#ddofab

You freeze in the doorway. Your eyes go to his hand, to the vibrator, back to his face, and the colour that floods your cheeks is immediate and — he feels like a dick for noticing — really fucking cute.

“That’s not Advil,” you say.

“No,” he agrees. He turns it over in his hand, runs his thumb across the dial. “No, it is not.”

“Put it back.”

He should. He really should. “How long have you had this?”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s just a question.”

“Why does it matter?”

He doesn’t have a good answer for that. Or he does, but the good answer is because I can’t stop picturing you using it and that feels like a lot right now. So he just shrugs and keeps turning it in his hand.

“I don’t know. A while. Can we talk about literally anything else?”

He grins. Can’t help it. You’re flustered in a way he doesn’t get to see very often — you’re usually the one who has her shit together, the one giving him a look when he’s done something stupid — and watching the tables turn is doing something warm and selfish in his chest.

“We could,” he says. “But I don’t want to.”

“Hank.”

“What?”

“Can you stop looking at it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s interesting.”

He glances up. His mouth twitches. “It is interesting.”

“It’s really not.”

“It’s a little interesting.” He holds it up, examining the base.

“Can you please put it down now?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t put it down. He clicks the dial and it buzzes to life in his hand — the vibration runs up his wrist and into his forearm and something in the back of his brain goes oh. He flinches, just slightly, and you laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you over the top of it with his eyebrows up, half-offended, half-delighted that he made you laugh, and clicks it off.

“So,” he says.

“So.”

“Do you think about me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“When you use it,” he says. His heart is doing something stupid and fast behind his ribs and he keeps his voice casual because that’s what he does, that’s the only play he’s got — stay easy, stay light, even when the answer matters more than it should. “Do you think about me?”

Your eyes hold his for a long second. Something shifts in your expression — the embarrassment is still there but something else is moving underneath it. Something warmer. He feels it in his stomach.

“Sometimes,” you say quietly.

Sometimes. Okay. He can work with sometimes. Sometimes means he’s in the rotation, which means there’s a rotation, which means—

“What about the other times?”

You roll your eyes but there’s no real irritation in it. “God, you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

You push off the doorframe, cross the room, sit down on the bed next to him. Your knee bumps his. You smell like the coconut lotion you put on after showers and your hair is still slightly damp and he is very aware that he is holding your vibrator while your bare thigh is pressed against his jeans.

“Sometimes I watch stuff,” you say.

A beat.

“Stuff,” he says.

“Tapes.”

He blinks. Just once, slow, processing. “Like — pornos?”

“Yeah.” You glance at him sideways, checking his reaction. “I have a couple.”

Something hot drops through his stomach. He wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t know what he was expecting — fantasies, maybe, imaginary scenarios — but not tapes. Not you watching actual porn alone in this apartment. The image rearranges something in his head, shifts you into a light he hadn’t seen before. He likes it. He likes it a lot.

“Okay,” he says. His voice is steady. The rest of him is not. His cock stirs in his jeans and he shifts his weight, hoping you don’t notice.

You notice. Your eyes flick down to his lap and back up and the corner of your mouth twitches. The flush on your cheeks isn’t just embarrassment anymore — it’s something warmer, something that knows exactly what it’s doing.

“Don’t make it weird,” you say, but your voice has dropped, gone softer.

“Not weird.” His voice isn’t much better. “What kind of stuff?”

“Normal stuff. Nothing kinky, if that’s what you’re hoping.” Your cheeks are still flushed. “Just, like, regular.”

“That’s three ways of saying the same thing, so I’m gonna go ahead and guess there’s a specific thing you’re not saying.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. He watches the fight play out on your face — wanting to tell him, not wanting to tell him. The tension between those two things is filling the room with something thick and warm that he can feel on his skin.

He doesn’t push. He can see you’re right at the edge of something and if he presses too hard you’ll close the door, so he just lets it sit. Lets the quiet do the work.

“Show me,” he says instead. He holds the vibrator out to you, handle first. “I wanna watch you use it.”

And you smile. Not the embarrassed one, not the one you’ve been hiding behind for the last five minutes. A different smile — slow, private, a little wicked. It changes your whole face. It’s the smile of a person who has a secret that just became relevant.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing smile. What?”

You bite your lip. “It’s just — I like watching, too.”

Something in his brain stutters. “Watching what?”

“My favourite thing on those tapes,” you say, not quite looking at him, your voice low and careful, “is watching a guy get himself off.”

Everything in Hank’s body goes still.

He stares at you. You stare back. Your chin is up slightly, defiant, daring him to make it weird, and he is not going to make it weird because his entire body just went hot and tight and his cock is hardening in his jeans and his hand is gripping your vibrator so firmly his knuckles ache.

You like watching guys jerk off.

You lie in this bed and watch tapes of men touching themselves and you come to it. That’s the thing that does it for you. His mouth is dry. He swallows. “That’s your thing?”

“That’s my thing.”

Neither of you looks away. The vibrator is in his hand between you and the apartment is very quiet. He can hear you breathing. Can hear the pace of it changing.

He holds the vibrator out again. Doesn’t say anything this time. Doesn’t need to — you look at it, look at his face, and the question and answer happen without a word.

You take it from him. Your fingers brush his and he lets go slowly, deliberately, and there’s a whole conversation in that transfer — in the way he opens his hand, the way you close yours. The touch sparks up his arm and settles somewhere behind his navel.

You move back against the headboard and he moves to the foot of the bed, one leg folded under him. You pull your shirt off over your head and shimmy out of your shorts, your underwear with them, and settle back against the pillows. Naked while he’s fully dressed, and the imbalance makes the whole thing feel illicit, charged, like something that’s happening in secret even though it’s just the two of you.

You’re nervous. He can see it in the way you adjust the pillow behind your back, the way you won’t quite look at him. You click the vibrator on and the buzz fills the room. You press it between your legs and your eyes close and your lips part and something leaves your throat — barely a sound, more like a sigh — and Hank stops breathing.

Your head tips back. Your hips rock up. Your free hand grips the sheet and your thighs fall open and he can see everything — the way your stomach tenses, the vibrator moving in small tight circles, the slickness on your inner thighs that tells him you were wet before you even turned it on.

He’s hard. Fully, achingly hard, straining against his jeans. He presses the heel of his hand against himself because the pressure is unbearable and the friction makes him hiss through his teeth.

Your eyes crack open. You look at him — flushed, heavy-lidded — and you look at his hand pressed against the front of his jeans and your hips jerk. The sound you make goes straight to the base of his spine.

You’re close already. He can see it building — the way your rhythm goes unsteady, your breathing turning ragged, your thighs starting to tense. Your back arches and your mouth drops open and something crosses your face that’s raw and unguarded and—

You come. Fast. Your whole body tightens and a choked gasp punches out of you and your hips grind up hard against the vibrator. He watches it happen — the flush spreading down your chest, your face twisting, your hand white-knuckling the sheet — and his cock throbs so hard behind his zipper that his vision blurs.

It’s been maybe four minutes.

You slump back against the pillows, breathing hard, the vibrator still buzzing between your legs. Your eyes are closed, your skin glowing, and you look dazed and undone and his heart is hammering against his ribs.

“Already?” The word comes out rough. Wondering.

You open one eye. “Don’t.”

“No, I — that was—” He doesn’t have the sentence. His brain isn’t working right. “Fuck.”

A lazy, satisfied smile tugs at your mouth. You look loose, warm, the embarrassment burned off entirely. You look like a completely different version of yourself than the one who couldn’t look at him two minutes ago.

He wants the vibrator.

Not in a way he could have predicted or explained. He just wants it. Wants to be the one holding it. Wants to know what it feels like to press it against you and watch your face while he controls it.

He takes it from your hand. You let him — your fingers open, your eyes track his face.

