an endless becoming

Whatever second thoughts Francis had been nursing fizzle out like starved candles. He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, too preoccupied by Gilbert’s mouth to explain that the door led to a linen closet he had idly noted one game night, unaware to what absurd end that knowledge would go.

Between the alcohol and Francis’ cane and Gilbert’s unwillingness to be parted for more than a moment it’s a somewhat clumsy trip down the hallway, stumbling past a blessedly empty parlour before they reach their destination. Francis fumbles blindly with the handle of the closet; lets Gilbert push him inside like he’d handled him out in the hedge maze, mustering only a low growl at the audacity as his back hits the shelves.

“Sorry,” says Gilbert, and “Fuck,” as he falls upon Francis again, the door closed hurriedly behind him.

In the dark he’s even more brazen. His hands are in Francis’ hair, roaming over his shoulders, unbuttoning his coat to reach more of him. “Gorgeous,” he pants between kisses. “You look gorgeous tonight. Wanted you so bad. Had to walk away.”

He may as well be speaking a foreign language with how little sense that makes to Francis’ ears. But then again— none of this made any sense. Not Gilbert’s tongue in his mouth, not their chests pressed together, not the clatter of his cane as he discards it carelessly, all the better to return the younger knight’s urgent touches. Gilbert’s outfits were always daringly tailored to show off his figure. How strange it was to feel firsthand the dip of his waist, his well-muscled shoulders, the lean thigh pushed between Francis’ legs, where he was growing undeniably hard by now.

He wasn’t the only one to notice. “Let me help you with that,” says Gilbert, smile flashing white in the darkness, and leans away for long enough to drag one glove off with his teeth.

Francis watches, dazed, as Gilbert makes short work of his buttoned breeches; drops his head back against the folded linens with an undignified sound as the knight licks his bare palm and promptly takes Francis in hand. There’s burning lips at his throat a moment later, Gilbert taking advantage of the new angle to suck a mark beneath his jaw — all the while stroking Francis with a care that belied the hunger of his mouth.

Good. It felt— good. Incredible. Francis had watched Gilbert’s capable hands at work in the training yard for years. Never had he imagined they would touch him like this; hard-won callouses deliciously rough against his prick, long fingers working him eagerly, just as confident here as they were with a blade.

He’d turned his face away to avoid any chance of meeting Gilbert’s eye, but he can feel the knight’s hot breath against his cheek, the brush of hair against his ear. "Gods, the size of you,” Gilbert murmurs. “I knew it."

The part of Francis that ought to be appalled had temporarily taken its leave; how else could he explain the wave of lust that passes through him? The question escapes before he can stop himself. “You've thought of me?"

A ragged laugh. "Oh, Ser Francis, you have no idea.”

Francis tries to ignore the way pleasure twists inside of him, to no avail. His face was flaming. He felt feverishly unwell. "You think of everyone," he rasps.

"I don't," says Gilbert. “Think whatever you like, but I don’t.”

The retort he’s trying to formulate slips abruptly out of his grasp as Gilbert sinks to his knees. “Seven Sisters,” Francis says faintly, staring at the top of Gilbert’s head. “You are—”

“Overeager? Dying to put my mouth on your cock? Guilty as charged.”

Francis’ lips part in disbelief — and part even further when Gilbert leans in to do exactly what he’d said, the sudden wet heat of his tongue along the underside of Francis’ prick dragging a guttural sound from him. He grips the shelves behind him for support. He blinks up at the ceiling, dizzy from alcohol and arousal.

If he’d thought Gilbert’s hand felt good, it’s nothing to his mouth; the same damned mouth that had given him such grief for fifteen years, all snide comments and insouciant smiles, now set to a task it seemed more than familiar with. Every bob of Gilbert’s head, every twist of his hand, every curl of his tongue tightened the knot of want in Francis’ stomach, till he was all but panting from it. It was so warm in the closet he could scarcely breathe. He loosens his necktie and strips off his gloves without conscious thought. He doesn’t mean to drop a hand to Gilbert’s head, either, but it ends up there anyway; fingers wound into the knight’s burnished curls, soft as silk beneath his palm.

