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Paul has never liked summer as much as the early sun rays of spring. The constant, suffocating heat of the season could never be compared to the damp ground of the grass where a single tee-shirt wasn’t an affront to wear.
He didn’t have to pull etiquettes at the annual family gathering when rain still gurgled down the grooves of his home. Only dreading the prospect of it.
Yet Paul has found these past couple of years that the company he kept during those long two weeks, trapped in between the walls of their ancestral estate, was enough to tentatively look forward to July.
Eyelids fluttering to a close, a moan threatens to slip past Paul’s bitten, parted lips as Feyd’s searing palm clasp against them, fingers digging deep inside the meat of his cheek—their damp foreheads knocking against each other. The tip of their noses nuzzling almost tenderly.
“Better keep quiet, Atreides. Wouldn’t want your mommy to hear now, do we?”
Above the whisper of his delirious rasp and his humid breath against his sweaty face, Paul can hear the faintest clatter and drowned out conversations—niceties and laughers high enough to speak false—from behind the hallway they sweat each other’s out.
His spine carves itself against the chipping, gaudy wallpaper, Feyd slotted beautifully in between his legs. His leaking cock between Feyd’s slender, painted fingers.
He couldn’t care less about the peanut gallery waiting for them back in the living room.
Paul is not above biting fervently the plush palm against his mouth, glaring back daggers sharp enough to make Feyd’s eyes crinkle with amusement despite the spasm coursing through his hand. Tendons quivering, nerves flaring.
Feyd relaxes his grip, flexes sensually, enough for Paul to lick clean Feyd’s tangy interdigit, tongue slithering from knuckles to bitten nails. He puts his teeth there, a single prickle of blood made from his canine alone—and his rewarded by the smoldering fire behind his cousin’s gaze, full lips lax from lust, breath filled-wine fawning in a dizzying puff against his nose.
He is not so cruel as to let Feyd’s hang hard and untouched, taking him with a brilliant tug, his drooling, eager cock throbbing as he squeezes the tip, pushing his thumb there. It saunters, Feyd’s hips canting forward, digging the bone of his hip against Paul’s wrist, aching pleasantly, wanting more.
“Then you better hurry and make me come.” Paul says.
His cousin’s acquiescence is a simple nod lost in the throes of his own pleasure at Paul’s dexterous hand, whom should be horrified to know every tender spot his cousin’s cock has, but doesn’t, fueling this every existing hole he seemed to never be able to fill in his own chest.
Only the all-consuming desire of the boy clutching the curls at his nape in a punishing grip, feeding it his darkness, that Paul can understand the depth of his own sickness.
No matter, Paul has little time to ponder about the semantics of their shared DNA as a sweltering kiss sticks against the pulse right under his ear, his head thrown back against the wall behind. The grazing of Feyd’s canine inside the skin is what makes him swallow a pitiful keen.
They do not speak, only breathe through their rapidly mounting climax, stroking eagerly from base to tip. Each well-timed spit-slicked finger under Paul’s cockhead, against the underside of a vein near Feyd’s base get them closer already.
It’s delicious, these sudden urges to mold himself against the boy’s whole body, gliding his hand down the plane of his shoulder blades, grazing the tissue of his cotton shirt. The tissue balls under his nails as he shudders, body electrified from head to toe and toes to balls as they tighten. His body grows rigid, his legs trembling as he comes all over Feyd’s unrelenting grip, painting in globes of milky, viscous white his knuckles with come he cannot wait to see his cousin lick it clean.
When Feyd comes, it’s with Paul’s name punched out from his throat ragged from pleasure he rasps at the slope of his collarbone, cocooned there. Feyd’s tongue slithers down the hollow of his well-loved neck, licks and kisses down a hungry path he took a hundred times.
It raises the hair on Paul’s arms, captures the butterfly in his knotted stomach.
He wants to stay there always; jeans comically pushed back to their knees in a haste, buckles hitting against each other with the metal, the scent of Feyd’s smokey skinmusky and hormonalhe wants to eat it clean through the bones of him. His flesh the only feast he will ever need.
Paul wonders, through the hazy cloud of dissipating lust, about his own heart beating to the excited melody of his cousin’s own, and realizes with barely containing irony, that it always sang to the same tune.