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Feyd was too drunk to be trusted with a phone, a fact well-known to both his friends and his bank account.
It started with one too many shots of Vodka—cheap shit that burned going down and made your ego swell like a Mentat’s processor. One moment he was sprawled on his couch in his dingy little downtown apartment, ranting in the group chat about how “only freaks pay for porn,” and the next…
A notification pinged on his screen.
Thanks for subscribing to MuadDeep69 —$14.99/month.
“What the fuck is a Muad?” he mumbled, squinting.
His phone slipped out of his hand and landed on his chest, where he promptly passed out without another thought.
The morning came sharp and punishing. Feyd groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes, trying to remember why his bank account was $15 lighter.
He unlocked it.
Then froze.
Paul.
The profile was minimal but deliberate—clean lines, dark tones. His banner was a soft-focus photo of his back, shirtless, golden light catching the curve of his shoulder and the mess of his curls. A discreet watermark in the corner read @muaddeep69. Tasteful. Frustratingly elegant.
The latest post? A thirty-second teaser clip, locked behind a little flame emoji and the caption: “Just got out of the shower. You coming in?”
Feyd clicked on it before he could stop himself.
And there he was.
Curly brown hair, like a halo just barely tamed by the damp air of whatever artsy shower he’d just stepped out of. Moss green eyes, sleepy and knowing. And then he turned around.
“Oh,” Feyd said aloud. Then: “…fuck.”
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡.•
Feyd swore he was going to unsubscribe.
He said it out loud, three times, as if it were some kind of spell. He even clicked the button that said “Manage Subscription.” But something stopped him. Some combination of aesthetics and ass.
“This is temporary,” he muttered to no one, sipping instant coffee and scrolling through Paul’s latest photo set: a white sheet barely clinging to his hips, curls damp, freckles visible through the camera’s warm filter.
Feyd’s thumb hovered over the tip button. Then tapped.
Five bucks.
“God,” he whispered. “I’m becoming the freak I warned everyone about.”
Later that week, he was at the Arrakis Café pretending to read. He’d brought a book—something pretentious, full of jargon and footnotes—but all he could think about was Paul. Green eyes. Curly hair. The slow, calculated way he moved in those videos, like he knew exactly what he was doing to the camera. To Feyd.
He looked up when the bell over the door rang.
And dropped his coffee.
It was him.
Paul. In the flesh. Real pants. Real curls. Holding a laptop like he was just another student hustling for Wi-Fi and caffeine. He wore black sweats and a soft grey hoodie, and he looked so normal Feyd felt insane.
“Hey,” Paul said when he passed by Feyd’s table.
Feyd choked on air.
“You, uh—okay?”
“Fine,” Feyd said, voice high. “Yep. Just... reading. Big fan of...” He flipped the book around to read the title. “... Intergenerational Ethics in the Age of Artificial Spice. ”
Paul tilted his head. “Nice.”
Then, just before he walked away, he smiled.
It was subtle. One side of his mouth curled up, just slightly. His eyes flicked down toward Feyd’s coffee-stained jeans, then back up to his face.
“You look familiar,” Paul added.
Feyd turned to stone. Concrete. Salt. “Do I?”
Paul didn’t answer. Just went to his seat and opened his laptop.
But twenty minutes later, Feyd’s phone buzzed.
A new DM on OnlyFans.
MuadDeep69: Next time you spill coffee on yourself, just take your pants off. I promise not to mind.
Feyd stared at the screen.
Then tipped another five bucks
Feyd didn’t answer the message.
Well—he thought about answering it. He typed something out three separate times. Each version started flirty and ended in panic. He deleted them all, locked his phone, shoved it into the depths of his coat pocket, and tried to go back to pretending he was someone who hadn’t just been recognized by his OnlyFans crush in a public café.
Ten minutes passed.
Feyd looked over the top of his book, subtly as possible.
Paul was still there. Curly head bent over his laptop. Fingers flying across the keyboard like he was writing poetry, or code, or… God, Feyd didn’t know. Was he doing classwork? Running his OnlyFans empire? DMing other subscribers things like Next time take your pants off ?
