the empire and the sun

[Luc Wynn]

"I'm so sorry–" The soft, horrified words were spoken as he lowered his hands, only to have them pulled away and Gust kissing him again. At first he relaxed into it – and then the taste and texture filled his mouth, and his embarrassment was compounded by the absolutely pathetic whimper that escaped him.

It didn't matter if he had just painted Gust's face and mouth with his load; there was another cramp of arousal in the pit of his stomach, and one hand went to Gust's neck to pull him closer, to deepen the kiss, to consume every part of him that Luc possibly could, the other curling in his hair to keep him from daring to pull away.

When he finally relented, finally loosened his grip, licking his own lips (and Gust's, for how close he kept the other man), it was only to catch his breath. "I want you to fuck me," he ordered, voice going weak on the expletive. It wasn't that he was entirely a priss; he simply avoided that language more often than not, and using it here, like this, his own spend still bitter and salty on his tongue, was absolutely sinful.

[Augustus Kinkade]

"No, no, don't be sorry," Gust mumbled into Luc's mouth before being tugged forward for another hot, licking kiss. Luc hadn't much in the way of finesse, but his enthusiasm more than made up for any lack of skill. All this time, Gust had assumed Luc had been doing something, somehow, with someone — Another man of the cloth, most likely, because wasn't the church full of sodomites? — but as he began pulsing his hips heedlessly against the front of the chair again, he couldn't help but enjoy the idea that Luc had been saved entirely for himself, wrapped up all pretty and waiting with a bow.

This notion, however, was somewhat dispelled by the sudden and unequivocal demand to be fucked.

By Luc.

The words had come out of his (admittedly rather gorgeous) mouth.

Gust couldn't have said how long he'd lingered with his lips parted as he panted into his friend's mouth, buying time to comprehend this most unlikely turn of events, but it was more than a moment.

At length, Gust scuffed out a soft sound that did not make it to a chuckle nor a scoff, and then pushed back enough to pull in a lungful of air that hadn't just escaped Luc's mouth. "Now I know for a fact you'd hate me for that," he said, attempting some degree of his typical aplomb, but had lifted an absent hand to the stripe across his cheek and now fell silent, fingers sliding through the mess and over to linger atop his parted lips. When his eyes lifted to Luc's, they were dark from more than shadows.

"Yes, now," he said with a curt nod, and rocked back onto his feet and stood with only a slight stumble.

[Luc Wynn]

How could Gust say that and not expect him to feel it regardless? He had wanted this for so long, never daring to so much dream that it might happen in reality. He rarely indulged himself in the quiet dark, but it was always to the image of his dearest friend; always with the guilty knowledge that it could never be, must never be.

And yet this was Gust, kissing him, with his own come flavoring the whole of it. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but for a moment Luc truly thought he might faint.

Instead he had spat out the request, the need, the demand, and had been left to stare at that struck-dumb expression, or what he could see of it. Gust was coming to his senses, he feared; or he had finally stepped over the line, pushed his friend just past the point of acceptability. It was not made any better for that breezy mockery Gust made of it all.

"Never," he denied vehemently, staring in open awe at the mess he had made of Gust; the mess they must have made of each other. "Nothing you do could make me hate you, Gust." He half-reached to caress that sharp-planed face, only for the viscount to regain his feet; only for his hand to fall impotently by his side, even as he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. Shoving his already-hard-again (had he ever gone soft, really?) cock back into his trousers, Luc reached for Gust's hand, fully intent on leading him the familiar route to his bedroom.

Drunk as h was, on liquor and the magic of this night that would undoubtedly fade the the morning light, Luc refused to be bent over the arm of a couch like a common whore.