyond obsessed with him, though you try to hide it. The thought of him fills your mind, even when he is not near, and as your pregnancy progresses, his attachment to you deepens in ways that even he cannot even fully understand.
You carry the life you created together, a new chapter in the blood-soaked lineage of the Harkonnens, and as your body becomes heavier with the weight of your unborn child, you become Feyds object of fascination.
His gaze lingers every time you are near, a curiosity so raw it seems to surprise even him. Every swell, every change in your form draws him closer, as though the transformation within you stirs something deep and primal in himself.
In the final days of your pregnancy, a ceremony takes place deep within the fortress.
It is held in a grand shrine carved from obsidian, lined with cruel, jagged relics of past conquests.
Shadows dance along the towering walls, cast by the flickering glow of fire pits filled with thick incense that clings sweetly to your lungs with every breath.
The air is heavy, suffocating, charged with an ancient energy that feels both sacred and oppressive.
The only two males present in the vast, echoing chamber are the Baron and Feyd.
You are dressed in a black opulent gown lined with dark obsidian crystals, your entire body veiled save for your lower face and hands.
This is a sacred time in your pregnancy, mere days from birth. The fabric clings to your form, accentuating the curve of your swollen belly, a visible testament to the life growing inside you.
A heavy Harkonnen pendant rests at your throat, a symbolic marker of your new role within the dynasty.
Carefully, you are knelt upon a cold white stone slab as trembling female attendants gather around you.
Their heads remain bowed in submission, their hands shaking as they place a modesty cloth over your legs and slowly lift your robe to reveal only your bare belly, round and full with the future of the Harkonnen line.
They work in fearful silence, their ink-darkened fingers tracing ancient markings of fertility across your skin, binding you to the legacy you carry.
At the head of the room, the Baron lounges forward in his oversized throne, his grotesque form draped in layers of dark, rich fabric that do little to conceal his bloated mass. His beady eyes glisten with an unsettling mix of greed and cunning as he surveys your womb for the first time.
“My dearest nephew,” he rasps, his voice thick with satisfaction, “she bears the fruit of our dominion… the future of House Harkonnen.”
Feyd’s piercing gaze never strays from you, fixed on the swell of your body that carries his heir.
There is something raw in his eyes, an infatuation bordering on obsession, a hunger so possessive it sends a shiver down your spine.
His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to touch you, to claim you, even here, even now, in front of them all.
The Harkonnen Shaman enters the chamber and steps forward, cloaked in dark robes adorned with symbols of death and rebirth. His voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate, steeped in ancient authority.
“You now bear the fruit of life,” he chants, his withered hand hovering over your belly, as if feeling the of the life within. “And it is life’s blood that shall nourish it.”
A ceremonial basin rests ominously on the altar beside you, filled with a viscous substance, and your heartbeat quickens as the Shaman gestures toward it.
Feyd steps forward, his breath heavy, the tension in his body coiled tight with unspoken obligation.
Without hesitation, he lowers his fingers into the liquid, the thick red substance clinging to them as he lifts his hand.
His dark eyes meet yours, and without breaking contact, he brings his fingers to your womb.
“Seal our future,” he says, hushed and commanding, laced with something deeper—something desperate. “Deliver our heir,” he whispers.
Your skin prickles with anticipation and fear, but beneath it all, a dark thrill stirs within you.
The weight of Feyd’s gaze, the feel of his touch, it’s intoxicating, binding you to him in ways you could never comprehend.
Feyd watches intently, his blue eyes dark with fascination as he draws the ancient marking of his bloodline over your womb, staining your skin as the Shaman watches approvingly.
Whispers ripple through the chamber as the Baron’s grin widens in grotesque delight.
Feyd works methodically, each stroke pressing the significance of this moment deeper into your soul.
When the markings are complete, the Shaman raises his arms, his voice rising as it echoes through the vast chamber. “The oath has been written. The heir will be strategic and cunning and will bring forth powerful alliances to House Harkonnen.”
The Baron lets out a thrilled laugh, his thick hands clapping together in arrogant satisfaction, his eyes darting between you and Feyd.
“Strategic and cunning indeed,” he praises, his voice laced with dark approval and greed.
Feyd says nothing, but his eyes remain locked on you, unreadable yet intense, the weight of his gaze speaking far more than words ever could.
The ceremony is strange and overwhelming, yet beneath it all, something within you shifts irrevocably.
You are no longer just a vessel, you are part of something far greater, something ancient and unstoppable.
You belong to Feyd, to the future you now carry, and to the darkness that binds you both.