“Can I?” he asks.

You nod.

He moves between your thighs. Kneeling, settling in close, one hand on your knee. He can feel the heat coming off your skin. He clicks the vibrator down to low — instinct, some understanding that you just came and your body is still lit up — and presses it against you.

Too hard, wrong spot. He feels you flinch, your body pulling away.

“Here.” Your hand covers his, guides him. A little to the left, lighter pressure, and when you let go he holds it exactly where you put him. Your breath stutters and your hips tip up.

He watches your face for every signal — the furrow between your brows, the way your lips part, the hitch in your breathing when he presses a fraction firmer. You’re more sensitive now, your body still humming from the first orgasm, and every small adjustment he makes ripples through you visibly.

He wants more. He lowers himself onto his stomach between your legs. Settles in, his weight on his elbows, his face level with your hips. He keeps the vibrator steady with one hand and turns his head and presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh.

Your hand flies to his hair.

He kisses you there — slow, open-mouthed, his lips dragging against the soft skin. He can feel your thigh trembling under his mouth. Can feel the heat radiating off you, smell you, and his cock is pressed against the mattress and the pressure is exquisite and nowhere near enough. He kisses higher, closer, his stubble grazing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and you make a sound that he wants to hear every day for the rest of his life.

He hooks his arm under your thigh and over the top of it, settling in, anchoring himself. The vibrator is steady on your clit from that angle and his other hand slides up between your legs. His fingers trace through the slick heat of you — so much of it, soaking, and the feel of it makes his hips grind helplessly against the mattress.

He slides two fingers inside you. Slow.

You moan. Loud. Your walls grip him immediately, tight and hot, and he curls his fingers forward, pressing up. When he finds the spot your whole body jolts.

He works his fingers in a slow, firm rhythm, curling into that spot, over and over, the vibrator holding steady on your clit. He mouths at the inside of your thigh between strokes, presses his lips to the soft skin there, drags his tongue along the crease, and the dual sensation is taking you apart. He can see it happening — your body going taut, your breathing going sharp, your fingers twisting in his hair.

He’s rutting against the mattress now. Can’t help it. Can’t stop the slow grind of his hips, the friction against his cock through his jeans that’s keeping him sane and driving him crazy at the same time. His mouth is on your thigh and his fingers are inside you and the vibrator is on your clit and he can feel you tightening around him, feel the flutter that means you’re close—

“Oh god, oh fuck—”

He stays. Doesn’t change anything. Same angle, same pressure, same steady rhythm. You break — harder than the first time, with your whole body, your walls clamping down on his fingers in hard rhythmic pulses, a sound tearing out of you that starts as his name and ends as something shapeless. He feels the orgasm in his hand, feels the waves of it. Keeps his fingers moving gently until you push his wrist away, gasping, oversensitive.

He slides his fingers out slowly. Puts the vibrator down. Presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and lifts his head.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, breathing in shudders, body limp, eyes glazed. His cock is straining against his jeans, neglected, he hasn’t been touched all night and he can’t wait anymore.

He stands up. Pulls his shirt over his head, undoes his belt, shoves his jeans and boxers down and kicks them off. His cock is hard and flushed and the head is wet, and your eyes — still heavy, still dazed — drop to it and sharpen.

Something crosses your face. That recognition. The thing you told him about.

He wraps his hand around himself and the relief hits him like a punch. A groan pulls out of him, low and ragged, and his eyes nearly close but he keeps them open because you’re watching. You’re propped against the pillows, naked and glowing and destroyed, and your eyes are fixed on his hand. This is the thing you told him you like and he’s giving it to you.

He strokes himself slow. Full strokes, base to tip, his thumb dragging over the head, spreading the wetness there. His stomach tenses. His breathing gets heavier and he lets it — lets you hear the roughness in his exhale, the hitch when he tightens his grip. He’s standing at the foot of the bed and you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world and it makes him feel — christ. He doesn’t have the word. Wanted. Seen. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He tightens his grip. Strokes faster. His hips push forward into his fist and his thighs tense and the pleasure is building at the base of his spine, a slow hot coil getting tighter with every stroke. He watches your face while you watch his hand.

Your gaze is fixed on his fist. On the slide and pull of it, the way his cock disappears into his grip and emerges shining, the way his hips push forward on the upstroke. Your mouth is open, your eyes dark. One of your hands drifts lazily between your legs, fingers moving slowly over yourself while you watch him. The sight of it makes his cock pulse and a low, rough sound tears out of his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes. He can feel it building. Getting close. His hand speeds up, his abs clench, his head tips back—

You sit up. Move fast, and your hand wraps around his wrist and stops him. Your mouth is on his and you’re pulling him down onto the bed and the kiss is desperate and messy and you’re saying it against his lips — “I need you, I can’t, I need you now—”

The want in your voice snaps something in him.

He’s on top of you and between your legs. You grab his cock and guide him and he pushes in hard and fast and deep and the sound that comes out of both of you is raw and loud.

The vibrator gets knocked somewhere — off the bed, onto the floor. He hears it buzzing against the hardwood like an angry insect and neither of you reach for it.

You’re so wet. Soaked from coming twice, swollen and hot and tight around him, and the feeling of you is so intense his arms nearly buckle. You lock your legs around his waist and dig your heels into his ass and he fucks you hard — deep fast strokes that make the headboard crack against the wall in a rhythm your neighbours are definitely going to hear.

“Harder,” you gasp, and he gives you harder, bracing one hand on the headboard and driving into you with everything he’s got. The bed is creaking, protesting, and your body is jolting with every thrust and you’re making these sharp, punched-out sounds that are driving him out of his mind.

He shifts his angle. Tilts his hips and the next thrust hits deep and you gasp, your hands grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss that’s more teeth than lips. You’re clenching around him, and he can feel you getting close again — the flutter of your walls around his cock.

You break. You come around him, tight, pulsing, your face buried in his neck, a sound against his skin that vibrates through his whole body. He fucks you through it and the clench of you is almost too much and the pressure at the base of his spine is screaming and he’s right there, right on the edge—

“I’m gonna come,” he rasps as he pulls out.

You whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him. He wraps his hand around himself, slick with you, and strokes hard and fast, his cock pressed against your lower stomach. You look down between your bodies and watch his hand, your eyes black, your lips parted, and that’s what does it — your face, watching him, wanting this.

He comes hard. Spills across your stomach in hot pulses, his hips jerking, his hand working himself through it, a groan wrenching out of him that he feels in his whole chest. Your hand slides over his on his cock and holds it there while the last shudders roll through him. His forehead drops against yours. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Your breath is warm on his mouth and your fingers are threaded through his.

He collapses. Half on you, half beside you, one arm thrown across your ribs. Your stomach is a mess and neither of you cares. Your hand finds his hair, scratching lightly through it, and he presses his face into your neck and breathes you in.

“Fuck,” he says against your throat.

“Mmhm.”

“Fuck.”

You laugh. Soft, breathless. He lifts his head and looks at you — flushed and glowing — and wants to say something but doesn’t have any words left.

You’re lying tangled together and the apartment is quiet except for the buzz.

The fucking buzz.

The vibrator is still going on the floor somewhere, loyal and relentless, vibrating against the hardwood in its persistent little death rattle.

He reaches over the side of the bed. Fumbles blindly. Finds it and clicks it off. The silence is enormous.

“Still need Advil?” you murmur, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of his neck.

“I need a fucking paramedic,” he says against your skin, and your laugh shakes through both of you.

He should get up. Get a towel. Clean you both off. He should do a lot of things.

He closes his eyes instead.

