A/N: Not a prompt either, but I do what I want! :)

You wake up from the intolerable headache, every muscle of your body hurting, and you open your eyes preparing for a searing pain from light hitting your pupils. It doesn't come. The room you are in is dim, heavy curtains drawn on the windows. You press the throbbing temple into surprisingly luscious sheets and breath in.

The first panic wave rises when you realize that as Dolly Parton said "the fragrance on you ain't Old Spice". It is expensive, masculine, tangy. The sheets carry the smell of clean male skin mixed with your own perfume. Fuck.

With relief you realize that you are alone in bed and in the room. You lift the head, and the walls sway. You clearly envision a sweaty hairy medieval guy banging on an anvil in your head. You edge to the side of the bed and peek on the floor. There is your dress, thank you, Thea for the wonderful idea that it is definitely not too slutty. Bra and knickers are there too, and you groan. The stockings in black silky swirls nearby. Shite.

You know you can't drink. You are a ginger, you lot have all kinds of weird chemical relationships with alcohol and medicine. Thus, your strict no drugs policy. And one drink per night. What you are experiencing right now is not a one-drink hangover.

Alright, time to face the music and dance. You pull your clothes on and cringe from the cigarette smell stuck to the fabrics. You stand up and wobble again. Right, first things first, you need to run. You will figure it out later. Maybe you will go straight to a walk-in clinic and check yourself, but right now you need to get to safety.

You try not to think about what happened under these Egyptian cotton sheets. You don't feel any pain though, there are no fluids on your body, you start shaking from the thought, but then you tell yourself that you would have known. If anything, you would hurt all over. Your skin bruises from a slightly enthusiastic poke with a finger. Except the muscle pain from dehydration, you are fine.

You have a choice out of three absolutely identical doors in the opposite wall. What kind of weirdo makes three doors separated by two feet of a wall from each other completely identical? Obviously he knows which one is which, but still it looks like a something from Solaris. You quickly scan the bedroom. You can't see much in the dimness but it is all clean lines and perfect order.

And then it dawn on you. It is a woman's place, isn't it? That would make sense. Maybe the smell on the sheets was unisex, your head hurts so much that you are hardly capable of a deep analysis of a fragrance. Everything is arranged perfectly, elegantly, deep brown and cream pastels.

You breath out and pull a door. It is a washroom. You need to flee but you really need to pee too. You flip a switch and stare at yourself in the mirror. Could be worse. Mascara smeared, curls in an orange nimbus, blue shadows under your eyes, but you seem fine. You check the pupils, they are not dilated. You are pasty and freckles stand out in angry orange dots. You clean the mascara with some toilet paper and brace yourself.

You pull the second door and get into a large sunroom. You have to squint and shield your eyes with your hand, but soon enough you can actually look. It is large, a big easel in the middle, a large shelf with art supplies, assorted weird objects on a large oak table. Is that a sword?

Alright, it's alright. Your host or hostess is an artist. It could have been so much worse. A drug dealer, an arms smuggler, a pimp… Artist in an expensive and endlessly organized flat is not the worst. Yet again, Dr. Lecter was a psychiatrist in an exquisite three piece suit. And again with identical doors, this time there are two of them. You are so tired of this lottery.

You exhale and pick one. When you are ready to step towards it, your eye catches the canvas on the easel, and you freeze. Your own naked thigh and buttocks are depicted with an astonishing precision. You know they are yours because you recognise a little constellation of moles on your hip. They are an almost perfect replica of Cancer zodiac, you googled it once. The curve is depicted sensually, erotically, but it is not lewd lust, it is a hymn to a woman. Your body is shown relaxed in deep slumber and your hand is on the sheets near your thigh, fingers slightly curled in a chaste, almost childish gesture. It gives the canvas an overall dreamy and tender ambience.

The artist is definitely a woman. There is no raw desire in it, the lines are soft and reverent. There is no macho dominance, not a single crude stroke. You are frozen in front of it when another door opens and your host comes in.

He is clenching a brush in his teeth, his hands full, a mug with steaming tea in one, and a plate of biscuits in another. He is pushing the door with his hip and halts on the threshold at your sight. You take back all your words regarding the non-macho thing. He is large, widely build, probably six two or three. From your five two and a half he seems like a giant bear, with the broad shoulders, massive arms and the most astonishing mane of hair you have ever seen. And you have seen a lot of hair in your life. You are a hairdresser after all.