Late at night after the ceremony, under the pale light of Giedi Prime’s twin moons, you rest in your chamber, the heavy silence pressing in around you.
The bed beneath you is vast, adorned with dark silks, the headboard emblazoned with the sigil of House Harkonnen, yet it feels empty, foreign, without Feyd’s warmth beside you.
For the first time, you have been sent to separate sleeping quarters, a symbolic tradition meant to mark the transition from union to lineage.
Unable to sleep, you open your eyes to see Feyd standing in the doorway bathed in the cold glow of the twin moons filtering through the towering windows.
His tall form remains still as he leans one shoulder against the doorway, watching you rest, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed solely on you.
With the birth only days away, he is forbidden from seeing you, a decree meant to protect your fragility in these final moments.
But as his eyes search yours with longing, you see he can not bear it.
In an unmistakable act of defiance he approaches you slowly, as if he is afraid to disturb the quiet sanctity of the moment.
His hands, used as instruments of destruction, are gentle as they trace the swell of your belly.
“I never dreamed this,” he rasps, his voice carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. “That I could create something… pure.”
He lowers himself to you, his movements almost worshipful as his hands splay protectively over your womb.
“I crave what your body has become,” he whispers, his voice thick with awe and desire as his fingers trace reverently over your curves in worship of them.
“Every change of your form is so perfect,” he praises, his lips meeting the sensitive skin of your neck as his hand moves lower, caressing the swell of your womb.
“Your nuturing body… your sustenance…” he rasps, his fingers tracing the soft fullness of your breast.
He trails his lips lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone until he reaches the peak of your breast.
His mouth hovers just above your nipple,his breath fanning over the sensitive skin as his dark eyes flick up to meet yours.
He hesitates, waiting, testing, then with a quiet groan of surrender, he seals his lips around it.
A quiet moan falls from your lips as his tongue rolls against your nipple, coaxing, teasing.
His first pull is firm yet careful, his mouth working gently, as though he fears you will break the fragile connection.
A tingling warmth blooms at the peak of your breast, spreading through your chest, as if something deep within you responds to him, awakening, yielding.
It’s primal, instinctive, as though your body knows what he wants before your mind fully registers it.
The tenderness of his mouth trying to pull milk leaves you vulnerable. What he is doing feels forbidden, yet the sight of him, his lashes fluttering as he tries to drink from you, makes it impossible to stop him.
Your nipple hardens under the stimulation, the sensation growing sharper, hotter, your breast swelling with heat as he sucks deeper.
A soft gasp escapes you as he switches to the other, his mouth latching with purpose, his breaths warm against your skin.
He groans with frustration low in his throat, his fingers squeezing the soft swell of your other breast as if urging your body to give him what he craves.
And then you see it—a slow droplet of milk rolling from your nipple.
His hum of satisfaction vibrates against your chest, deep and resounding as the first taste of your sweet milk warmly coats his tongue.
His fingers tighten possessively around your breast as a shudder runs through him, feeling something primal overtaking his restraint.
The intimacy of it is overwhelming, the way his mouth works on you, his soft whimpers of his pleasure, the desperate way he drinks from you—it all becomes too much.
His suckling grows stronger, more intense, his grip tightening on your breast as he holds it drinking deeply, greedily, craving this more than he would ever admit.
His tongue laps at your nipple between deep hungry pulls, his fingers rolling over the other, coaxing more milk to leak from you to feed his growing need.
You softly stroke his face and he whines, rutting his hips against you, his arousal evident and throbbing with need. His hand reaches between you unclasping his faster to free cock and he firmly thrusts it between your slick thighs.
You softly whimper as he uses you, the slippery heat of his cock making your thighs press together. He clings to you as though tethered thrusting harder between your thighs, the slick sounds of his movements filling the quiet chamber
His hand slips between your bodies once again, this time his fingers push into your throbbing core, stroking you, coaxing more from you as your loud moans fuel his growing need.
He draws from you forcefully, the unrelenting pull of his mouth making your nipple ache as he thrusts between your thighs, his husky moans drowsy with satisfaction from both pleasures
His fingers work inside of you, deeper, firmer curling just right until you can’t hold back and a sharp cry spills from your lips as you orgasm from his intensity.
He groans against you feeling your release, his hips rutting harder and deeper until his release comes sudden and forceful, his cock twitching as it spills in thick, hot streams between your thighs
The warmth of his seed leaks slowly down your skin, as he becomes weaker, softer, drinking from you until there is nothing left, until he is too spent to take more.
As his body grows heavier beside you, his breaths shallow and his fingers slip from you, his lips barely touching your nipple as exhaustion overtakes him.
