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Chapter Text

“Warm my hand,” Gustave asks, placing a metal arm on Verso's stomach. He shivers under the cool touch, but compliantly wraps his palms around the black and gold wrist. 

He'd prefer to feel Gustave's organic hand on him, but the latter is too busy slowly and softly massaging his entrance. Verso exhales quietly and throws his head back as one slippery finger slips inside him and almost immediately finds the sensitive spot inside.

“Yes, there…” Verso struggles to squeeze words out and looks down. Gustave has an almost boyish look of joy on his face and he moves his finger inside again.

Verso can't hold back a groan and arches his back.

“Here, you say?” Gustave asks curiously and, without waiting for an answer, takes Verso's cock in his mouth. He smacks and tickles with his tongue under the head while he adds a second finger to the first and repeatedly pushes his prostate again. 

Honestly, Verso could have finished without this. From the loving eyes looking at him with tenderness, from the slow kisses on the inside of his thigh, from the soothing words reassuring him to stay and accept the comfort of care. From skilful physical stimulation after all.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispers so quietly that his own words seem like thoughts. Because he feels painfully bare in Gustave's arms, who is taking him apart and looking where no one else dares to look. He's ashamed of himself and how much he wants to hug Gustave and never let him go anywhere.

“Hmm?” Gustave rises up and looks at him with interest, not letting cock out of his mouth or pulling his fingers out of Verso. The man shakes his head and squeezes the metal hand harder in his palms.

As Verso’s breathing hastens, Gustave stops playing with his prostate and removes his left hand from Verso's abdomen.

“Do you want me to show you a trick?” He puts his curly head with strands of hair, stuck to his forehead, and flushed cheeks between Verso's cock and thigh, then rubs his cheek against it. Verso jumps up, this time from the tickle, and his cock hits Gustav on the nose.

“Yes,” he answers and thinks that if Gustave offered to peel off his skin and use it as a blanket, he'd do it. Probably. Because Gustave would never ask such a thing, he is stupidly kind and attentive to him. 

“Then hold on!”

Gustave mounts his mouth onto Verso’s cock with unexpected vigour and touches thighs again, but this time Verso feels metal fingers inside him. He tightens up involuntarily, but Gustave looks at him cautiously and strokes sensitive skin with his thumb.

Verso forces himself to relax. His fingers keep moving forward, getting warmer — and he could swear he can feel the pricks inside him. Gustave's moving head begins to glow pale gold from light coming underneath, and Verso understands.

“Please,” he asks in a shaky voice and feels his orgasm coming closer, “don't fry me.”

Gustave snorts into his cock, and it's enough to make Verso come. He's short of breath, waves of orgasm crushing in over him one after another, and he presses himself into Gustave's mouth, thrashing around under him like crazy, and it doesn't end, it goes on and on, it's too powerful and too good.

When Verso is done and exhausted, he opens his eyes and sees Gustave's semen-stained face and hair above him. He leans over and wipes the tears from Verso's face.

“Did you like my trick?” Gustave asks and lies down next to him. Verso wettens his lips and rolls closer to Gustave.

“You're amazing,” he replies and rests his forehead against Gustave's shoulder. 

Please don't ever disappear.

Chapter Text

It all started with a Polaroid photo.

Twenty-year-old Renoir stood with his shoulder against a brick wall, smiling at the camera. He was dressed in a white T-shirt, loose blue jeans, and a dark brown leather jacket, and Alan's lower abdomen felt heavy and hot.

“My love.” He spun round in his office chair and shook the photograph in the air. “Is that you?”

Renoir looked away from the newspaper he was reading and raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. The style of the nineties…” Renoir sighed heavily, “wasn't the best fit for me.”

Alan looked at him. Then at the photograph. Then at Renoir again.

“I want you in the style of the nineties,” he declared and went to his phone to look for the nearest second hand shop.