Feyd told himself again: unsubscribe. block. ghost. vanish. move to Salusa Secundus.
Instead, he picked up his phone.
BaronOfBadDecisions: i don’t usually spill coffee on myself. i’m actually really cool and composed.
Three seconds later—
MuadDeep69: I can tell. Very dignified. Especially when you nearly inhaled your own tongue.
Feyd stared at the screen and made a sound halfway between a laugh and a scream. He looked up.
Paul was watching him now, over the rim of his coffee cup. One brow raised. A smile tugging at his mouth, teasing and sharp.
Feyd gave a weak, self-hating little wave.
Paul tilted his head toward the seat across from him.
Feyd blinked.
Paul smiled again—this time, unmistakable—and mouthed, “Come here.”
Sitting across from Paul was like trying to stay dry in a thunderstorm.
Feyd meant to act casual. He meant to play it cool. But Paul was worse in person. The way he smelled—fresh laundry, warm skin, cinnamon. The curve of his jaw. The barest trace of freckles on the bridge of his nose.
“So,” Paul said, leaning his cheek on one hand, “should I pretend I don’t know who you are? Or are we just going to skip the part where you liked the shower clip four times?”
Feyd’s soul left his body.
“I was drunk,” he blurted. “I didn’t mean to subscribe. It was accidental.”
“Sure,” Paul said easily, “but you stayed. And tipped.” A pause. “Twice.”
Feyd narrowed his eyes. “You liked that.”
Paul smiled again. “Of course I did.”
Feyd watched his smile—small and real this time—and felt something shift. Not the same jolt of lust from the videos, but something steadier. Calmer. Curious.
“Listen,” Paul said after a moment. “We don’t have to make this a thing. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t.”
Paul’s eyebrow rose.
“I mean,” Feyd amended, “you did, but like… in a weirdly hot way?”
Paul snorted. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Feyd hesitated. Then, before his brain could stop him: “Are you…free tonight?”
Paul blinked.
“I mean—not like for content. Not for your fans. I just—" Feyd ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “I wanna buy you dinner. Or, like… street noodles. Or a coffee that I don’t immediately spill on myself.”
Paul’s face softened. The teasing edge faded, just a little.
“I’d like that,” he said.
Feyd’s heart did something unwise.
They decided on noodles.
Not because it was particularly romantic, but because Feyd said street noodles and Paul lit up like he’d been waiting all day for someone to say that. They walked side by side through the humid July dusk, past dusty bookstores and neon-lit windows, the occasional waft of hot oil and soy sauce curling through the air like a sign from the gods.
Feyd kept his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, mostly to keep from fidgeting. Paul, on the other hand, walked with the easy grace of someone completely comfortable in his own skin. Not cocky—just aware of himself. Like he knew his body took up space in the world and was fine with it.
Feyd had never been more jealous.
“This place is a favorite of mine,” Paul said, pointing out a narrow alley where a string of red lanterns flickered over a tiny counter and two battered picnic tables.
“Looks haunted,” Feyd said.
Paul grinned. “Haunted by flavor.”
They ordered two bowls of something spicy enough to make Feyd’s eyes water and grabbed a bench. For a while, they ate in companionable silence, punctuated by the occasional sniffle and Paul’s quiet, smug laughter whenever Feyd coughed into his napkin.
“So,” Paul said after a few minutes, chopsticks tapping against his bowl, “how long were you going to lurk on my page before you messaged me?”
Feyd froze with a noodle halfway to his mouth. “I wasn’t lurking. I was… appreciating. From afar.”
Paul tilted his head. “You tipped twice.”
“Maybe I was feeling generous.”
“You commented on the library photo: ‘who knew books could be so lucky.’ ”
Feyd groaned. “Okay, I blacked that out. You didn’t have to bring it back.”
Paul laughed again—louder this time—and Feyd felt it all the way in his chest.