Taglist:

Warnings: SMUT in part two, medical trauma, mass death, canon typical violence, talk of medical recovery, gaslighting, brief mentions of somnophilia, Feyd will VERY MUCH be Feyd in this. This part is plot and lore info. WORDS: 4690

 Arula sat up as if ejected directly from a dream she couldn't recall. The shiver crawling under her skin made it feel more like it may have been a nightmare. All she could remember though,  was the darkness. Vast and unending surrounding her.

  Both of her thin freezing arms wrapped around her sides. With a quick sweep of the unfamiliar room she found things both familiar and foreign. Cryopods were opened, laid out in a long line against a back wall of the empty space. Four impossibly tall walls made up a warehouse-like room. Black Sheets that very much gave the appearance of sanitization,  hung from rails worked into the ceiling. 

  small cubicle spaced squares made of pattern. Alluding to several stations capable of being set up with the same medical equipment which surrounded her now. In another far corner,  equipment that seemed to be wrapped in similar black sheeting was in neat order. Tallest to smallest with what seemed heaviest leaned against the wall.

 Frigid sterile air hurt the inside of her nostrils when she took a long breath.  Immediately she reached up with the back of her hand to wipe away the dribble of snot that followed her exhale. "No." The deep,  agitated voice startled her. Jumping in place on the narrow table she spun around trying to find the source. Uncomfortably cold air only seemed to grow tighter around her.      

  Clothed in  only a thin gray, one piece bodysuit that stopped at her mid thighs and was sleeveless at the shoulders did little to hide her figure. Her usually chin length strawberry blonde hair felt stringy as it brushed over her shoulders across her back. It was nearly impossible to see anything. Tired eyes refused to adjust to the bright overhead lights.

 In the far back corner of the room that she had not yet focused on, just outside of her clear vision a silhouette came into shape. Blocking out the shadows that surrounded it. The hand which had followed her face back and forth moved toward the sickening snot under her nose again without her realizing. "What?" Clearly human shaped, the unknown stranger stepped forward until he was slightly illuminated by the overhead white glow. " You're going to make a mess of yourself again.

 Arula could only blink at him. This man was beautiful.  Lean and long but also broad at the shoulders. His  nearly perfectly shaped scalp was bald. An almost inhuman lack of hair spreading all the way down to his browless eyes. But his delicate nose, and almost feminine lips were so striking framed by harsh angular cheeks that for a moment she didn't know how to speak.

 "Again?" That particular word felt wrong. She'd never seen this man before let alone had the experience of making herself a mess in front of him. "You've been waking up for some time now." Waking up, when did she go to sleep? Ripping her eyes from his icy stare she looked down at her hands.

 Her usually cropped nails were too long.  Then there was the matter of her hair, she never let it far past her shoulders, let alone where it hung now down the center of her back. Nearly to her rear. A cacophony of awful memories slammed against her mind all at once.

 Terrified green gaze belonging to her baby sister. Wide eyes filled with tears as Arula slid the glass of her cryopod closed. Gruff uneasy words spit by her father at the dinner table. "There is nothing left here. When the enemy forces drop the next bombs they'll just be closer to home." A look in her mother's face when Devon, her older brother,  was carried off the ship that returned him in a metal coffin from battle.

 All of it intermingling with her own words. "But this is space travel. Not some flight home to see Baba, PaPa. We can't just trust the word of a friend's friend. Can we?" Her mother, crying again. "How can we trust a bargain at a time like this Theo?" Heavy fists slamming off the top of a plastic table. " Because otherwise ALL my children will be no better than dead."

  Salty streams moved from her eyes down her cheeks.  Overwhelming amounts of sensation flooding back. Alarms blaring from every corner of the ship intended to take them to safety. Crowds of people screaming as the space station they've been watching inch closer over the last three days, desperate to unload and start their new future, exploded without explanation. Over a dozen ships queued up in front of them who'd also been waiting days, turning one by one into silent raging fireballs.

   The race for the rescue cylinder was a blur. Tons of humans crawling over each other's fallen bodies as they desperately entered survival mode once again. Making it off of their dying home world meant nothing if they ended up packed in dead like rats in a trap. 

 Cryopods lined the walls of the cylinder. Nine in each circle, stacked three high. There was no time to see if anyone else made it all right. Stella was shoved to safety first. Screaming for her older sister to follow quickly and not help anyone else. Her words were muffled, but Arula was distracted by a blinding white light. Using all of her power to pull herself into the open pod next to her sisters she had no memory of what could have happened next. Or of what happened to her parents. 

 A sigh from the room she was sitting in now brought her back to current events. The Stranger had moved closer. Dark gray fabric cut into something like a military style jacket, ending in a long basic skirt above the toes of his black shoes, made him look impossibly tall. Rich charcoal tones made his bright white skin nearly glow.

 Looking at the white skin on his neck brought other memories. Ones that felt far less familiar.  Strong arms curling under her armpits to pull her away from criss crossed wires. Screaming which could have been coming from her or someone else nearby, then unlimited pain. After there was vomiting, so much vomiting. A feeling like two long fingers down the back of her throat. Long tendrils of thick black fluid spewing out around them. "You're the only one left, sleeper. Don't make this a waste of effort." 

  That voice, her face shot back toward the stranger. "Who are you?" Grinning slowly around uncomfortably black teeth he spoke with careful clarity. "Baron Feyd Rautha Harkonnen." The name rolled itself forward and then back across her mind but it meant nothing, but felt familiar. Looking back down to where her fingers opened and closed she tried to remember anything that made this all make sense. 

 "Where am I?" Fingers laced behind his back he took one more large step forward. "On my ship." Raking her thin fingers through sweaty hair her next words trembled out over her lips. " Have we had this conversation before?" Hopeful light gleamed from behind his previously stormy eyes and he hissed a single word. "Yess." 

 His teeth grew ever more present as he  rocked back on his heels.  Seemingly keeping himself contained. When he turned walking back in the direction from which he came she almost reached out to stop him.  Anxious to return to the dark loneliness. "Sleep. Your body is still recovering from a large ordeal."

 Little other options were there to present themselves.  Despite being unsure that she would be at all able to rest, her head found the moderately soft pillow at the head of her small bed. And in moments darkness encompassed her again.

  Waking, she found herself tucked in by thick, soft black fabric. It was so warm surrounding her and she couldn't imagine moving from the very spot. Until she turned and noticed a figure standing in the open doorway. "You." She sat slowly. His outfit looked almost identical to the last time she remembered seeing him, only it was navy blue. "Who am I?" 

  There was an insistence behind the question but a million images followed the inquiry through her mind.  opening her eyes on tables covered in wires,  surrounded by unfamiliar equipment which grew smaller and fewer each time she thought there was a new image of waking. Then something that felt older. 

 Those bare arms holding her clothes in a puddle of putrid smelling gray ooze. His black shirt hanging off the lid to her broken cryopod next to them. Warmth radiating from his skin feeling the same as setting feet on the ground again for the first time in months, maybe years. Cold empty looking eyes watching her as she moved in his lap held tight against him. The same ones watching her from the side of the table or the corner of the room each time she thought she tried to pull herself from the grip of slumber.

 "How long have I been sleeping?" While he looked interested in her line of questioning he shook his head instead. "No, who am I" It wasn't concerned or even the familiar scientific tone of someone purely worried about their studies. Still the underlying current of the words was familiar. "Are you angry with me?" Clenching both of his eyes closed he pinched the bridge of his nose. Words sounding almost like he wished they were unnecessary. 

  "You are a miracle Arula. Now, tell me MY name." A miracle? Why then did it sound more like she was a hassle. Why was Feyd, "FEYD!" He started in place only slightly when she shouted his name at him across the room. Adjusting his face to a smirk quickly. "Good," He left her alone again with his last couple of words. "Almost ready."

 No longer could she dream of home.  images of her sister's laugh and her brother's bravery were eaten by inauthentic visions of some industrial hell. Pale, and much too thin Words of people shouted from curbs and threw things from huge unbelievable theater arenas. Each and every one screaming like Devil's, eager for violence.