And that's how they ended up on the broken sofa of the rented, ancient flat. Renoir sat with his legs spread wide in his unbuttoned blue jeans, and Alan, fully naked and hard, was devouring desperately and sucking his cock, unable to see the young Renoir's face, with its dreamy eyes and slutty smile on his smooth-shaven face. 

“I...won't be able to...stand it much longer…” his lover moaned above Alan's head and thrust his hips forward. His perfectly smooth and slippery cock pushed into his throat, and Alan opened his mouth wide, allowing it to slip deeper and closer.

Renoir grabbed him by the hair and pulled Alan away from him. He was breathing heavily, his straight parted hair wet and sticking to his forehead, and his nipples were dark through his white T-shirt. Alan let his cock out of his mouth and reached for them with his lips, but Renoir squeezed his fingers around Alan’s chin and pulled him closer.

“You can still find someone younger,” he said quietly, looking directly into Alan's eyes. His face — vulnerable, smooth-shaven — looked sad. 

“Why the fuck would I want someone younger?” Alan squinted and licked his lips, slick with pre-cum. “I have you, all of you, and you have a past. My only regret is that I was born too late to fuck you to I Want It That Way.”

Renoir's face cleared and he smiled. 

“In that case, let's pretend your iPhone is a cassette recorder. Siri, play Millennium.”

Alan hummed and finally sucked a dark nipple through the white cotton of his T-shirt. Renoir moaned softly, and then his fingers clamped down hard on his lover's thigh.

“Come on, put it in me already,” whispered Alan, whose arse felt lonely without a large cock inside it, and Renoir obeyed. He pushed Alan onto the leather couch, pulled his jeans down to his knees, and entered — slowly, steadily, in sync with the beat of the music.

“I wasn't this gentle and patient thirty years ago, you know?” Renoir whispered with threat in Alan's ear, and he jerked toward him instead of answering. “Well, you asked for it, sweetheart.”

Oh, yes, Alan thought with satisfaction before Renoir began to beat the rest of his thoughts out of him. One lingered between fierce, hard thrusts — gods, give me enough self-control to flip through the Dessendre family album into the late noughties.

Chapter Text

They say that women after fifty can't have sex. Their libido drops, their vagina becomes dry, and their interest in sex disappears altogether. 

Aline could argue with that, but she doesn't want to. Not when her and Renoir's young lover's face is pressed between her thighs and his tongue is caressing her clit so good and sweet. 

“You're doing wonderful, baby.” She grips Alan's hair tighter and pulls him closer to her, spreading her legs wider. Renoir looks at her with eyes darkened with desire and squeezes his fingers tighter on Alan's thighs without stopping moving. Aline smiles back. “You're holding back, dear. Don't do that, let yourself go. Our guest deserves more, where are your manners?”

Renoir squints and looks down at the freckled back. His strong hands shift from Alan's hips to his shoulders and he pushes inside with force.

Alan moans with pleasure between Aline's legs and his voice vibrates on the tongue inside her.

Neither herself nor Renoir had ever bothered with the chains of fidelity. She was disgusted by the idea of not being able to experience as much as she could before old age and death took her, and Renoir dedicated himself to Antarctica from a young age. He had ice wives and husbands on most shifts, but no one stayed by his side for longer than a single season.

Until Alan showed up, breaking into their Paris flat with blinding insolence and asking why the hell Renoir wasn't answering his messages with his funny accent. 

At the sight of her husband's confused face, Aline applauded and suggested that Alan stay — first in their flat, then in their bed. 

“Harder,” she commands and leans back on the pillows. Renoir thrusts into Alan with such force that their young lover's straining tongue enters and exits her on its own. “Sweetheart, I believe you have enough strength for two.”

Aline smiles with satisfaction at the sight of her husband's focused face changing to primal and hungry. Alan begins to sob between her thighs and she pulls him upwards by his hair.

“Eyes on me,” she requests almost affectionately and strokes the young man's cheek. His beautiful flushed face is covered in saliva and her own fluid. “I want to see you come under my husband. Look at me as you look at him.”