He hadn’t expected this. The version of Paul from his feed—curated, slow-moving, soaked in dim light and camera angles—felt like a different creature entirely from the guy across from him now. Paul laughed freely. Ate with his elbows on the table. Had sauce on the corner of his mouth and didn’t notice until Feyd reached across with a napkin and gently wiped it away.
“You’re not what I expected,” Feyd said before he could stop himself.
Paul looked up. “What did you expect?”
Feyd hesitated. “Someone cooler. Untouchable, maybe.”
Paul leaned back, the humor in his expression softening to something a little more serious. “It’s just a job,” he said after a moment. “I like doing it. I like the performance of it. But it’s not all of me.”
“I know,” Feyd said. And he meant it.
They finished their noodles and walked some more, this time slower. Paul asked about Feyd’s job—he worked part-time in a grimy synth-spice lab and hated every second—and Feyd asked about Paul’s major (Digital Art and Media with a minor in Gender Studies). They talked about how everyone on campus was either painfully sincere or ironic to the point of self-erasure. They agreed that both types were exhausting.
At one point, they passed a busker playing an old-style baliset. Paul slowed down to listen, and Feyd watched the streetlight turn his hair gold.
He was so close. Not like the videos. Not curated. Just… here .
“Hey,” Feyd said suddenly, his voice low. “Can I kiss you?”
Paul turned, surprised. But not displeased. “You don’t want to wait till the third date? Make it wholesome?”
Feyd blinked. “Is this not wholesome?”
Paul grinned. “Okay. Good point.”
He stepped forward. The kiss was soft. Confident. Brief enough to leave Feyd dizzy and full of want. Paul pulled back just slightly, noses brushing.
“You kiss like someone who doesn’t spill coffee on himself,” Paul murmured.
“I’m growing,” Feyd whispered.
Paul laughed into the space between them, and Feyd swore he’d never subscribe to another account again.
Except maybe this one. The real one. The Paul one
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡.•
It didn’t happen all at once.
Feyd didn’t wake up one day and suddenly have a boyfriend.
It was more like:
One morning he noticed his phone had quietly started lighting up with Paul’s name more than anyone else’s.
One evening he caught himself checking the Arrakis Café window reflexively, half-expecting curls and a grey hoodie.
One Tuesday he realized Paul knew how he took his coffee—two sugars, splash of milk, no judgment.
They didn’t label it, not at first. But they saw each other a lot .
Noodle dates became café mornings, café mornings turned into campus walks, and eventually, nights where Feyd ended up pressed against Paul in the back of dim student bars, talking about nothing for hours.
The texts were constant. Sometimes flirty. Sometimes unhinged. Sometimes just:
Paul: u ever think about how worms canonically sense rhythm
Feyd: i think about it disturbingly often
Paul made Feyd laugh like no one else. He also made Feyd think —about art, about desire, about how many different ways there were to be vulnerable.
Feyd had known Paul was hot. What he hadn’t known was that Paul could be gentle. That he could be smart without needing to prove it, sexy without trying, and kind in a way that felt like sunlight seeping under a locked door.
By the end of the month, Feyd wasn’t pretending anymore. He was just in it .
And one Friday night, it was late. They were curled together on a narrow park bench under string lights leftover from some student film event. Paul had his head tipped back, watching the moths spiral against the bulbs.
“You wanna come over?” he asked, casual. Like it wasn’t the thing Feyd had been low-key panicking about for days.
Feyd blinked. “To your apartment ?”
“No, to my private bunker beneath the ground in the middle of a forest.” Paul glanced over, smile soft. “Yes, to my apartment.”
Feyd swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
Paul’s place was exactly what Feyd should’ve expected, and yet somehow it still knocked the breath out of him.
Third floor walk-up. Windows with sheer curtains that let the city in like a half-kept promise. The walls were covered in things—art prints, photos, dried flowers pinned between glass, sketches taped up with washi tape. A warm golden lamp made everything look soft around the edges.