Years since someone had touched him like this. Decades since it was another man. Francis felt unmoored, partially unreal, like this was happening to another version of himself — because it surely couldn’t be the true Ser Francis who had snuck away from a party with Gilbert Greenwilde, who now stood over him in the darkness, entirely undone by his eager mouth. How could this happen? How had he allowed it? How could he feel so crazed?

He’s wound unbearably tight in what feels like no time at all. Francis unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Gilbert,” he says hoarsely. “Gilbert.”

He risks a glance downwards; finds Gilbert looking up at him through his lashes, the head of Francis’ cock resting on his tongue, his face flushed and his expression bleary with pleasure. 

Utterly obscene. Enough to have Francis covering his eyes with one hand, so violently desirous he couldn’t speak.

“Come here,” he grits out at last. “Up here.”

He helps drag Gilbert to his feet; feels the erection pressed hard against his stomach as they kiss, filthy and graceless, and is possessed by the image of Gilbert touching himself while he pleasured Francis. “I’m close,” Gilbert says huskily, as if to confirm it. “Gods, Francis, let me—”

He drops a hand between them, and Francis exhales sharply as his aching prick is suddenly rubbing against Gilbert’s, circled by the younger knight’s fist as he strokes them as one. “Queen’s fucking favour,” Gilbert breathes— and he’s kissing his neck like a lover would, words pressed to Francis’ burning skin— “You’re unbelievable. You drive me crazy. I’d let you do anything, anything—”

There’s blood roaring in Francis’ ears. He grabs Gilbert’s chin and kisses him to shut him up. Gilbert groans into his mouth, fist working relentlessly, the most delicious friction Francis has ever felt.

He gasps when he comes, body taut and head tipped forward onto Gilbert’s shoulder. For a few moments he’s aware of nothing except the breaking dam of his pleasure, the heat of his release and the rough hand stroking him through it. He was falling through fire. The relief was blinding. Had it felt like this the last time he’d lain with someone? Had he been so ruined then?

It’s only after the fog has parted around his hazy thoughts that he becomes aware of Gilbert gripping the back of his neck, laboured breaths puffing against his cheek. His fist was still moving over himself, knuckles brushing Francis’ softening cock.

He reaches down without thinking. Gilbert makes a reedy sound as Francis’ hand displaces his own, wrapping clumsy fingers around the rigid, silky length of him. “Oh, fuck,” he moans. “Francis—”

It only takes a few pulls. Gilbert curls into him with a low sound of relief, and for a moment Francis’ drunken brain considers slipping an arm around his back to hold him close as he shudders; imagines dragging Gilbert’s chin up again to lick into his lax mouth, tasting every muffled noise.

The moment passes, and several more after that. Gilbert straightens, sighing. Francis withdraws his hand. His leg was aching, displeased with the pressure he’d put on it while weathering Gilbert’s attentions. It was easier to focus on that familiar pain than the creeping realisation of what he’d just done, panic rising like a wave to replace the fever of desire.

Gilbert wordlessly offers him a handkerchief. His hair was in complete disarray, his mouth bruised red and his exposed collarbones gleaming with sweat. Francis quickly averts his eyes. He clears his throat— shakes his head— draws his own handkerchief from his waistcoat.

By the time he’s finished numbly cleaning himself up Gilbert has neatened his own clothes and retrieved Francis’ cane for him. “Well,” he says, as casual as ever. “I thoroughly enjoyed that. We should do it again some time.”

“I—” Francis says stiffly. “That wasn’t—”

The Knight Captain tips his head back with a huff of almost-laughter. “Don’t strain yourself, Ser Francis,” he says blithely. “We don’t have to talk.”

If Francis thought about it for more than a moment he might decide that was a level of nonchalance that didn’t entirely match everything Gilbert had said in the minutes beforehand — but Francis wasn’t thinking about it. His thoughts had turned back to the fact that they were standing in a linen closet in Lady Phillipa’s house, and there was a party ongoing outside, and he could not under any circumstances return to it now.

“I— must go,” he mutters, and reaches past Gilbert to open the door.

The slightest touch to his shoulder arrests his movement as surely as a physical blow. Francis tenses— but it’s only Gilbert gently adjusting his collar, warm fingers brushing against the now-tender skin of his throat; probably to cover some mark he’d left there with his teeth, though there’s no teasing gleam in his expression. In fact— his lips are pursed, his eyes uncharacteristically pensive.