Renoir growls and his fingers clutch Alan's hair next to Aline's own fingers. She almost weightlessly strokes the back of his palm with her little finger, and Renoir obediently raises his gaze to her.

“Scream his name as you screamed mine.”

Renoir falls onto Alan's back and wraps her free arm across his waist. Aline touches herself and watches them — after all, no one fucks her better than herself.

In Alan's wide-open eyes she sees infinity and mist. Renoir pulls him back by the hair, exposing a pale throat with hickeys and bite marks.

“Alan…” he almost howls, moving erratically. Aline speeds up the movements of her fingers on her clit. “Alan... mon amour, mon trésor…”

“Mon loup,” Aline reminds him mockingly, feeling her orgasm coming on. Renoir sinks his teeth into Alan's shoulder and the young man finally closes his eyes and falls face down on his hands, shuddering in the woman's legs. She feels sticky and hot dripping down her foot.

“Aline…” her husband moans hoarsely, but she shakes her head.

“Alan.”

She brings herself to finish with one strong stroke of the finger and arches in back. Renoir low growls Alan’s name into his back, and collapses without leaving his young lover's body. 

Menopause, putain de merde. Aline wishes for those eminent researchers to see them now.

Chapter Text

Lune is a good girl from a respectable family. 

She passes all of her exams brilliantly, gets a scholarship and is the head of her group. When she comes home, it is dark outside the window and only her flatmate makes the evening brighter.

Lune is a disciplined girl and the best student at the university.

She spends her days in laboratories and libraries, not allowing herself to be distracted by silly student things. Sometimes she gives in and spends time at home with friends, playing guitar and humming old lullabies. She likes music.

Lune is a covert girl with dark secrets.

She has a crush on her flatmate. Sciel, a smiling and cheerful chucklehead with devilish green eyes, who comes from a small farming village and takes everything from life. She works part-time in a bar, dancing exotic dances and twirling on a pole like a gymnast.

Lune hides in the shadows of the bar every Saturday and watches as Sciel tears off her clothes to the energetic music and sends it flying into the audience with hooting. The audience goes wild, infected by her liveliness and energy, but Lune thinks only of how she listens to the shower water pouring over the wall in the evenings. 

It's hot and heavy between her legs, and Lune stubbornly presses her thighs together, trying not to draw attention to herself.

Sciel greets her with hugs and news about friends every night, shoving a cup of hot tea in her hands and waving her arms around. They sit on the couch and watch silly fashion shows, and Sciel parodies the model walks by swinging her hips a little too hard and pulling Lune out of the sanctuary of her couch. They always laugh together before retiring each to their own room and falling asleep.

Lune has to change her underwear every time she thinks of her flatmate's warm hands and her soft bronzed skin. 

Under the spotlight, Sciel pulls off her hat and, twirling it on her finger, tosses it in the direction of the distant spectators. The hat flies over Lune's head, and she is hit with the smell of her flatmate's sweat and perfume — enough to make her wet. 

Lune exhales through clenched teeth and begins to rhythmically squeeze and unsqueeze her thighs, rubbing herself against the seat. This isn't the first time seeing Sciel on stage, and she knows how to be discreet. 

To hug herself around her shoulders, to run her fingers through the thin fabric of her dress, remembering Sciel's touch. To rub her thighs against each other, to tense and relax inside, to get comfortable, to see the sequins on the decorated bra and the long, muscular legs. To rest bare feet on the floor, to feel the vibration of the floor and let it pass through. 

Sciel twirls on the pole and slides onto the stage, knees wide apart, chest heaving, arms hugging the metal above her. Lune imagines those very hands cupping her breasts and playing with her nipples, and whimpers quietly, becoming undone on the chair. In the chaos of lights, loud music, and vibrating floor, no one notices her. Everyone looks at Sciel and applauds her as she rises in one fluid motion and bows, sending air kisses to the audience.