There was a futon with a fluffy blanket half-kicked off. A record player in the corner. A stack of zines about queer theory and erotic film piled precariously on a crate.
And there, at the center of it all, barefoot and smug as hell, was Paul.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, already padding into the kitchen. “You want tea? Wine? Something stronger?”
Feyd cleared his throat, trying to hide the way his heart was pounding. “Wine’s good.”
“Red or white?”
“Surprise me.”
Paul grinned over his shoulder. “Dangerous answer.”
Feyd wandered the space like a tourist in a museum of someone cooler than him. Every detail felt personal . Like each object had a story, a past lover, or a night of impulse attached to it.
He stopped in front of a small photo pinned to the wall. Paul, younger, leaning on someone’s shoulder, laughing. Feyd didn’t recognize the guy next to him.
“Old ex,” Paul said gently, appearing beside him with two glasses of red. “It’s not weird. He’s still a friend.”
Feyd shrugged, took the wine. “Wasn’t judging.”
“You looked like you were spiraling.”
“I was admiring the composition.”
Paul bumped his shoulder against Feyd’s. “You’re allowed to be a little jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” Feyd said quickly. “I’m chill. Composed. Overflowing with dignity.”
Paul laughed. “Right. The same dignity you had when you spilled soup on your shirt last week?”
“That soup was weaponized, ” Feyd said solemnly. “It had velocity.”
They settled on the futon, closer than they’d been earlier in the park. Paul tucked one leg under himself, loose curls falling forward as he sipped his wine.
Feyd watched him over the rim of his glass. Let himself really look.
And Paul let him. Met his gaze, didn’t look away.
It stretched out between them—this silence. Not awkward. Not tense. Just full .
Paul set his glass down. “You don’t have to stay,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “But I’d like it if you did.”
Feyd didn’t answer right away. His mouth was dry. His heart loud.
“I want to,” he said eventually. “I just…” He laughed, mostly at himself. “I thought I’d have to be drunk or smooth or something before this happened.”
Paul leaned in, close enough to make Feyd’s brain stutter.
“You’re fine exactly like this,” he murmured.
Feyd’s breath caught.
And when Paul kissed him this time—slow, deliberate, nothing like the first nervous press in the street—it felt like the beginning of something real.
Feyd kissed him back.
And didn’t stop.
The kiss deepened.
Not all at once. It unfolded slowly, like a page being turned by hand. Paul’s fingers found Feyd’s jaw, then slipped into the collar of his jacket, tugging it down and off. Feyd let it fall somewhere behind him—he wasn’t paying attention. Not to that.
Only to Paul.
His mouth was warm. Curious. He kissed like someone who paid attention, like he was listening with his lips. Feyd let himself fall into it, hands braced against Paul’s waist, then slipping under the hem of his hoodie, finding skin—soft, warm, solid.
Paul hummed into the kiss.
They shifted. Paul leaned back, pulling Feyd with him until they were a tangle on the futon, legs brushing, hips aligning like puzzle pieces. The tension that had built between them over the last month—texting, teasing, skimming fingertips across knees in cafés—finally cracked open.
“You sure?” Paul murmured, lips ghosting against Feyd’s neck.
Feyd nodded, breathless. “I’m sure.”
And that was all it took.
Clothes fell away in layers. Hoodie, shirt, jeans, nerves. They kissed in between—on collarbones, on knuckles, on the small curve of a hip. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t polished like Paul’s content. It was messier, realer, better for all the unscripted pauses, the breathless laughter, the way Feyd groaned when Paul whispered something filthy in his ear just to watch him blush.
Paul was good with his hands. Good with his mouth. But he was even better with his attention. He touched Feyd like he wanted to memorize it. Not for performance. Not for an audience. For himself.
Feyd had never felt more seen.
And when it was over—when they were tangled in each other and the sheets, sweaty and grinning and completely wrung out—Paul pulled him close without a word. Just gathered him in like they’d done this before. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The morning light was soft and golden.