He hums as you stroke his chin, his eyes half-lidded as his lips curve into a lazy, milk-drunk smile, utterly satisfied, utterly spent.
As he looks at you his gaze lingers with something unspoken, something softer than words, as if in this moment he needs nothing but you.
As he drifts into sleep in your arms you watch him rest peacefully, his features serene in a way you’ve never known.
Each night Feyd visits you this way, and each night, his hunger seems to grow, his need for you deepening, as though he is becoming dependent on the very act
As he lies milk-drunk in your arms, you caress his temple, finally summoning the strength to confide what you’ve withheld from him for so long, your voice trembling with quiet unease.
“I fear the medical facilities here on Giedi Prime… and the Harkonnen rituals after a female gives birth,” you confess, your words faltering as you dare to resist a Harkonnen rite for the first time. “…The bloodletting of the mother to bind her strength to the child—it terrifies me,” you admit.
Feyd listens intently, not once dismissing your fears of his customs.
“I will not let them touch you,” he says, his voice resolute, low and heavy from his indulgence, carrying no trace of resistance.
The very next day he hires a skilled doula from a distant planet, sparing no expense to ensure you are comfortable.
When the night finally arrives, Feyd paces outside of the chamber like a caged beast, his brute strength shattered by the sound of your laboring cries.
Yet, when your daughter, Lily, is finally born in the intimate warmth of the birthing chamber, Feyd is the first to hold her.
His expression melts into something unrecognizable as he looks at her with pure, unrestrained joy.
His fierce hardened exterior crumbles as he stares down at the tiny life in his arms, his breath catching in his throat.
In that moment, nothing else exists. Not war, not bloodlines, not duty only her.
In the days that follow, Feyd’s initial joy slowly and unexpectedly, turns to bitterness.
Whenever he sees you nursing Lily his jaw tightens and his gaze darkens —yet he says nothing, only brooding in a corner, if not storming from the room entirely.
You can feel the weight of his longing, the frustration he refuses to voice.
Then one night, after the baby has fallen asleep, he lays in bed with you, his body tense beside yours before hesitantly confessing his desire.
“I envy her,” he admits, almost shamefully, as he trail his fingertips over your breast. “You give her something I can no longer have.”
You smile softly, caressing his cheek, “You have me“ you say soothing him but the longing in his eyes does not fade.
His hand moves lower, cupping your breast, his fingers pressing in, squeezing just enough to make his own torment worse.
His jaw clenches, his breathing uneven as he watches with dark satisfaction seeing your milk begin to soak through the fabric of your gown.
He pulls down the delicate material, baring your breast fully to his sight, your breath catching as his expression shifts, his blue eyes darkening with something deep and primal.
He squeezes until you are leaking down his hand and deep and a broken groan falls from his lips as his head dips lower, his breath hot against your skin.
“There is enough for me,” he whispers, his voice almost reverent, and before you can even think to stop him—his mouth latches onto you.
His lips seal over your nipple, his tongue rolling softly as he begins to nurse, his hand squeezing over your breast, coaxing more for him to take.
His lashes flutter in bliss, his face softened in quiet ecstasy as he drinks from you, his low hums of satisfaction vibrating against your skin as he becomes completely lost in his indulgence.
Lily’s soft cry breaks the quiet, and Feyd pulls back, his guilt shadowing his features.
He climbs out of bed and lifts her from her cradle, holding her close as if to atone for his selfishness.
“She needs you more,” he says softly, his voice breaking as he places her in your arms.
He watches her latch as he sits beside you, his gaze fixed on the tiny life between you.
As Lily struggles to nurse, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles gently against her soft cheek, encouraging her to drink.
And when she begins to suckle greedily he smiles —a true, unguarded smile that you’ve never seen before.
Over time, his love for Lily grows to match his love for you. Gone is the spoiled Na-Baron who once demanded you all to himself. Instead, Feyd becomes a doting father, personally feeding Lily as she transitions to solid food.
Each meal is a ritual, he speaks to her softly, telling her stories of bravery and caution, instilling in her the strength to carve her own path.
And every time you watch him hold your daughter, his once-imposing figure now gentle and protective, you’re reminded of how love has transformed the cruel heir into a man capable of profound devotion.
The day Lily reaches one year of age a Harkonnen ceremony marks the occasion.
You attend with Feyd to introduce her to the gathered nobles and warriors of Giedi Prime.
The ritual is dark, grand, and imposing, like everything else on this world.
The hall looms massive, lined with banners of House Harkonnen and the nobles stand in disciplined silence as Feyd carries Lily forward.