Lune feels her face burn. She rises and leaves on woozy legs before her flatmate notices her and tidies herself up in the bathroom. 

When Lune returns home, Sciel, smelling of citrusy shower gel, greets her with a swirl of mussed hair and a mug of hot chocolate, recounting the latest social media drama.

Lune is a cowardly girl and is afraid of ruining what already binds them together. 

Chapter Text

Paris, April 1905

Gustave lies before him on a model's pedestal, naked and illuminated by sunlight streaming through the studio windows, and Verso traces his finger across his lover’s chest.

“You mustn't move until the wax has set,” he says, scratching nipple with his index fingernail. Gustave lets out a sound of pleasure.

“So let it be,” he shrugs. “I've always wanted to try this, but I couldn't find the right person.”

Verso runs his hands through Gustave's chestnut curls and pulls him close for a deep kiss. When they pull apart, Verso feels a void in his chest, and Gustave's eyes are filled with sadness.

“What a lucky coincidence that the right person found you,” the Painter smiles and traces the contours of his Gustave’s reddened lips with his thumb.

Paraffin candles stand on the floor, melting away. Red, yellow, blue, green, white — Verso bought up all the colours available in Paris and rented a studio with tiled floors instead of parquet.

He loves Gustave, and Gustave allows him to love himself without fear or regret. He is not afraid of Verso's scorching love, and this makes Verso want to love him even more fiercely.

He takes a red candle in his hands and offers his palm to Gustave. He confidently places his fingers in it, and Verso squeezes them with his own. He tilts the candle, and red wax slowly drips onto their intertwined hands and wrists.

Gustave shudders with surprise, but nods and stretches out on the pedestal. Verso breaks the imprisonment of wax that is beginning to harden and touches Gustave’s chest with his hot hand.

“You still can say no.” The Painter runs his fingers forcefully from chest to groin, and Gustave arches his back under the touch.

“But I don't want to say no to you, ma destinée,” he says with a laugh in his voice and grabs the wrist of the hand in which Verso is holding the candle. “Don't you dare to take it easy on me. Believe me, I could stop you at any moment.”

Verso believes him. He presses Gustave against the pedestal and holds him by the shoulder while a thin, viscous stream of wax pours onto his chest and shoulders. He draws lines along the body, from the middle of the chest to the thigh, from the thigh to the ankles, until the body is covered with a schematic image of a figure. Verso kisses Gustave's forehead as he breathes heavily and strokes his stomach.

“You are so beautiful, mon cœur,” he whispers passionately in his ear. The edge of his palm brushes against Gustave's semi-erect cock. “I will make you even more beautiful. I will paint and hide you in my bedroom so that no one else can see you.”

Verso places the half-burned red candle on the floor and picks up a white one. This time, he pours the wax a little lower, chaotically shaking white drops onto Gustave's chest and stomach and watching him twitch with each hot drop that falls and his cock keeps rising and hardening.

“You like being on the edge, don't you?”

Verso, grimacing in pain, pours wax into his palm and places it onto Gustave's side. When he moves his hand away, a wax imprint of his palm remains on his lover's body, and Verso loses his head. He pours wax of all colours onto Gustave and his own palms, leaving handprints on his lover's body, feverishly whispering words of gratitude for Gustave's existence in this cursed world.

When he finishes, the candles burn down to the bottom, and Gustave is covered with multicoloured stripes and palm imprints and fingerprints — and he is still as hard as a rock.

“You are my best canvas,” Verso confesses and kneels before the pedestal. His love, his finest creation, raises himself on his elbows and spreads his legs, casting a lustful glance from under his damp curls that stick to his forehead.

“Prove it,” Gustave commands in a trembling voice, and Verso dives between his wax-covered thighs.

Oh, he will prove it. With great pleasure and dedication.

Chapter Text

Their mouths collided just after they had lit the campfire. 

“I've been thinking about this ever since you sat between my legs in the Yellow Harvest.” Verso admitted, shaking himself and Gustave out of their coats. In response, nimble fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt, unbuttoning them and stroking the exposed skin. 