  Most disturbingly was the larger than life man who floated and possibly high above a table of onlookers. Billowing out plumes of dark smoke that swirled around him as he cackled with evil delight. To his left and right black eyed women. Tall and slender,  seething with anger but also somehow recognizable. All of them taking swipes at her face while she tried to run past.

  At the center of all of it was him. Sometimes she thought he was really there. Rasping to her to "sleep" or "settle sleeper." Always laying her down, always making her sleep. Regardless of the fact that sleep no longer felt like a relief,  rather a prison she was being held in. Other voices too, from just to the side or around the edges of her vision. But she could never understand those, and Feyd didn't reply to them in Late Common Tongue like when he spoke with her. 

  After an unknown amount of time, Arula felt her limbs and body slowly peel free from the grasp of artificial sleep. Finding the same comfortable bed underneath her with new, still black silk sheets. 

 Surrounding her was the same empty room, but now a cart sat directly next to the bed covered in dark metal machines. Projected screens showed charts and medical results that meant nothing to her. With the tip of one finger she brushed along the edge of a fuzzy screen.  All of the spinning graphs and fluctuating bars vanished in one motion, Replaced by a bright red blinking display.

  Unintelligible muttering and text scrolled the screen in front of her. But the purpose was clear,  to warn the person they were attached to against tampering. Telling her while this information might be about her, it was not for her. 

  Something clattered off the floor a few feet away. When she turned in the direction of what she thought would be a solid paneled wall,  she found it slid open. Standing in the center was a stout strong bodied woman holding a tray that was leaned forward, its contents dumped to the floor. Already sprinting in the opposite direction before the panel closed behind her again,  it shocked Arula when the words were translated for her by a small black box on the cart of equipment. A new addition. "Someone find the Baron!" Then, "All gods be damned, the girl woke up before he got back!" At twenty seven the blonde felt far from a girl, but maybe it was a language barrier. 

  Instead of the Stranger,  her rescuer, and possibly her captor, coming to see her in person; he called her on another projected screen against the far wall of her room, opposite the end of the bed. His normal empty stare watching her from what looked to be a frozen wasteland. "Hello sleeper." Without a rim of annoyance to it his voice was like velvet wrapped around radio static. "Um, hi." Her own voice sounded dry and hollow. 

  Reading her face Feyd gave unrequested answers. "Cryosleep did the most damage to your softer tissues. You required many infusions of cells grown from your own DNA once we were able to cultivate them. But, you kept screaming when you woke up. So your vocal chords are still very damaged." 

 More uncomfortable flashes. Clearer memories of waking up as her pod was peeled open. A surprisingly satisfied look on his face when he noticed her eyes were open and gazing back. "Where did you find me?" Everything was still so discombobulated. "In the escape vessel you left your ship in." Certainly not a lie but also not the answer to her question, not the one she wanted. "When did you find me?" 

  At last it felt like she was asking the right questions. Annoyance was replaced by an almost pleasant cadence. "Three months ago, in modern Imperial time." That meant little to her. What empire were they in, how did they keep time compared to earth. Maybe she was asking the wrong questions. "You kept me asleep for three months?" 

 Looking at someone off screen he rolled his eyes. "It's been proven humans cannot withstand long term cryostasis without heavy consequences. Any recovery after more than six months is seen as unlikely. For you it seemed… impossible. Even now, we found better ways to travel across open space." 

 Clenching her jaw to stop her eyes from bugging out as wide as they wanted to, she swallowed and prepared to ask a question he'd already avoided answering. "How long?" The answer would still take  a little while to come though. "Your healer will bring you an unfamiliar device. Allow her to put it on. An explanation that is as easy to digest as possible has been prepared for you. Once you finish it," She cut him off. Already knowing the end. "Go to sleep?" Briefly something like pity moved in his features. "Sleep allows your mind to process its trauma, both mental and physical. So yes, sleep." 

  Maybe it was because he was the only thing that felt familiar in the entire universe, but Arula suddenly wished he was here with her. Close enough she could feel his warmth. "Will you be here when I wake up?" For the first time he looked truly caught off guard by her. "I will be there before you find yourself awake again." Then the screen went black and her attendant came back through the door. Holding a small bundle of wires in her hands. 

Even with hours to prepare herself for watching, nothing would have made the footage they shared with her easily digestible. The long and short of it was that everyone was gone. At least everyone on her evacuation ship. 

  A news story that looked grainy and uneven, despite being the peak of technology when it would have been filmed, played in front of her. Bizarrely opaque, despite having no solid screen behind it.

 "Tonight, we bring you the horrific report of a terrorist attack on space station Apollo seven. Anti evacuation protesters hid a large warhead aboard a docking ship full of previous citizens of earth looking forward to a new future among the stars."

 The grave face of the woman with her thick, exotic accent and sad hazel eyes felt comforting even while it was awful. Then the feed cut to more clips. Bits of news fed to her by men and women from across the globe. Some with subtitles in Earth Common that she was unsure weren't put there only for her benefit.

   "A catastrophe struck millions of the people trying to escape unending war this Thursday. Seventeen ships, none of them carrying military outside of regular expected ship crew and staff, were victims of an attack. At this point it is unknown if there are any survivors."

 On and on like that for almost an hour. Then the feed changed. The language was completely unrecognizable as new glimpses of what seemed to be a rescue mission appeared. 

 "Last month, a meteor was found floating just outside the ring of our new Empire. It is with great hope we tell you, after all of these years it is finally possible we've found survivors of the infamous Apollo terrorist attacks."

 Following that, we're three different segments of information. All of them now appeared to be footage taken from lab recordings, instead of public news reels. Eventually it became information read out loud to her as pages scrolled. 

 First she learned about a woman named Luz Alvarez. A passenger on one of the ships closer to the explosion. There was footage of her waking up from her pod that was a similar style but different maker. People that still looked much more like the humans Arula was accustomed to surrounded the old woman pulling her free. But things went bad quickly.

  Within only hours of the time marker, there were new clips of her throwing up blood and black bile. Then short fragments of them explaining how they were doing their best to save her however, it seemed pointless. After all of it she was dead in two weeks. Andre Polivich, another survivor, lasted three.

  Found for sale in a raiders private stash. There was hope due to improvements made by his finders on his cryo-bed that he had a better shot. Upon waking he seemed alert, even aware of things said and done around him while he'd had a "very long, very bad nap." Arula liked him instantly. Big brown eyes and a wide smile. Watching his speedy deterioration made her body start to quiver.

 The next person, an unnamed forty something woman was only talked about through unreadable charts and a small blurb on the end of the last page. " The subject responds poorly to almost all stimuli since being revived. When put back into stasis, improvements were seen across the board in her chart. Unfortunately, the mental strain was too heavy a burden. This morning she was found with a scalpel in hand, throat slit." 

 It wasn't so much the last story, as it was the date in the bottom corner that caused panic. " Five hundred years." The words barely left Arula's throat before her eyes burned. Had it been 500 years, or more. She was alone the last of earth's born survivors. Out of time and out of place. There was no way of knowing how long she cried. Just that the pain in her gut was so severe when she stopped, she thought she may never feel well again.

  A tug at her middle, followed by the feeling of silk sheets moving under her yanked her back to consciousness. "What..." flailing both arms out, she hit something soft. Then in horror felt teeth bite down on her wrist. "What the hell!" Sitting up quickly, she pushed at whatever was near her.

 "God dammit, stop!" Large hands landed on her shoulders and pushed her back against the bed. Feyd hovered above her. Chest bare, wearing what looked like soft briefs, he was tucked into the spot that she assumed lay open next to her most of the time. "Why are you in my bed?"