It came in through the curtains like a whisper, turning the white sheets pale gold. Feyd woke to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of music—low-fi something playing from a speaker near the bookshelf.
He blinked, took in the unfamiliar ceiling, the art on the walls, the soft weight of the comforter.
Then Paul.
Standing in the kitchen in boxers and a t-shirt, barefoot, hair wild from sleep. He looked like a dream someone might write a poem about. He was holding a mug and pouring coffee into a second.
Feyd sat up slowly, wincing at the unfamiliar stretch in his back and the too-thin futon beneath them. Paul turned when he heard the sheets rustle.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. “You’re alive.”
“Barely,” Feyd croaked. “Your futon is designed for people with no spine.”
Paul padded over and handed him the coffee. “Somehow I doubt that’s your biggest complaint.”
Feyd accepted the mug, smiling behind it. “Thanks. For… all of it.”
Paul sat at the edge of the bed, folding one leg underneath him. “You were good company.”
“You were…” Feyd paused, like he didn’t know the word. Then: “A lot.”
Paul tilted his head, amused. “Too much?”
“No. Just…” Feyd reached out, ran a hand over Paul’s thigh, grounding himself. “I didn’t think this would feel so… easy.”
Paul’s expression softened. “Me neither.”
A quiet moment stretched between them. Not heavy, just full. Something unspoken hung in the air— what now?
Feyd broke it with a crooked grin. “So. Breakfast, or round two?”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Why not both?”
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡.•
Eventually it became a routine.
Not an official one. Not the kind with toothbrushes left in cups or drawers cleared out. But a rhythm started forming, unspoken and easy.
Some nights, Feyd brought takeout to Paul’s apartment and they watched old films until they were too sleepy or too tangled up in each other to finish. Other times, they didn’t even pretend. They walked in the door already kissing, dropped bags, jackets, phones, and didn’t stop until they were breathless and grinning in bed.
Paul was easy to be around. Too easy. He moved through his space like someone who knew where everything belonged, and somehow Feyd started to fit into those empty spaces like he'd always been meant to.
And Paul—Paul had little habits Feyd fell for piece by piece.
He narrated the weather under his breath when it rained. He slept with one foot sticking out of the blanket like a criminal. He hummed while brushing his teeth. He made dumb little comics on sticky notes and left them on Feyd’s arm or shoulder or even stuck to his butt once, just because.
One night, Feyd came over late. He was tired from work, grumpy, still wearing his synth-lab uniform, and vaguely smelled like something chemical.
“You look like a tragic alchemy accident,” Paul said fondly, greeting him at the door with a kiss.
“I feel like one,” Feyd muttered, kicking off his boots.
Paul passed him a beer and waved toward the couch. “Sit. I’m editing anyway.”
Feyd flopped onto the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “Editing what?”
Paul hesitated. Then turned toward his desk, where his laptop was open beside a ring light and tripod.
“Oh.”
Feyd blinked. “ Oh. Wait—are you working?”
“Yeah. Just cleaning up a shoot from yesterday. Wanted to get the lighting right before I post.”
Feyd sat up straighter. “Can I see?”
Paul looked over his shoulder. “You sure?”
Feyd nodded.
There was a beat of silence as Paul clicked a few things, then turned the laptop toward him.
Feyd expected something sleek and erotic. He got… Paul. In a threadbare white tank top. Barefoot. Lying sideways across the couch they were now sitting on. The lighting was warm, low. His mouth was open slightly, like he’d been caught mid-thought. The photo wasn’t even overtly sexual. It was just… intimate.
Feyd stared.
“You look like art,” he muttered.
Paul flushed—actually flushed—and rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” Feyd said. “I mean it.”
Paul shifted a little, like he was half-embarrassed and half proud. “I try to keep it real. I like when it feels less… posed, you know? More like you’re catching a moment.”
“You are,” Feyd said. “You’re catching you.”
Paul gave him a look then—quiet, unreadable. “You really wanna see the rest of it?”
Feyd nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
So Paul showed him.