The brush is clenched between the white even teeth, and it looks like he is snarling. Then his brows fly up and you can almost see the mental process in his head. He can't take it out because where will he put the tea then? To spit it out? To put the plate of the floor? He looks at the floor, then at you, and then he shocks you by slightly leaning towards you and waggling his head. He makes a funny whiny noise and pushes his face a bit more towards you, obviously trying to convince you to take the brush.

You brain goes into overload, and you see your own hand stretching and taking the brush out of his mouth. "Oh cheers! I thought I'll stay there forever, would you help me with these too?" He hands you the plate with the biscuits. The voice is molasses, low, raspy, woman's flat my ass.

It is obviously his though. He is dressed in a pristine beige cashmere jumper and dark jeans. He is also bare foot and somehow that feels very indecent. He smiles to you lopsidedly and cocks a brow, "So what do you think?"

You think you want to fall through ground and burn in the core of our planet. "About what?" Your voice is scratchy. "The painting. I would have asked for your permision, love, but you were unresponsive. Thought if you hate it I'll just paint something over it." "Don't!" You yelp and bite your lip. What in the name?.. Who cares what he does with it! Run now, Wren!

Suddenly his face is very close to yours and you flinch away. "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you." He raises the hand unoccupied with tea in a mock surrender. "Just wanted to see your pupils, the roofie should be out of your system by now." "What?!" "You don't remember anything, do you?" He shakes his head. "You were in the club yesterday, and someone slipped you a roofie." Somebody? The thought is probably written on your face. "Not me! I found you sitting on the bonnet of my car couple blocks from there. I guess you escaped the fate worse than death. I had to do something with you." "And taking me to your place was the best option how?" You ask scornfully. "You insisted," he is smirking and sips his tea. The nerve in him! "And did I insist on taking off my clothes too?" "You did it yourself. And I have to say, with flare!" His smile is wide, white teeth gleaming, eyes hiding behind thick black lashes. "Don't you remember anything?" "I remember going to the club, with Thea. Oh bollocks, I need to call her, she is probably crazy worried!" You look around in search of your phone. He leans on a tall stool and takes another sip. "You didn't have a purse last night, and I don't think you can hide a phone in that dress." He points at the tiny scrap of material hugging your body. "Here, take mine."

Two things stand out when you take it from him. He has amazing hands, large, wide palm, just the type you like, the ones that can encircle your waist, and your buttocks can fit into these hands perfectly. What the hell is wrong with you? Second thing, he has a picture of his family as the background on his phone. The two grey haired people in the picture are definitely his Mom and Dad, family resemblance uncanny, they are laughing to the camera, hugging two smiling teenagers. "My nephews," his voice is laced with affection and pride. A person with such background probably won't cut you into small pieces and serve you with chocolate sauce, right?

Thea is yelling into the phone. You move it away from your ear a bit. "I already called the police, but they said that you are probably just spending a night with some random guy, and wouldn't listen to me! I told them you don't drink, and that is weird that you were gone, and I had your purse, oh my God, are you alright? Where are you? I'll come pick you up! Wren, are you alright? Whose phone is this? Do I need to bring your bat? Tell me you are alright!" "Thea... Thea... Thea…" She is not listening, an endless shouting and lamenting pouring out of her. You peek at your host, he is smirking and drinking his tea. "Thea, shut it!" You bark and she is finally silent. "I am alright, I think," you peek at him. He lifts his brows. "I am… Where am I?" He gives you the address. "Wait, is that a guy in there? Wren, is it a guy?" "Yes, there is a male person near me, Thea, and I'm fine. I have no money, I can't call a cab, you need to come and get me." He waves his hand to catch your attention and whispers, "I'll pay for your cab." "No, it's OK," you are trying to navigate two conversations with a splitting headache. "Is he asking you to stay?" Thea doesn't sound worried anymore. She is exuberant. "Shut up, Thea," you hiss and turn to him and realize that he is leaving the room. He waves to your dismissively, "I'll be right back." "What is going on in there?" Thea is shouting in your ear again. "Thea, keep it down a bit. I woke up in this flat, there's this guy, nothing happened, he offers to pay for my cab." "Do you want to stay there?" "No! What? Of course not." He comes back into the room with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. "I don't have a sealed bottle, but I promise it's ibuprofen." His eyes are laughing. "No, thanks. I'm fine." He shrugs. "It's not that!" Why are you reassuring him? "I'm a ginger, we are not good with drugs."