“Too bad you didn't appreciate my efforts back then,” Gustave snorted and pulled Verso towards him. They lowered themselves onto the pile of discarded clothes and got lost again in a deep, impatient kiss. Verso ran his fingers through Gustave's hair and he moaned softly in response.

“I was afraid I'd misunderstood you,” he whispered, breaking the kiss, and the hazel eyes opposite blinked twice. 

Honestly, Verso felt like an idiot. All this time Gustave had been into him and actively hinted at closer communication, but the hints just weren't getting through Verso's thick skull, genuinely convinced that recent expeditions had become too promiscuous.

Just like Gustave rubbing his groin against Verso’s thigh and leaving light either bites or hickeys on his neck.

Verso sighed raggedly and pressed the palm of Gustave's hand against his cock, which hardened under the tight fabric. He squeezed his fingers with understanding and Verso groaned, throwing his head back. His brain was beginning to shut down, unable to notice anything but touches and sounds.

Somewhere far away, crickets were chirping by the river. 

Dry leaves and sticks crunched beneath her knees.

Gustave's hot fingers unbuttoned his trousers and circled Verso's cock, teasing the wet tip with a rough thumb.

His own long groan pierced the silence, and the fist on his cock began to move. 

“...I don't have anything with me,” Verso heard Gustave say before he realised the meaning of the words and forced himself to stop. Gustave lay beneath him, his curls dishevelled with leaves lost in them, the glow of the fire on his pale skin and the gold of his embroidery, his lips half-open and swollen from kissing. His waistcoat and shirt were open, exposing his dark nipples on heaving chest and taut belly, his wet cock was protruding from his unbuttoned and moved down trousers, and, oh all saints and sinners, Verso was ready to finish only by looking at Gustave's welcoming body. Right on this covered with sweat chest, right on those moist lips and that obscenely open face.

“I don't need anything,” Verso exhaled hoarsely, and freed his own cock from pants and lowered himself down on Gustave, hugging him tight. The other man understandably put his hot hand around both their cocks and squeezed, starting to move. Moans and growls filled the silence under the starry sky, and Verso stopped thinking.

Gustave was there, right beneath him, beautiful and desirable, with his eyes rolled up and very, very loud. His hand confidently, though nervously, stroked and squeezed both cocks, barely fitting into his fist. Verso moved mindlessly towards the rough fingers, pressed between their bellies and the hot, throbbing flesh sliding so sweetly along his own.

He imagined that instead of a pile of clothes, they were lying on the piano and Gustave was cumming beneath him, beating the sounds out of the keys with his heels, and that was enough. Verso howled and bit his own wrist, pressing himself against Gustave with his whole body and pouring out between their bodies. When he opened his eyes and saw the glistening, arousal-clouded hazel eyes again, Gustave was already shuddering beneath him, and his loud moan made everything inside Verso warm.

Yes, he did it, Verso thought lazily, rolling off Gustave and pulling him up onto his own chest. He'd finally had sex with the most beautiful and intelligent man in the whole world, and he'd cum under him so hard that everyone within a kilometre around could hear.

“Verso?” He heard Gustave's husky voice and turned to him. He was licking his lips and breathing heavily. “That was amazing. You're amazing. Let's do it again.”

With a man who'd finally stopped hinting and started talking directly.

Chapter Text

Renoir was not afraid of marriage. He had already been married once, and even though he and Aline eventually fell out of love for each other, he had no fear of binding himself to his love in front of the eyes of God and people. Especially since his future husband was incredibly beautiful, clever and extremely inventive in bed. 

Renoir was not afraid of death either. He'd been running his organisation for over twenty years and in that time so many people tried to assassinate him so many times that he'd lost count of failed attempts. If he worried about each one, he would not be in a comfortable bed right now, but dead from exhaustion in a coffin.