He scrolled through a folder—tasteful nudes, soft porn, some sets with props and aesthetic lighting. Nothing felt performative. Even the risqué ones had something personal behind them. Like Paul wasn’t just showing skin; he was letting people see how he saw himself.
Feyd had never seen anything like it.
He looked over at Paul, who was watching him , not the screen.
“You okay?” Paul asked, more careful than teasing this time.
“Yeah,” Feyd said softly. “I’m just… realizing how much of you is in this.”
Paul’s expression flickered. He set the laptop aside. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
Feyd leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I think it’s brave.”
Paul exhaled like he’d been holding something in for days. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel. Most guys get weird about it.”
Feyd scoffed. “Most guys are insecure.”
“And you’re not?”
“I’m obsessed with you,” Feyd said. “There’s no room left for insecurity.”
Paul smiled at that—slow, real, a little stunned.
They kissed. No rush. No script.
That night, Feyd stayed again.
And the next night. And the one after.
One morning, Paul looked at him over coffee and said, like it was the most normal thing in the world, “You know you basically live here now, right?”
Feyd blinked. “Do I?”
Paul smirked. “You have two hoodies in my closet, three of your records on my shelf, and you keep putting your shampoo next to mine.”
Feyd looked at him for a moment. Then smiled, slow and quiet.
“Guess I’m moving in, then.”
Paul didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate. Just reached across the table and took his hand.
“About time.”
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡.•
Feyd was folding towels on Paul’s bed while Paul fussed around his desk, adjusting the lighting and testing camera angles. It was a Sunday. The sun had just started melting into the windows, and the whole apartment glowed gold.
“Is this weird for you?” Paul asked, pausing to check the lens on his DSLR. “Me setting up while you’re, like… folding our socks?”
Feyd looked over. “Are you kidding? Watching you arrange ring lights in your boxers is honestly the best part of my day.”
Paul grinned. “You’re so supportive.”
“I try.” Feyd dropped a hand dramatically over his heart. “A partner, a hype man, a folder of towels…”
Paul chuckled, turning back to his gear. “I was actually thinking—if you ever wanted to, like, try being in front of the camera…”
Feyd froze mid-fold.
Paul glanced over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, reading him. “Just… throwing it out there.”
Feyd blinked. “Like. Join you?”
Paul nodded. “It wouldn’t be live. It’d be just for fun. Or we could never post it. Or we could , if you liked it. You set the rules.”
Feyd set down the towel. “Do people usually want that?”
“Some do,” Paul said. “Some partners are curious. Some aren’t. I never assume.” He came over, all warm limbs and soft curls, and sat beside Feyd on the edge of the bed. “But… I like how you look when you’re with me. You’re real. Comfortable. It’s… hot.”
Feyd’s cheeks flushed. “You mean like… sex on camera? With you?”
Paul smiled. “Not just sex. We could film anything. A kiss. A slow undress. You brushing your fingers down my back. The feel of us.” His voice dropped, soft. “You don’t have to perform. Just be. ”
Feyd hesitated.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. The thought had crossed his mind more than once—usually around 2 a.m. when Paul was stretched out on top of him, flushed and gasping, Feyd’s name in his mouth like a spell.
He just hadn’t thought he could be part of that world. That curated, glowing space Paul made feel like a universe.
“I’m not like you,” Feyd said finally. “You’re good at this. You know how to look at the camera. I’d probably trip over a ring light.”
Paul’s smile softened. He reached out, brushed his fingers through Feyd’s hair. “That’s the part I like best.”
“What, me falling on my ass?”
“No,” Paul murmured, voice warm. “You being yourself. You being mine. That reads better than anything posed.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Feyd exhaled, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“…Okay,” he said. “But we do it my way.”
“Of course.”
“No lighting that makes me look like a sexy ghost.”
“Deal.”
“And no weird fruit props or candles shaped like dicks or whatever the hell was in that Valentine’s shoot—”
“I regret the melon,” Paul said, laughing.
Feyd grinned. “Alright, then. Let’s… try it.”