 Warring feelings moved between being upset to have her space invaded, and an itching worry about rudeness. As far as she knew, he was her savior after all. He only let out a laugh that sounded like a tea kettle losing steam. "Your bed?" Tucking both hands behind his head he sat back against the short black headrest and shrugged. "Unfortunately, you misunderstand. You, Arula, are in my bed." 

 Face flaring one direction then the next, she surveyed her surroundings once again. It appeared to be the same mostly empty room she woke up in the last few times. "How long have I been in your bed?" Looking completely unconcerned, he responded in a bored tone. "Since we moved you from the hospital bay." Suddenly she wasn't concerned with where she'd come from.

 "Why do we speak the same language? It's been at least five hundred years." Remaining flat in his affect, he spoke factually, despite the fact that his words shook her completely. "More like, ten thousand." It was impossible to inhale. Her fist bunched around sheets on either side of her. Everything started to spin.

 "No." His voice was still too even. "You can't panic, Arula. I need you even minded if you're going to stay awake. To stay alive." His words were the opposite of comfort.

 Sobs started to break from her chest. "Uh-ah ahh." His arms wrapped round her shoulders, pushing her back down to the bed. "Settle." How? Things were so much worse than she ever imagined. As she started to say exactly that plush lips slotted themselves over hers.

 Feyd didn't move or let up until she froze completely. Then instead of shifting away he pushed forward. Snaking his tongue between her lips and tasting every inch inside of her mouth. Deep hungry groans seasoning the exchange. Her senses returned and she shoved him away. He was accommodating, but also laughing at her.

 "Well, you taste like nothing else. I knew you would." Looking away, she covered her mouth with one hand. "Why did you do that?" Annoyed again he gave another gesture of non committal ease. "I've wanted to for a long time. Besides, you owe me your life. A kiss was the least you could do. And I couldn't let you panic."

  Narrowing her eyes she asked with hesitation. " What happens if I panic?" Rubbing his palm over his bare scalp, he closed his eyes. "You die. Maybe." "Maybe?" "Time will tell." The need to bolt filled her and she tried to dash from the bed. But he grabbed her by the wrist. "We will go exploring when you're ready. You are the only living person with untainted human genetics from the old world that's still breathing, let alone viable. You will not put my scientist's hard work to waste."  Trying to pull back her arm she fought.

 "What do you want with me, why go through all the trouble?" Enclosing her in his arms once more he pulled her across the bed, nearly onto his lap. "Because, sleeper, you are going to be my wife." Nearly fainting she went ghost white. "Don't. Panic." It was easier said than done.

 "Marry you? Are... are you even " "A human?" He was still laughing at her. Cruel and hard. "Of course I am. Please, don't tell me you're an idiot. Your ship's manifest had you and your sister listed as able bodied and of better than average intelligence. It's why they gave you someone else's place." There was no more guilt in her for taking someone else's spot on the escape vessel. After all, the people they replaced probably lived longer, happier lives than her sister got to. 

 "But why? I wasn't a princess, I wasn't even rich, my father was" "A genius. Your father worked with early ancestors of my people. Helped them make their leave when the last war became unwinnable." So it was old trust? "I don't need you to be royal. I have that. I need you to be rare, and beautiful. Both of those things you accomplish easily. " 

 When she looked back at him like, he still made no sense she could see genuine anger ripple over his clenched jaw. This Feyd was dangerous. " My people have lost favor. The newest empire of humanity is at its own breaking point. My opponent bested me, but didn't finish the job. So I've been seeking something to put people on my side. A reason for them to choose Harkonnen over Atreides." "Are you a bad person?" The question was so quiet she wouldn't have known he heard her if not for the fact that he stopped speaking.

 "To you, it will seem that way. Maybe only at first. Or maybe always. As I said, time will tell much of how our relationship will play out." Wrapping her arms around herself even as he kept hold of her. Arula turned away, spinning her body in his lap until she faced a blank wall. "I was the only one..." cocking his chin to the side before speaking, he seemed to consider his answer for too long. "You were the only one worth the effort it took to keep you alive. Your sister didn't respond when we put more charge through her pod." Arula was rocking in place. His hands on her hips, not stopping her from moving, but keeping her from getting away.

  "Then escape cylinder you and your sister ejected in held twenty three lives not including you. When we found it, lodged inside a glacier, and crashed on an ice planet, none of the pods were giving off signs of life." He cupped her chin and made her face him while he finished the tale of her retrieval. " After sending a surge of electricity through the system, three grew responsive. One man, two women. The other woman was in her fifties. So, we ripped apart walls and waded through melting muck to free you." 

  As if he did it on purpose, the memories of waking up that first time came back in a painful jolt. A tube ripped from her throat, dingy oxygen moving through her liquid filled lungs. The feeling of those warm arms… her hands squeezed tight around his forearms. Not realizing she was doing it. "Yes." He sounded so pleased with himself. "You've always been happiest right here, in my lap." 

 The image of him looking down at her with awe and curiosity while she vomited up bile and putrid cryo fluid came clearly. "You held me." Brushing the tip of his nose through the hair on her temple, he hummed. "Mmmmm, I do often. It's a new sensation for me as well. Keeping something near without being inside, via cock or blade." He was brushing hair out of her face, examining her like a doll. What he said made her close in around herself.

 "Don't worry. As long as you stay alive, and don't try to leave, I have no reason to hurt you." Feyd was laying them back down between the blanket and sheets. Tucking it around them while laying her so her head rested against his chest. "Once you're doing better, I'll show you that I can be kind, even giving in the right moments." Heat laced through his words and she suddenly worried what he was doing with himself while she slept the weeks away next to him.

 "Shhhhh, don't get" "Anxious. I know." Her voice was robotic at best. "Yes. Stay here, stay sweet. And things will be fine." The childlike sound of her own voice embarrassed her. "Will it?" He repeated his favorite phrase of the evening to her once again, before kissing her temple and laying his face against the pillows with eyes closed. Refusing to respond to any further questions. 

 "Time will tell. Only time." 

________

Inspirations include the story Thrum, by M Smitherman, Relic - by @peggyao3 and the idea to split my contributions into multiple parts came from seeing @movingmusically do the same with her stories last October.

Rumours had it that the Maenads could not be found, but only invited to gather. Their volunteers would seek them, walking through cities, crossing tainted forests, wading through condemned plains. Showing their willingness to experience. Unarmed. Unaccompanied. 

The first advisor to argue Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen stay in the sheltered arms of the palace was slain. The second advisor handed him his provisions, before the Baron could intervene, his heir was already on an expedition. 

+++

It was in the last remaining woods of Giedi Prime, the Red Forest, several days from Barony, that he found himself surrounded by dozens, if not more, women. 

Before he could stop them or even properly introduce himself, they had started to surround him, skipping and hopping, squealing, chanting: “the na-Baron, the na-Baron. He is now ours. He is now ours. Our little plaything. Our little plaything. We will be having so much fun. Fun. Fun. Now please don’t run, little Feyd. Run. Run. Run.”

He felt hands touch his back, his head, his arms, his chest. Wherever he looked he saw women with fiery eyes gazing at him through masks, looking at him as if they were starved - dying to eat. 

The tiniest bit of fear started to seep through his impenetrable shield. His body was telling him to run, as they had sung. 

But it was already too late, finding himself with a collar. Chained. Dragged to his knees. Feeling the heat of a fire being created behind him. 

The forest whispered: “survive the night and you will be free. Survive the night and we will let you be.” 

His head pushed into the toxic moss, suddenly, all sounds stopped. With just the crackling of the burning wood, even the vibrations had disappeared. 

“We are graced by the presence of a new volunteer” an imposing voice declared.

“New blood” the crowd responded. 

“And not a mere mortal. No, my ladies, my Maenads” the preacher spoke seductively. “It is the prince himself.”

“The prince, the prince” came the enthusiastic answer. 

