Black Mustard: Justice

by Dallas Coleman

  “We do this and do this -- nobody fucking respects us, how hard we work, how we’re trying to make things fair and decent and good in the world. Assholes are making a fortune being assholes and you and me? Shit.” He wasn’t starving -- hell, if he was honest, he wasn’t even close to hurting -- but it wasn’t fair, damn it.

  Loic shot his drink, hand still right there.

  “She wasn’t perfect, cher, I know this, but she was my friend.” Somehow or the other, they all became his friends. He leaned down, put his head in his hands, let himself wallow in it a minute.

  They were off work hours, weren’t they?

  Shit yes.

  Off work and mourning and drinking.

  ***

  Loic watched and listened, the rambles a familiar song, something he had in his bones, now.

  Justice rang in him, balls deep.

  He hummed and let Justice rant and reminisce while he luxuriated in the feel of that rock-hard thigh against his palm. The way the muscles jumped and jerked made him a little stupid, really, a little dry-mouthed.

  A lot hard.

  His thumb was on the seam of Justice’s jeans, rubbing in the slowest line, touching and feeling all at once. This close Justice smelled like Ivory soap and tobacco, whiskey and leather.

  He licked his lips, swallowed his moan and the need to lean down and rest his head in Justice’s lap, inhale deep, suck in Justice-flavored air, all in the same motion.

  One of Justice’s fingers -- ink stained and square -- traced the line of his cheek. “Shit, you’re fine, cher. You should drink whiskey more often.”

  He knew he blushed; he could feel his skin heat. Still, he shrugged, unable to not lean a little, move toward that touch. “Justice.”

  Justice nodded. “Yeah, cher?”

  That sweet hand moved again, touching him so right. Oh, please. He whispered the word, but what came out was “justice” again.

  Somehow, it was okay, though, because Justice’s finger moved to outline his lips and he opened up for it, wrapped around it.

  Sucked.

  Oh, fuck, Justice tasted so fucking good. And the moans. The deep, bourbon-soaked hunger sounds filled the air, and he’d done it, him.

  Broken and fucked up and still.

  Justice wanted him.

  “Cher.” Justice’s eyes liked to burn the place down, the stare like a flame licking between them.

  He nodded, and the motion slipped more of Justice’s finger into his lips, let him suck just that much better.

  “Been wanting. Been wanting to touch.”

  Well, he was right here. Available, even, and hard as a rock. He let Justice’s finger pull free with an audible pop, then spread his arms. “Justice.”

  Seriously.

  “Cher... You sure?”

  He’d never been so sure of anything in his entire fucking life. Still, it looked like Justice wasn’t going to get the clue until Loic climbed up into the man’s lap, let his mouth drop down, kissing Justice like it was a condemned man’s last wish.

  Oh. Better.

  ***

  Justice groaned and his high ball glass hit the balcony, rolling off and clattering against the window boxes.

  He couldn’t.

  This wasn’t.

  Bon Dieu!

  He wrapped his arms around Loic’s lean body and dragged the man closer. Loic’s tongue wasn’t stupid, no, not stupid at all. It danced in his mouth, pushing his lips open, touching his teeth. Justice’s eyes rolled and, even though he hadn’t had enough to drink to be dizzy, the entire world spun about, leaving him breathless and gasping, gripping Loic’s arms like a drowning man.

  Loic backed off, winked at him. “Justice.”

  “Oui. Need you, yeah? More.” Loic nodded at him, smiled, and Justice’s heart skipped a beat. “Cher. Cher, please.”

  He reached out, fingers molding around Loic’s cock, measuring it through the thin slacks. Oh, fine. Long and lean, like the man it belonged to, that sweet prick bobbed like it needed him as bad as he wanted it.

  His thick fingers were clumsy as all fuck as he tried to work buttons open, zippers down, and Loic pressed closer, hiding from the crowds down on the street -- silly, normal folks going to supper, to drink, to dance, all missing the wonder, the miracle he had in his damn hand.

  “Ain’t gon’ share, cher.” The little word play made him chuckle, made Loic hoot.

  It was a fine thing, when he freed Loic’s cock, exposing the long shaft to the night air. His fingers wrapped right around and he let himself stroke, base to tip, moving easily. Loic grunted, teeth sinking into that full bottom lip, hips rocking not at all carefully. The scent was perfect -- bayou and soup, whiskey and hunger. Justice’s mouth watered.