Paul leaned in, kissed him slow and sure, like a promise.
“Tell me if you change your mind,” he whispered.
“I won’t.”
Paul stood, walking over to the camera, checking angles again. “I’m just gonna hit record and let it run. No pressure. We don’t have to look at it tonight. Or ever. Just see how it feels.”
Feyd watched him, heart beating fast. Then got up, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around Paul from behind.
“I trust you,” he said into his shoulder.
Paul leaned back into him, warm and steady.
“Good,” he said. “Because I already know I’m gonna love how this turns out.”
Paul hit record and stepped back.
No countdown, no instructions. Just the soft hum of lo-fi music drifting from the speaker and the late-afternoon sunlight catching on the edge of the lens.
Feyd stood barefoot near the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. His arms. His breathing. The fact that he was wearing a loose white tee Paul had definitely shrunk in the wash and black briefs that felt suddenly very… brief.
“Too much?” he asked, not moving.
Paul, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the bed, looked at him with that now-familiar gaze—soft and steady, all pupils and quiet reverence.
“Not enough,” he said.
Feyd barked a laugh, nerves breaking like ice.
Paul smiled. “Come here.”
And just like that, it began.
No script. No poses. Just Paul reaching for him, hands slipping under his shirt as Feyd climbed into his lap, camera still quietly rolling. Paul kissed him like they’d done this a hundred times—not for show, but for each other . Slow. Intentional. With pauses in between like they were savoring.
Feyd let himself sink into it. Into the rhythm they already knew by heart. His hands on Paul’s waist. Paul’s mouth grazing his collarbone. The soft rasp of breath, the creak of the mattress, the occasional, low laugh when they bumped foreheads or misread each other’s signals.
There was a moment—halfway through—when Feyd forgot the camera entirely. When Paul rolled them gently onto their sides, kissed the freckles just below Feyd’s ear, and whispered, “Look at me.”
And Feyd did.
Not at the lens. Not at the light.
Just him.
When it was over, they stayed there for a while, tangled and warm under the sheets, limbs a little sweaty and hearts a little too full.
Paul eventually reached out, blindly fumbling for the remote to stop the recording. “Think we made magic?”
Feyd groaned. “I probably blinked like a thousand times.”
“You blink beautifully.”
“You would say that.”
Paul pulled him closer. “Wanna watch it?”
Feyd hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
They sat cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, laptop perched between them. Feyd braced for impact. Braced to cringe. To second-guess every movement, every expression.
But… he didn’t.
The video wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t slick or overly lit or styled. But it was themselves . His crooked smile. Paul’s whispered jokes. The way their hands found each other instinctively.
Feyd watched it, stunned.
“I don’t look like an idiot,” he said quietly.
Paul turned his head, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You look like someone who’s in love.”
Feyd blinked. “That’s intense.”
“You are,” Paul said, smiling.
Feyd leaned his head on Paul’s shoulder. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
Later that night, after dinner and more lazy kisses, they curled up in bed.
“I’m proud of you,” Paul murmured, playing with the ends of Feyd’s buzzed hair. “That was brave.”
“You were right,” Feyd admitted. “It wasn’t about performing. It was just… us.”
Paul nodded. “That’s the part people don’t always get. It’s not about putting something on. It’s about showing something real. ”
Feyd rolled onto his side, propped his chin on Paul’s chest. “You really gonna post it?”
“Only if you want me to.”
Feyd thought about it. About the vulnerability. About the trust. About the fact that no one had ever made him feel as safe as Paul did, even under a lens.
“Let’s post it,” he said softly. “Just… call it ‘Us.’ ”
Paul’s eyes softened. “Perfect.”
They kissed again. Sleepy. Warm. Full.
And just before Feyd drifted off, Paul whispered against his temple, voice quiet and sure:
“Next time, I’ll let you run the camera.”
Feyd laughed into his chest. “God help us all.”
And in the quiet hum of the apartment, with their hearts synced like rhythm and breath, everything felt like exactly where it was supposed to be.