No Apologies

Greed/Envy. NC-17. 600 words.
Either his name was made for him or he was made for his name.

Envy always manages to make him feel like a clod.

His manners are more than fine enough to serve in the usual company he keeps, the jaded whores who watch him warily, not trusting his easy smile or the way their hearts flutter, the thieves who think him educated when he’s simply good with bullshit.

Here, in the frontroom with its wide windows, the light, airy desserts and delicate china, he aches for the dark, rich weight of Envy’s hair tangled between his fingers. He wants the heavy scent of sex, the taint of blood, not the tea laced with foreign oils that make his nose itch.

“Ladies,” he says, rising to his feet. Envy shoots him a warning look, one that he easily ignores. “You’ll have to accept our apologies. My brother and I have a previous engagement.”

The girls–both beautiful, even with the rosy glow of youth bleached from their cheeks with deadly arsenic–exchange looks of their own, their disappointment clear. He can’t remember their names, the careful formula for the dismissal of guests lost as one draws a deep breath, forces her breasts to swell over the top of her bodice, and tries to tempt them with words to stay.

Envy takes over, salvaging the afternoon with a promise of tomorrow. He whisks them away with an ease he rarely bothers to display. The show is over when he returns, all pretence dropped, his face–as beautiful and delicate as the girls’–twisted with a more familiar rage.

“What the fuck are you trying to do?” he snaps, stalking close to shove his face into Greed’s.

Greed grabs his arms, jerks him forward so there’s nothing but the feeling of Envy’s lithe body tight against his own, and kisses him. Envy fights it like he fights everything he really wants, but that’s familiar, too, right: the taste of Envy on his tongue, the muted, teasing hint of red stone just under the surface of Envy’s smooth white skin, slender arms round his neck and slim fingers combing through his hair.

“I’ve had enough of them,” Greed says, fitting his hands on the perfect curve of Envy’s ass. He knows he shouldn’t say anything else, shouldn’t give Envy the satisfaction, but either his name was made for him or he was made for his name and he can’t help himself. “You never came to me last night. I couldn’t find you,” he says between wet kisses, feeding Envy the words. “I want to fuck you.”

Envy lifts himself into Greed’s arms, legs tight around Greed’s waist. Envy is the thing that preachers condemn, the thing that mothers teach their daughters and fathers teach their sons to fear. Envy is every scrap of sin and vice and evil packed into a wide, smiling mouth whispering filthy promises, Greed’s own devil made into the sweet flesh clamped tight around his cock, the clutching heat turned slick with spit and sweat and come.

The expensive cushions are ruined, a few of the cups broken. Envy sprawls half-naked on Greed’s chest, his clothes ripped and his hair spilling over the soft rug, their legs twined together. Greed’s fingers trace the curve of his spine over and over again, giving him reason to stay where he is and enjoy the light caress.

“You know this doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Envy says, and kisses the angry bitemark on Greed’s neck before it can fade.

Greed laughs, untangling his other hand to brace Envy as he rolls over again. Envy will never forgive him, because he’ll never apologise.


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