  He leaned back, drawing them deeper into the growing shadows in the lee of the house, the nearly faded sunlight held at bay by the rainbow flags waving in the breeze.

  Storm was coming, praise God.

  A wild one and he was celebrating it, right here with his Loic. He used his thumb on the tip, pressing in the barest bit, hunting a sting. He knew he found it when Loic jerked, bucked up, and his name rang out, like the best kind of curse.

  “Oui. Oui, cher. Just like that.” He moaned, watched every second. “Just like that. Need to see.”

  Then he’d take Loic in and see the rest -- top to bottom -- and let Loic see him.

  Loic nodded, hips moving faster, butt bouncing on his lap, cock driving in his fingers like his cher had the need riding him, a dark vacher on a wild horse. He kept his fingers tight, kept finding those things that made Loic want.

  The wet drops of pre-come slicked the way, eased it enough that he could squeeze harder, swipe his thumb just that much faster. Loic’s fingers pressed into his skin, making bruising promises that the man better damn well keep.

  “Come on, cher. Come for me. Need.”

  Pearl-white heat spurted up over his fingers, onto his wrist, a line of wet heat.

  Loic shook for a minute, trembling above him, before he tugged good and hard, bringing them together, the weight making the old chair creak and complain.

  “Lord, cher. You. Me.”

  Loic snorted, eyes rolling. “Justice.”

  “Yeah.” He pressed Loic’s hand to his fly, to where he ached. “There ought to be.”

  Loic’s wild, hungry smile was about fine.

  Just almost good enough to eat.

  ***

  Loic grabbed Justice’s shirtfront with one hand, grabbed his open and falling slacks with the other. They didn’t need the booze or his notepad where they were headed.

  Justice’s seams creaked, but the man stood, followed him the few short steps into the living room with the big, overstuffed leather couch, the soft, soft green blanket draped over it. He shoved hard, sending Justice down while he kicked his pants off and locked the balcony door. Justice’s hands weren’t being stupid, he was glad to see, tearing at buttons and zippers, baring that hard, solid belly, the thickest, fattest cock he’d ever seen.

  He stepped forward, eyes on that hard, dark prick, the tip swollen and wet for him. Oh, Jesus. Why on earth had he ever waited for that? That was a piece of work. Loic knelt between Justice’s sprawled legs, shoved the man wider so he had all the access he needed.

  “Cher... Damn, Loic.”

  He would have shushed Justice, told the silly bastard to lean back and let him work, but words weren’t his friends anymore, so he planted one hand in the middle of the man’s fuzzy, broad chest and shoved. Stay.

  Stay right there and let him play.

  Justice -- brilliant fucking man -- got the hint and stayed, abs rippling, breath huffing out of him. Loic moaned and leaned down, let his cheek slide up along the shaft, knowing the hint of stubble would rasp so good, would make Justice feel him. The grunt he got m
ade him smile and do it again, fingers slipping down to roll those velvet soft balls.

  “Jesus, cher. Don’ stop, eh?”

  No. No, he didn’t think he would, not any time soon.

  His lips wrapped around the tip of Justice’s cock, tongue tracing the ridge at the head, following every bump, every inch of heated flesh, all the way around to the beginning of that leaking slit. Salty and bitter, the flavor was just he wanted, and he licked the whole way, flicking with the tip of his tongue.

  The sac in his hand tightened, wrinkling up, echoing the hunger he heard in Justice’s low cry.

  Oui. Oui. Yes, Justice. So good.

  One heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and he let it stay there, but he didn’t take Justice in all the way yet. No, Sir. He wanted to explore.

  He played at the tip -- slapping and lapping, licking and pushing in a little with his tongue -- making sure to repeat the touches that made those rough sounds push out of Justice’s chest, made more of those needy drops slip onto his tongue and tease his taste buds.

  “Cher. Close, eh? Gon’.”

  No. Not yet.

  He tugged Justice’s balls gently, stretching the sac out enough to drag Justice away from the edge of coming.

  He wanted to know every single inch of the man’s cock.