“Let us see tonight if he can survive. If he… is worthy… of life. Of… his Harkonnen name. Of our… benevolence… OF OUR ALLEGIANCE" she shouted.

The faction going wild, was the last thing he could see before he was blindfolded. 

The na-Baron was given no time to recoup, feeling himself being dragged through the woods, hardly capable of keeping up with the pace. Whipped by branches, feeling hands everywhere, hearing tongues speak “we will let him experience how it is to be us”.

An excruciating 15 minute run left him panting, having fallen several times and being dragged by his neck. Were he not able to get on his feet again, this hunt would have been a very short-lived one. His back splayed against a cold rock, arms tugged up high. With shackles on his wrists and ankles. 

The young heir knew what he had signed up for, but could not help but have a slither of regret for refusing his first advisor’s suggestion to have a back-up follow him from a safe distance. 

Soon, the cold was replaced with warmth, coming from new fires created several meters from him. Still blindfolded, his other senses were heightened. A sweet smelling gas seeped through the rocks surrounding him. His education had taught him to recognise it: ethylene. His experience trained him on what it could do to people and how difficult it was to give the right dose. A hefty amount resulted in a coma. A little bit made one pliable. A bit more caused rambling. Seeing things. What was the right dose depended on what he desired for his game.

Yet, now the tables were turned. 

With soft fingers caressing his body, feeling his shapes, bumps and forms, he gradually started to see through his blindfold. Naked women, dancing around fires, being elongated while they floated up to the stars. Women, naked, developing wings, horns, claws. Starting to fornicate with each other. 

A slap in his face snapped him out of it. 

No apology, not even an explanation. His status had no value here. 

“Strip him” the same voice ordered, extending her tongue to lick every crevice of his ear. With her hand covering his mouth, she whispered: “you will enjoy this”, adding spittingly “Feyd-Rautha”. “Or, you will meet your demise” followed by a hard bite on his earlobe, nearly drawing blood.

Her hand wrapped itself around his now bare pectoral muscles to give her nails territory to dig in, her mouth finding his vulnerable neck. 

“Pretty, untainted - precious” she gasped, licking his neck, scratching it softly with her teeth, only to find the right place to painfully bite. 

“Don’t hiss, pretty boy” she spoke softly, allowing her hand to find a hold on the other side of his neck, enabling her to wrap a leg around his waist, softly pushing her groin against him.

“Naked, wet…” he taunted her.

“Yes, we were expecting you” she replied. “Every step we took. Every man we slayed… it was all to get to you.”

The young lord could not help but feel honoured. Pleased even. He had been given many gifts for his grace, but never had he received something like this. Killings - one of his generals even. An entire cult. Dedicated to him effectively. 

“But don’t get too comfortable, pretty boy” the preacher continued as she lowered her leg to be able to grab his testicles and clench them in her tight grip with long nails. “Make me proud” while she nearly tore them off.

“The nipples” she spoke, moving to stand in front of him. “They are perfect. Perk, round, supple.” A tongue found one of them, being drawn between two soft lips. “Sweet, delicious. Perfect.” Moving back: “pierce them” she ordered.

Her lips against his ear, one hand on his neck, and the other resting on his shoulder, standing on his side again, she spoke: “I have longed to hold them in my mouth. They do not disappoint.” She started petting his head, as many fingers tugged on his nipples, pulling them painfully long, exposing them to be penetrated slowly with hot metal. 

A small grunt escaped. 

“Oooh, my pretty boy expected it to be quick and painfree?” as she continued petting. “Please, cry. I want to savour your tears” she said, exposing another goal she had. 

Her hands glided down from his head, finding his impaled nipples. Tugging on the hot rod, she gasped: “ouch, that is indeed hot. Hmm, but you are a strong man” she taunted, starting to twirl the rod, twisting his nipple. 

“You can bear so much more pain, can’t you?” her teeth grasping his neck again, letting go of the metal, having it swing back again. 

Another gasp escaped, even though he tried to keep it in. “My pretty boy, so strong…hmm.” Her hand flowing down his chest, “so sculpted, so pretty”. Finding its way to his abs, “so delicious, so youthful.” Resting on his Adonis belt: “and… so perk. So eager.” Wrapping it around his cock, “so hard. So… juicy…” Starting to move softly, “why am I not surprised this is all just arousing you, my lord?” 

A small moan escaped her.

“I believe you are the one who is eager. Come, let me go and I will show you what I can do. Be a nice girl, and I may even let you ride me” he replied, strongly.

“Let you ride me?” she replied quasi-shocked. “Oh, what an honour!”

“It is. I take, I am not taken” Feyd-Rautha stated.

“Well, let’s see about that” she replied, as he could hear her fingers snap. “Before I brand you, I just… want to taste you…” she spoke, before crashing her lips on his, holding one hand on his cock, while her other arm wrapped itself around his neck. Nipples being painfully pressed against, he could not help himself but allow her lips to find his, suck on them, explore them, breathe against them, open them, create space for her tongue to find new refuge. 

Just as swiftly as she found him, she removed herself from him again. Not a single moment did she fear he would try to hurt her. He was here by free will, he wanted to experience. He was scared, yes. In pain, yes. But also in need of surviving what no man had survived. 

“Sweet. Your nipples are sweet. Your tongue is sweet… what else is sweet?” she asked him.

“You know what else is sweet” he chuckled. 

“And what would that be?” she called him out.

“Put my cock in your mouth, and you will taste it” he responded bluntly.

“Hmm… sounds appealing… but no. We Maenads don’t do that. You however, make this claim of sweetness… You will now prove it.”

A cutter found the sides of the rods, removing these, curling the ends. “Pretty” he heard her comment. 

She snapped her fingers again, causing him to be released. Her hand wrapped around the chain connected to the collar, he was kicked to all fours by another woman. 

“Come, walk with me, my pretty little boy” she instructed, tugging unnecessarily hard. 

She walked him past one of the bonfires. Slowly but surely he started to feel the fumes find their way into his system again. He started wobbling, but she didn’t stop or correct. She allowed. 

“Good, pretty boy. It will make it easier for you” he heard her say in the distance. 

After what felt to Feyd-Rautha like an hour, they came to a halt. Four hands grabbed his arms to splay his torso over a rock, allowing his knees to rest on the ground. There, he was bound to the ground again. 

Letting his head rest, trying to find some sanity within the fumes raiding his brain, he heard bits of what the Maenads discussed around him:

“... too small…”

“...you see his size. You see what he does to us. He needs to experience…”

“... you are going too easy on him…”

Lips found his ears again: “I will get you to taste yourself, just give me a minute…” surrounded by small laughs coming from many mouths. 

“While prostrated in front of many, he will now be subjected to the rites of passage we all underwent” the strong voice declared again. 

The content of those words was not enough to have him come out of his trance just yet.

Him, feeling his mouth stuffed with a phallus while his cheeks were spread and he was filled by a long rubbery length… that did the trick of waking him up again.

The sudden piercing of his tender hole, without the possibility to shout out in agony, or to move his limbs. A shock went through him. Waves of pain drove through his body. Complete submission was demanded from him. The only thing he could do was ball his hands, having his mouth and arse fucked at the same time. 

“Come on ladies, we can do better. This is a strong man. He has given, so he can take” were words that provided him no comfort, only enticing them to go harder, deeper. 

He felt like he was being split open. He wanted to gag, but it was in his throat too deep to have any control over its movements. His abdomen and rectum tried to push it out, but they posed no threat to the force of the hands that tugged on his hips. 

Involuntarily his body started to cope.

He had learned to transform pain into pleasure. Pain was pleasure. Pain is pleasure. 

It made him survive, thrive even.

Still, a tear escaped. From his eye. Not from her, as she was quick to lap it. 