He lifts his eyes at your hair and suddenly his eyes widen. His lips form an "O" and he darts to the table. He grabs a piece of canvas and a palette. "Don't move, just don't move!" He pins it to another smaller easel by the wall. You freeze and see him frantically squeezing paint from little tubes on the the palette. "It is amazing! The light, the ombre..." He is mumbling and the brush is flying.

You suddenly realize that Thea is yelling in the phone. "Wren, what a hell is going on there?" "I don't know..." "Please, please," his voice is frantic, "I just need a few minutes, maybe half an hour," he is gesturing like crazy with his left hand while the right one is darting around the canvas, "I'll pay you… for the cab and the modeling… Just don't move, bloody hell, that's the one, that's it!" His chest is heaving, he is biting his bottom lip and his hand is dashing onto the canvas and back to the palette. "Please, just don't go..." You don't think he even realizes that you are a real person.

"Thea, I'm fine. He is going to pay for my cab and I'll just go home…" "Don't move!" He barks and you decide to ignore his mad rambling. "...and have a nap. I'll call you later, OK?" "Is he hot? Wren, is the guy hot?!" "Bye, Thea."

You hang up and look at him. Somehow he smeared some orange paint across his forehead. Is your hair really that colour in this light? What are you supposed to do now? He is frowning now, concentrated on the canvas. He waves at a couch by the window without looking at you. "You can sit there. Have some tea," he mutters absent-mindedly, completely absorbed into his work. You shrug and take his mug and the plate.

You finish the tea and biscuits, he is still working. You have had plenty time to scrutinize him, and he is quite something. A stubborn, heavy jaw in a stark contrast to a soft, sensual line of lips. Blazing blue eyes, thick black brows… He constantly jerks them up, frowns, bites the opposite end of his brush, curses under his voice. There is something exceptionally warm and comforting in his presence, though he is bursting with activity. You start feeling sleepy.

You wake up much later, covered with a quilt. He is still working, this time on a bigger easel, on the initial painting of your naked lower half. Orange is gone from his face. The sleeves of the pullover are rolled up, and you admire the muscular forearms, covered with black hair. He shifts his eyes and sees that you are awake. He gives you a distracted smile and returns to the canvas. "I'll be right there. I ordered Chinese, it'll be here in ten." Is he always so nonchalant about everything? Frenzied and excited about the art, and then back to the cool assurance of a big cat. Incredible...

"Do you want a shower?" He is not even looking at you, like at all! "The washroom is through the bedroom." You climb off the couch and walk back into the bedroom. You fleetingly wonder where he slept last night, and then walk to the bathroom. Everything in it is pristine, colour-coordinated, and… beige. You happily shed the clothes and climb the shower booth. It is very big. He is obviously large, but it looks more like it is intended for two. The hot water is plummeting on your head and shoulders , and it is a bliss! An array of shampoos, conditioners and soaps is impressive. No products for a woman, but all high quality and not chosen randomly. You pick and choose, and soon feel like a human being again.

You hear a loud knock at the door, and a sudden panic floods you. You are bonkers, completely bonkers! What are you doing in some random guy's shower?! You suddenly can't breath and press your back into the shower wall. "Hey, you alive there?" His voice sounds genuinely concerned, and you feel panic subsiding. "The food is here, and if you need clothes there are some shirts in the drawers under the sink. Should be long enough for you." "Thanks," you try not to sound too panicked. "De nada," he is laughing at you.

The mentioned shirts are probably his comfy time clothes, they are soft and faded, and you pick the one that seems the longest. It goes down mid thigh. The colour is hardly flattering but it is not like you are on a date.

You step back into the sunroom and the delicious smell of the Chinese take-out tickles your nose. The square white boxes are already arranged on the bar island, chopsticks, plates, napkins, two glasses of water, coasters… Coasters? Really? You shake your head in disbelief and look around. Where is your host? "Hello?" Bollocks, you realize that don't even know his name. There is something seriously wrong with you.