So when in the middle of the night, someone in black and tight clothes opened the window from outside and climbed into the room, Renoir didn't panic. He simply pulled out the gun from under the bed and pointed it in the direction of the nocturnal visitor. The red dot from the laser sight stopped exactly in the middle of the broad chest.

“Ren, it's me,” the guest said with irritation with Alan's voice, and Renoir lowered the gun.

“We are not supposed to see each other before the wedding,” he explained calmly, leaning back against the pillows.

“And we won't.”  Alan snorted and threw something thick and silky against Renoir's chest. He lifted the object and realised it was a blindfold. “I want you, Ren. I want to fuck you one last time as a free man.”

Renoir would be a terrible husband if he refused his fiancé. Frankly, he could never refuse him at all.

“Won't you be able to see my face?” He asked, putting on the blindfold and tightening the bands so that he couldn't see anything. The rustle and sound of something soft falling to the floor implied that Alan was hurriedly getting rid of his clothes, and the bed sagging under heavy weight indicated that he was approaching, slowly and inevitably.

His cock, half-erected from the anticipation of tomorrow, fully hardened.

“Dearest.” A strong hand came down on his stomach. Renoir covered it with his palm and felt the fine, small scars with his fingers. “The upper part of your face is blindfolded and the lower part is hidden by that awesome beard. And it’s dark. I think I'll be fine.”

Alan lowered himself onto Renoir’s cock in one smooth motion, and the elder man gasped. His fiancé had prepared and stretched himself before sneaking into the room, and Renoir could appreciate his efforts. He placed his hands on Alan's thighs and squeezed them with force, feeling the muscles and smooth, clean-shaven skin.

“I didn't think you'd get into the wedding spirit so much,” Renoir commented, exploring his lover by touch. The tight blindfold made it impossible to appreciate the beauty and harmony of Alan's body, but he wasn't complaining. His future husband rose and lowered himself onto his cock, and Renoir thrust up to meet him with a quiet growl. 

Alan's body, hard and hot, smelling of Renoir's heavy cologne and sweat, pressed pleasantly on top and embraced tightly from inside. His large hands rested on Renoir's chest and lightly scratched the sensitive skin near his nipples.

“You know…” Alan said in a hoarse and husky voice as he continued to move painfully slowly, “I've got a surprise for you. You're going to love it. Traditional values…” he lowered himself to his limit and moved around, getting comfortable. “... and all that.”

“Charming.”

Renoir clasped Alan's sides and thrust hips upwards, pulling him onto his cock. The sensual sob that followed sounded like a reward.

Renoir didn't need to see his lover's body to know where and how to touch it. The darkness beneath the blindfold made the sounds and sensations sharper — Alan clutched his shoulder with trembling fingers, moaning and sobbing softly, the hot tightness of his hole sliding over Renoir's cock with such rightness and he himself was impossibly hot and everywhere... and Renoir finished sooner than he expected, surrendering to the pressure of the young strong body and overstimulation. He moaned softly as he pressed himself into Alan and filled him deep and fully.

God, Renoir didn't know he could cum so hard.

Alan moved above him, dropped his forehead into his shoulder and with a couple of thrusts pushed himself to the limit. His semen splattered on Renoir's stomach and chest before Alan collapsed and sprawled on top of him, completely unconcerned by the mess between their bodies.

“What now?” Renoir asked hoarsely as soon as he regained his breath. He obediently kept his blindfold on until Alan gave him permission. 

“How about to the hell with tradition? I'll stay with you for the night and leave in the morning the same way I came.”

Alan groaned and rose off his cock. Renoir could feel the hot and sticky liquid dripping out of him. 

“You haven’t thought about how you leave, haven’t you?” He grinned, and the mattress beside him sagged under Alan's weight.

The answer was silence. Renoir pulled the blindfold off his eyes and looked at his fiancé. He was lying on his back, his dishevelled hair hiding his face and half-open lips, his thighs bruised from Renoir’s fingers.

My love. Mon loup. 

Oh, Renoir couldn't wait for married life to begin.