She is dressed in black and crimson, the insignia of his house emblazoned on her tiny chest.
A shaman anoints her forehead, intoning ancient words of devotion, binding her to a legacy of war and conquest. Then, with reverence, Feyd places her into the waiting arms of her grandfather, the Baron.
For the first time, the ever-calculating, grotesque Baron does not sneer or grin in mockery.
His pale blue eyes soften, overtaken by an expression no one has ever witnessed.
As he drapes the obsidian necklace around her tiny neck, she blinks up at him, wide-eyed and impossibly small in his massive arms.
Something shifts in him—unvoiced, un-calculated.
He cradles her delicate form as if she’s far too precious for a world that knows only cruelty.
In a voice quieter and raspier than usual, he vows to her, “My little Harkonnen Heiress, I will mold you to twist rulers like reeds in your grasp and we will shatter any who defy our dominion.” He grins with his ruthless satisfaction.
Then the Baron turns, proudly presenting Lily for all to see. The nobles and warriors salute in unison, the sound echoing through the chamber, cementing her place in the Harkonnen bloodline.
Through it all, you stand with Feyd, observing the ceremony with fulfillment as his fingers trace secretly down your palm, a hidden caress amid the solemnity.
“She is perfect,” he praises, his voice low, meant only for you and as his gaze lingers on yours, his sharp blue eyes glint with a ferocity that transcends the moment.
You know that look —and as his fingers tighten around your hand, you can sense the promise of his deepening desire—the unspoken vow of what’s to come
After the ceremony, you and Feyd place Lily to rest in her chamber as she sleeps from the momentous occasion.
Her crib gleams of dark obsidian, its edges carved with angular Harkonnen runes, a stark cradle of power softened by a black silk lining.
Lily lies within, her tiny form serene, skin flushed with the faintest of rose, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she breathes softly.
Feyd brushes his fingers gently across her cheek, ensuring she is peaceful taking one last look before walking the distance to your quarters, both of you still dressed in immaculate garments.
Feyd wears a sleek, black surcoat edged with crimson, the Harkonnen insignia stark against his chest, while you don a flowing gown of midnight silk, its hem embroidered with silver threads that shimmer like stars against Giedi Prime’s gloom, the cut accentuating your form with regal grace.
Once the doors shut, sealing you in silence, Feyds hand cradles your face with a gentleness that defies his strength. “You have undone me,” he says, his voice low and enamored, his blue eyes soft with awe.
His lips press reverently against yours, each kiss burning with quiet fervor, his breath grazing you like an unspoken vow.
He pulls back, his sharp blue eyes blazing with devotion as he lowers to his knees before you, his powerful frame, perfected by years of combat and conquest, submitting willfully to yours.
“Give me another,” he rasps, his voice rough with worship, his hands trailing up your hips.
“Let me feel you bloom with my seed again,” he rasps, placing his hand on your womb in a fervent plea to your dominion over him.
You smile, trailing your fingertips affectionately over his head before you slip from his grasp, leaving him kneeling.
You walk across the room, your robe trailing behind you like a lure he can’t resist, its silk whispering against the stone floor.
His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, glinting with a knowing, unreadable hunger.
“You crave another legacy to bind us deeper in this world of shadows,” you tease, eyes locking with his as he stands, his gaze drawn to you like a blade to its mark.
You lay back on the sheets, arms spread wide with a smile of invitation. “Come then,” you order, and he hesitates for only a second before disrobing.
His surcoat falls away, revealing his pale, muscular form, his broad shoulders sculpted by battle, abs ridged with power, and lean hips framing his thick, pink tipped cock, rigid and heavy with need against his pale skin.
He approaches with purpose, his hands brushing lightly over your feet, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your arch before pressing a kiss to your ankle in reverence.
“You need yet another heir to solidify your empire?” you challenge, your voice a silk caress, your gaze steady as he pauses at your words.
He climbs over you, fingers sliding and lifting your gown, kissing along your thighs with worshipful hunger before pressing his lips to your womb, lingering as if willing his seed to take root.
“You are my empire,” he rasps, his voice low and fervent, before his kisses trail upward over the fabric of your gown, pausing between your breasts, his hands parting your thighs with reverent care.
“I would conquer worlds to see you carry my blood again,” Feyd breathes, his voice husky with adoration, his warm breath fanning your skin.
His words blaze through you, sparking a fever pitch of desire, your pulse hammering as his fingers slip beneath your gown, hooking the delicate silk at your hips leaving nothing between you.
“Take me,” you whisper, urgency threading your soft command, your impatience mirroring in his own as he tears your gown apart, the midnight silk shredding under his strength.