The thrusting continued. Long, hard. Just as he would fuck his own game. The roles were reversed. He liked it, although he would never admit this.

“He is getting hard again. He is ready to come. I need someone to collect” she said, while snapping her fingers.  

His throat and mouth filled, requiring him to breathe through his nose, his body shocked as he spilled himself into a bowl.

Hands found his head again: “such a pretty boy. Responding so well. You are doing so well” as he was allowed to inhale normally again. “You did so well. You are making me proud” she said with a rewarding voice. “Now, open. I need you to tell me if this is indeed sweet” as she poured the semen in his still stretched mouth.

“Now, close. Do not swallow. I need you to savour it. I want to hear your honest answer” she instructed, while pushing his jaw shut. 

He complied. From the clenching of his jaw and the movements below it, she could see he complied.

“Tell me. You can now swallow” she offered, after about half a minute. “Is it sweet?”

“No…” he answered truthfully.

“Good boy” she said, petting his head again. “Never spread such lies again.”

“I won’t” he answered submissively. 

For this honesty, I can reward you. Would you want that?” she suggested.

“I am here to survive and thrive” he responded, getting tired.

“Perfect” she said. “Open your mouth, stick out your tongue” were here instructions, followed suit. His prize was that he got dessert. He was allowed to replace the tangy, bitter flavour for something more sweet. And he loved it. He gave it his everything, as he lay tied up on the rock, eating her out. He would prove that he was more man than any man that had came here before him.

He pleasured her, until he could no longer control his lips, the fumes getting to him.

It was the sign to release him. No longer dangerous, he was placed on the ground, the plush wetness of the toxic moss. 

Glimpses is what he remembered, being ridden by a woman, and another, and another. By many women. Each demanding his sperm. Him to come. He was given fluids, women splaying themselves over his open mouth as he drank from them to replenish. 

The young lord could only lay and accept. There was no room in his tired and pained body to refuse. 

He submitted. 

His ordeal ended long after the daylight had risen again. After every Maenad had gotten her share. 

His body bruised, scratched, empty. His ego fueled, grown and stronger than ever. 

He had submitted, he had conquered. 

+++

The na-Baron decided to keep the piercings. Still sometimes causing pain, they reminded him of his survival. Every now and then, he would even showcase them, proof of his prowess and perseverance. 

In addition, Feyd-Rautha decided to incorporate the Maenads as his new hidden order, enabling them with increased powers, instructing them to start to engrain within society. When he would be crowned Baron, it would be in name only for he would by then already be the true ruler of the planet.

*** 

Post note: sorry, I took some inspo from a certain Wil Ohmsford scene, could not help but refer to the most toxic forest we know of - another man-made misery, and while I am getting inspo from ancient Greece, why not also drag in the Oracle of Delphi. And while we are at it, let's also drag in some politics surrounding the Worker's Party of Korea...

+++

List of Feyd / Austin inspired one shots

My writings are not to everyone's liking, and this one is very dark. Tags based on whom I am kinda sure somewhat enjoyed any of my last 3 fics and who I think may enjoy this particular fic - let me know if you want to be included

@ianintheskywithdiamonds @mpc6000 @anyplaceisparadise @ignoranceconnoiseur @wiseyouthinfluencer @yayeett123 @abswifey @shamrockqueen @buckysteveloki-me @feralgodmothers @unicoo @arianatheangel-girl @eternal-love @peageetibbs @houserautha @eternal-love @jjubilee-fluff @destinymoore05

Heat pt 1

You knew the guy downstairs was into baseball. You knew this because when he was home, it seemed like a game was always on. Usually it didn't bother you, just background noise through the floorboards.  Today though, well, nothing about today had been normal.  

Work has been a mess lately. Your mom called and once again had tried to browbeat you into leaving the city. She wanted to see you settle down with ‘that nice boy down the street’ and ‘give her grandchildren.’ You didn’t have the heart to tell her that the twenty something ‘boy’ down the street was very, very gay.  To top it all off, your best girlfriend could talk about nothing but her new boyfriend and how good he was in bed and how they were gonna hit Atlantic City this weekend and did you want to come? You had politely declined. What you didn’t need right now, was to listen to them fuck eachother’s brains out while you were reminded of how single you were and just how long it had been since you had a man between your legs. 

It was one of those warm NY nights where if you didn’t have a window unit, the only thing you could do was to open your windows and turn on the fans. Your AC had been on the fritz and you had mistakenly put it in the category of ‘it must be tired, I’ll let it rest and it’ll be fine’. Newsflash: It was not fine.  

His AC must be fucked up too, cuz the game and his deep voice blared through the open windows. The guy must be on a bender, because he was heckling as though the TV was a two way radio and the umpire valued his opinion. 

You didn’t get why people got so worked up over sports. It was just a game for crying out loud. 

Why couldn’t this guy go to a bar like normal people? Like that one a couple blocks down. The gorgeous bartender there always seemed to have baseball on. Why did this blustery dude under you have to be so damn loud TODAY of all days. 

On the way home, you had walked the two blocks out of your way in the afternoon heat to see if the hot bartender was working tonight. Not that you had the guts to approach him but maybe just looking at him would help you feel better. But nope, it was the tall Swedish-looking chick tonight, so you didn’t bother. 

You just couldn’t catch a break today. Now this bastard is screaming at his TV? No, Nope. Uh-uh. 

Wearing a scandalous but trendy dress that was little more than a baby pink slip,  you ripped open your door. No you’d never met this guy before, but he was about to meet YOU! 

You take the stairs two at a time, rehearsing under your breath what you wanted to say. You bang on his door, hearing a faint ‘hold on!’ over the sounds of the TV. You wait, fuming. 

The deadbolt chinks and suddenly you are face to face with the most gorgeous blue eyes and a slightly sweaty bare chest. The grey waistband of his underwear peek out from the haphazard and assumably hastily donned shorts. 

“Hey” he says, raking his hands through his mop of sandy blonde hair and giving you the once over, “Is it too loud?” He sips from the neck of the brown beer bottle he has in his other hand, slick with condensation. 

All you can do is nod, every word arrested in your throat. You had no idea that your downstairs neighbor was the very bartender you’d been drooling over for months. You also had no idea that those baggy t-shirts and cargo pants hid such a slammin’ body. Like holy fuck, bartenders are not supposed to be built like this. 

“Oh, my bad, it’s a great game tonight, the Giants might just make it after all this year. You wanna come in, have a cold beer? It’s fuckin’ hot tonight,” he holds open the door and you find yourself walking into his apartment. 

It’s an exact copy of yours above, though it’s definitely a guy's place. Pizza boxes are stacked on the trashcan, dishes in the sink, shoes tossed haphazardly by the door. Empty bottles and cans are sprinkled throughout and the walls are decorated with stolen street signs and one or two baseball posters. The fan blowing air right onto the couch must be from the 40’s. It’s old, metal and loud. No wonder he has the TV turned up. 

He moves past you to the fridge, popping the top off a cold one and handing it to you. 

“Have I seen you at the bar? You look familiar,” he says, taking another sip. 

A commercial for Pizza Hut starring Carson Daily blares on the TV, something about free CDs in every box.  

“Yeah, I’ve been in before,” you finally find your voice. 

“I’m Hank, you don’t live on this floor, do you?” he takes a big swig of his beer. 

“No I’m right upstairs,” you point up, then mirror him and sip at your own bottle. It was ice cold Budweiser, the King of Beers, not even light. 

“You got a name, honey?” he smiles at you and you melt, or it could be the heat…. 

You murmur your name shyly into the neck of the bottle. 

“Wanna stay and watch the end of the game? It’s 7th inning,” he stretches up tall then sits back on the couch, unbothered by your shyness. 

“I know nothing about baseball,” you admit.

“Oh now that’s a travesty,” he pats the couch cushion next to him, “come on, I’ll teach you.” 