You jump up from surprise when you hear his voice from the bedroom behind you. You were just there! Oh, wait, the third door. You trot back to the bedroom and open the third door. Quite predictably it is a walk-in closet. Quite unpredictable is your host standing in it bare-chested. You freeze and gape. He is holding a black tee in his hand and waits for you to find your bearings. You will your body to move and step back, but not a single muscle in you moves. "You have to decide, love, either in or out!" His low murmuring tone is as suggestive as it gets. You jump up and dart back in the bedroom slamming the door. You hear his rollicking laughter behind it.

You return to the sunroom and plop on a chair by the bar island. You drop your head on your arms on the counter. Your ears and neck are burning from humiliation. Just when you started thinking that this day could not get any weirder, you managed to ogle the guy in the worst possible circumstances. You are screwed, deeply and irrevocably. Because you have a kink. And unfortunately, it is a muscular, hairy, broad male chest.

And his is a dream! It is so glorious, it is simply perfect! The best you have seen for a while, and now you won't be able to look at him even when he is fully dressed. You will know it is there, the hot hard plains of muscles just asking you to bite and kiss, and to scratch with your nails, the thick black hair to tread your fingers through… Oh, your private parts are on fire. And all this majestic epitome of chest perfection is attached to a flat stomach with a glorious strip of black hair going down… Stop, Wren, you are digging your own grave! Do not think about that, don't think about the belt and the buttons… Oh, and the buttons, not a zipper!.. Bloody hell...

You hear rustling, and he comes back to the room. You sit up and school your face into a neutral expression, and you two start eating. To say that it is awkward is an immense understatement. At least for you, nothing apparently unsettles this one. He is thoroughly enjoying his food and isn't trying to start a conversation. You keep your mouth shut as well and concentrate on your dry Schezuan beef. You also avoid looking anywhere but your plate.

You are especially avoiding looking at his jaw when he is chewing, at how his throat is moving when he drinks water, and most of all you are decisively not looking at his clavicles that are so promisingly peeking from the collar of his V-neck! It just had to a be a V-neck! Damn your complete inability to resist a husky male chest! If it is good, and this one is superb, then you start noticing the rest. And everything about him is just delectable!

You could probably seduce him. It's not like he is not attracted to you, he wouldn't be feeding you dinner and flashing toothy grins at you. You are probably sort of a bowl of fruit for him, something to arrange and transfer on canvas, but he is still a man of flesh and blood. But do you want it? Do you want him to wake up the next morning with the same distracted face and politely walk you to the door courteously calling you a cab and paying for it?

You imagine it so clearly that all you lustful daze is suddenly gone and you drop your chopsticks. "Are you alright, love?" You lift your eyes at him with an easy gleeful smile, the spell broken. Ha, you can even look at him and do not feel like you are going to combust. Well, may be a little. "Yeah, sorry. Just lost in my thoughts." Your appetite is back and you pick up a dumpling from a box. "These are actually very good, where is it from?" "Dragon's Bowl," he is looking at you scrutinizingly, obviously having noticed the change in your mood. "Hm, never been there. Do they have dim sum?" "I don't believe so." You take your glass and drink it in a few big gulps.

You pick up another dumpling and bite into it. The juice starts running down your hand and wrist, and you lick it. He makes a throaty growling noise and jumps up on his feet. The chair falls behind him with the bang. You freeze and stare at him in confusion. "Stop it!" He snarls, and he actually looks angry. "Stop what?" You are completely confounded. "I am not made of stone, I can be a gentleman for only that long." It still doesn't seem to register with you. What's he all about? "Decide what you want and stop playing with me."

Where is the relaxed facade? Where are smug smirks and the cocked brow? He is taking short sharp breaths, his fists are clenched, and his stunning eyes are blazing. Red spots are blooming on his cheekbones, nostrils flare. "Either you call yourself a cab right now, or you are getting that glorious little bum of yours off that chair and march into the bedroom!"

Bloody hell, he is turned on! That's him being randy! Wow, that is at least partially terrifying. It's like poking a bear with a stick for a while and then noticing that the cage isn't locked! Except you weren't poking, you didn't do anything! The shirt isn't even that short, and it's not like he hasn't seen it all before!

You contemplate your choices, and slowly slide off the chair. "I'll take the bedroom option." He actually growls like an animal and pounces.

A/N#2: Who wants part two of this? :)