The sight of torn fabric and the raw power in his hands sends a jolt of arousal surging through your core and his lips find yours, desperate and devouring.
His tongue brushes yours as pants and moans spill between you, the kiss deepening into a frantic need for each other.
His hands roam over your hips, your waist, your breasts, savoring curve with possessive hunger until he suddenly pulls you on top him.
His hands guide yours, placing them on either side of his head as he looks up at you, his eyes darkening with pure, unfiltered lust as he takes in the sight of you above him.
“You hold my fate,” he confesses, his hands sliding up your sides, his eyes trailing down to where your bodies will meet. “I will forge dynasties if you grant me more,” he vows, his hands gliding up your thighs and pulling you down onto him, his cock nudging hard against your slick entrance before pushing through.
You softly gasp as he fills you deep, the heat of him radiating your core, the hard length throbbing as he lowers you until the base of him settles against you.
His breath falters as your walls clench him tight, and he surrenders, his hands clutching your hips with worshipful desperation as he watches you take him.
Each slow grind on his thick cock draws sounds of satisfaction from him as his gaze fixes on where you claim him.
His hands trail up your body caressing your sides guiding you until they cup your breasts, your skin warm and flushed to his touch.
He pulls you to him with a possessive longing, guiding your breast to his mouth, his breath teasing your nipple before his lips seal around it.
A soft moan spills from your lips as his tongue flicks around it, his mouth pulling with an unrelenting need amplifying the pulsing heat of his cock inside you.
The sensation drives your hips to move faster, and he switches to the other his mouth hot and insistent, sucking stronger, harder, as you feel his moans vibrate against your skin.
“Feyd,” you whimper, your voice shaking as his lips remain latched and his hips begin surging up to meet yours in deep, unforgiving thrusts.
The sounds of your broken moans and his feral grunts mingle as he pulls off your nipple with a wet pop, leaving you gasping.
His breath is ragged as he groans, his hands seizing your hips to drive you harder onto his cock.
Your moans are unhinged desperate cries as your climax slams into you, your body quivering violently in his grasp. Your walls tighten, pulsing around him, as the pleasure overtakes you completely.
Feyd pants as he watches you, his hands gripping your hips firmly, keeping you grinding on him, dragging out your release until you can do nothing but shake and sob above him.
Then with one fluid shift, he guides you beneath him never breaking the connection, his hands hooking behind your thighs, lifting them high as he lays on top of you.
His chest presses yours as his thrusts become demanding, his hips slamming against you with ruthless intensity, the slick, wet smacks of your bodies filling the chamber, raw and unrestrained.
His face is a haze of need and lust as his cock throbs inside, swelling with each punishing stroke until his rhythm falters. A deep moan escapes him as his climax hits and his body seizes with ecstasy.
He thrusts harder, his hips jerking as thick, hot streams of his seed flood you into you and your walls milk him instinctively.
The overstimulation wrecks him as he rides out the aftershocks, his desperate grunts fading into soft, ragged breaths, until he is spent and collapses against you his chest heaving with exhaustion.
Your fingers graze his shoulders in a soothing caress as he presses drowsy kisses over your heart in quiet devotion.
“You have given me everything,” he whispers, his voice thick with reverence as he lifts to look at you, his blue eyes sharp and endless with desire.
An endearing blacked-out grin forms on his lips as your thumb brushes his chin affectionately.
“Because you are mine,” you confirm, smiling in return as you trace the sharp edge of his jaw with possessiveness.
“Forever,” he rasps, his eyes heavy with surrender, his voice fading as the vow settles between you.
On the cold, brutal world of Giedi Prime, a love you never thought possible formed in the shadows of House Harkonnen, yet remains completely untouched by its cruelty.
The ruthless and ambitious Na-Baron, who once sought only power and conquest, now finds strength in his lineage and as your womb swells with his second unborn heir, Feyds obsession deepens—his sharp blue eyes tracing your rounded form with a reverence bordering on worship.
The halls of the Harkonnen stronghold, once filled with whispers of betrayal and fear, now echo with Lily’s laughter.
He adores her—she is the only one who can make the Baron soften, the only one Feyd kneels for without question. And you, the anchor that keeps him steady, the only person he will ever truly belong to.
To the outside world, he remains a formidable force, a warrior, a ruler, a Baron who commands both fear and respect. But in the privacy of your chambers, he is simply yours.
He worships you with the same intensity he once reserved for battle, his hunger for you never waning, his devotion growing fiercer with time.
Feyd-Rautha, the once cold and callous Harkonnen, now lives for his legacy, and the woman who holds his heart forever.