Hank spent the next hour telling you more than you ever needed to know about his favorite game. His excitement is palpable, and sitting next to him is intoxicating. He could have been talking about the water cycle and you’d have been enraptured. You don’t even notice the heat. 

By the end of the game, you two are laughing and having a good time. You had been poking light fun at the slowness of the game, the superstitions, the focus on stats.  He had been taking it all in stride. He had brought out a bottle of jack when his team looked like they were going to win. When they hadn’t, he poured you both shots anyway. 

“Thanks Hank, this was fun,” you say, standing up a little tipsy but fully intent on leaving. 

“You want another drink?” he nods at your nearly empty bottle. 

“You tryin’ to get me liquored up? Take advantage of me?” you jest. 

A sly smile creeps across his face as he tips the last of his beer down his throat.

One eyebrow twitches up as he swallows and shrugs as if to say, ‘If you are into that’. 

Oh. Oh fuck. That is exactly what is going on here. You should be saying goodnight, should be declining his unspoken offer, you should be looking away from him.  But you fucking can’t. It’s like his pheromones or something are drawing you in. 

Then he’s a hairsbreadth away. When did he take the three steps towards you? His hand snakes around your waist, catching on the silky, Victoria's Secret fabric, pulling the hem just that much higher on your thighs.  

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says towering over you, smoldering right into your brain.

Normally, you wouldn’t dare make the first move or let a man go this fast.  Cat and mouse was how this game was played. You went on a date, then a second date and maybe a kiss at the door.  A girl doesn't sleep with a man she just met, this isn’t the 60s for crying out loud, this was the 90s and women have standards now. But for this man, for this breathtaking man, you find yourself making an exception. 

“Don’t,” you whisper. 

He freezes.

“Stop” you add, pressing your body against his. 

His brow furrows and he tries to let go, but your hand holds fast to his naked arms.

“No, I mean don’t stop,” you amend, “Please Hank.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” he smiles and pulls you closer, letting his midwestern show. 

His lips lower to yours, pressing lightly, tentatively. His chin-length hair shifts forward to graze your cheek. Your hands hook onto his bulging triceps. His tongue grifts over your lips, flicking and separating them before darting in to taste you. The alcohol on his breath is the same as yours and that makes it somehow hotter, dirtier, more forbidden.

Like you needed him to hotter? As it stands, you may turn to ash by the end of this. 

Within moments, it’s as though he’s been kissing you all your life, like he already knows all your little needs and wants. How much pressure you like, how much tongue you want, how much suction, when to move fast and when to take his time. 

It’s the best initial kiss you’ve ever had. 

You melt into him, all thought gone. Bad day? What bad day? 

He pulls back, just enough to smile, the spark-gap between you nearly palpable. All you want is more. More of his soft full lips, more of his whiskey laced beer breath, more of his tongue, more of his skin under your fingertips. 

You tip forward hungrily. He meets you, matching your intensity. It’s electric. 

Even as he deepens the kiss, his touch is featherlight down the open back of your strappy little dress. 

You find your hands gliding down the columns of his back and over his ass. My god his ass. The round globes fit perfectly into your hands. You grip and pull him closer, groaning into his mouth. It’s like he’s built for sprinting or something. 

Your touch ignites him. He bends, gathering your ass in his hands and fucking picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist.  It’s not like you are a petite woman. Fucking hell, those muscles are not just for show. 

The skin of his athlete’s build is warm and sticky against your inner thighs. His briefs and shorts do little to hide his growing erection and the thong you wore under the dress does nothing to protect you from feeling it. You moan into his mouth and grind into him as he carries you across the apartment and to the closed bedroom door. 

To be continued….

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“Oh my God, Austin, no! No pictures!”

You had turned from peering out the hotel room window to catch him pointing his camera at you, and you reflexively hid your face.

“Aw, come on, you look gorgeous in this light. I had to try and capture it.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks behind your hands. It was such a close call this time. He so nearly got his coveted photo - you could tell by the way he chuckled. Damn him. You started to kick yourself. You had gotten too relaxed, and you let your guard down. That will not happen again. The more you resisted having your picture taken, the more he increased his efforts to try and sneak one. It was an ongoing and (mostly) lighthearted battle of wills between you - and you were both determined to claim victory over the other. But today, he had been a little sneakier than usual. And that, along with his sweet, sudden praise attack, and you were ready to sink right into the floor. It was the one-two punch of his disarming charm.

“How did you even get your camera out that fast anyway? We only just walked in here!”

He raised his eyebrow at you as he set the camera down on the dresser.

“Skills I picked up along the way. My best photos have always been of fleeting moments.”

You lowered your hands to fully look at him and you smiled, despite yourself. You loved it when he gushed about his passions. Even when it only lasted a split second, he always got this serene, faraway look in his eye, and this contented smile that somehow made him even more beautiful.

“And you-” he cut suddenly, giving you one of his devilish, pointed looks as he crossed the room and scooped you up into his arms, causing you to let out a little squeal, “seem to be the most fleeting subject of all, with the way you always duck from the camera.”

You wrap your arms around his neck as he beams up at you like you’re the only bright shining star in his sky.

“I’m sorry Austin, but we’re not all as photogenic as you.”

He crinkled his nose at that. “Says who?”

“Says reality.”

“You’re living in a different one from me, then.”

You shrug nonchalantly. “I guess so.”

His face set as he thought, puzzling over this new impasse. You watched him, meeting his gaze with playful stubbornness. He squinted at you, searching for a weak spot in your armor. But you held your composure, and finally, he gave a defeated sigh. Still holding you up in his arms, he rests his forehead against your chest.

“What are you actually afraid of?”

You almost missed what he said, because he muttered it under his breath, and you’d started prematurely celebrating in your head.

“What do you mean?”

Austin raised his head to look at you. “I mean, I’ve met a lot of camera shy girls before, but you’re the only one who will dodge a picture with such a high level of determination. You act like I’m hunting you for sport.”

“Aren’t you?” You give him a grin, trying to keep the conversation light. “It’s like our own little game, isn’t it?”

“Only to a point,” he says, tilting his head and locking his gaze with yours. “Beyond that, I have to check and make sure my girl’s okay.”

You were slightly taken aback by that, but you really didn’t want to have this conversation. The topic made you feel too exposed, and you were uncomfortable.

“Of course I’m okay,” you say, beaming at him. “It’s sweet of you to worry, but I’m fine.”

He was studying your face. You could tell he wasn’t fully convinced. He lowered you back down so you could stand on the floor.

“Let me show you something,” he said, making his way back to the luggage by the door. You watched him as he dug through his suitcase. He finally pulled out a small, leather bound booklet, that was only about the size of his palm. He brought it back over to you.

“I found it in an antique shop. It’s a little private photo album.”

He turned it to show you the front, where the clasp had a small lock hooked onto it.

“The original lock that opened with a key was damaged, and they replaced it with this little combination lock instead,” you watch as his deft fingers start rolling the numbers, and the lock clicks open. “And inside, you see? There’s only room for about six small photos.”

It was a cute little book, you had to admit.

“You may have noticed, I haven’t added any photos yet.”

You looked up at him standing beside you. You had a feeling you knew where this was going…

You were ready to take him on for another staredown, but he clenched his jaw, and he was looking at you so earnestly…

“It would mean so much to me if you would let me fill it with pictures of you,” he reaches up and cups your cheek, stroking it gently with his thumb, “I want to carry them with me, and always be able to look at favorite face in the world.”

Well, crap. How were you supposed to hold up against that?

“It would be for my eyes only,” he added.

You considered that for a second. “For your eyes only?”

He gave you a reassuring smile. “Yep, that’s right. For my eyes only.”

You groaned. “Alright, you win.”

@dailydoseofaustinbutler

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