  When Justice relaxed back again, Loic started his explorations again, this time beginning at the base, tongue testing the wrinkled skin where sac met shaft, then up to where the heavy mass of bright gold curls hid soft-soft flesh.

  He nibbled the line that the heavy vein made right under the skin of Justice’s shaft, smiling at the moans he got, at the way Justice’s ass creaked on the leather, bare butt catching. That was it; he wanted Justice’s need, that hunger that fed all of them when there simply wasn’t any hope left.

  That fire that would blaze again, let Justice take the next hard case, try to save the next lost soul.

  Like him.

  The thought shook him, and he pushed up, took one more hard, desperate kiss, eyes staring into bright blue. “Justice.”

  “Oui. Cher. You got it. Me. As much as you want.”

  From another man, the words would be meaningless, but this was his Justice, his north star. Justice didn’t lie, even when it won cases.

  “Justice.”

  That was the best yes he could give before he swooped down, Justice’s cock stretching the corners of his lips, tip nudging the back of his throat.

  “Loic!” His name was as much of a yes as Justice’s had been, and Justice’s body repeated it, bucking up, pushing deeper. This time he didn’t even try to stop Justice’s need; he simply held on and rode, sucking for all he was worth.

  “J’t’aime. Loic. Please.”

  Love.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  He pulled harder, hands wrapped around Justice’s hips to drag Justice in deeper, so he could feel every inch. Every ounce of need.

  Those square hands landed on his head, body curling around him as Justice convulsed, hips punching into his lips. The scent of sweat and whiskey, need and Ivory soap and the barest promise of hot sauce hit him again in a rush, and he swallowed, pulling out the first of what seemed like an endless series of splashes against his tongue.

  Justice.

  This was what Justice tasted like.

  The fingers on his head gentled, Justice taking a sobbing breath as Loic’s hair was smoothed, stroked. “I. Damn, cher.”

  He slowly let the fading cock slip free from his lips, kissing the tip on the way.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He chuckled, shook his head. No. No, it wasn’t his first time. Just the first time in a long while.

  “Good.” Justice lifted his chin, leaned over, and kissed him, long and slow, lazy. Not like the man was in any hurry at all. “Stay? Eat. Sleep. Do it again. Stay.”

  He nodded. Yeah. Yeah, he could do that.

  “Good.”

  ***

  Justice woke up with a sweaty octopus wrapped around him, and he had about a half second of panic before he realized that two arms, two legs, a nice long penis, and a tongue only counted as six and he was two appendages away from being dragged into the deep.

  Man, he needed a cup of coffee and an Advil.

  He kissed Loic’s forehead, then slipped out of bed to start the Mr. Coffee before stumbling to the bathroom. By the time he got back out, Loic was there, doing the pee-pee dance. “I’ll pour coffee. Have at. There’s no spare toothbrush, sorry.”

  He wasn’t the one-night type, as a rule.

  Hell, he still wasn’t one right now. He’d go get Loic one from the CVS later today.

  He poured two coffees -- one white, one sickly sweet -- and grabbed two leftover beignets from the box and the bottle of Advil. There were four left, thank God.

  He took two dry, sat on the sofa, and turned on the morning news. Blah blah blah weather blah blah blah arson blah blah economy sucked blah blah fucking gay people trying to get married blah blah blah. Depressing.

  Loic stood in front of the television, stark assed naked, lean legs spread, eyebrow arched. Oh, better.

  “Mornin’, cher.” He held up Loic’s coffee.

  “Justice.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned, refusing to give up the coffee when Loic grabbed it, and tugged the man closer. “Come kiss me.”

  He’d deal with morning breath.

  Loic straddled his thighs, spreading like butter as their lips met. The kiss was sweet and slow and unafraid. Settled.

  He let go of the coffee cup, draped his arm over Loic’s shoulders. Their bellies met, leaned together, and he sighed into the kiss, his headache easing off just like that. Loic smiled for him, grinned against his lips.

  “Yeah.” He grinned back. “There’s beignets.”

  “Mmm.” That was a good sound. Almost as good as the sound Loic made when they rubbed together again.

  “Like how you wake up, cher.” He liked a lot about how ‘up’ Loic was. Loic’s answer was another kiss, and one more, proving that Loic was right there with him.

  He’d started rubbing, started moving, when his phone started ringing. He didn’t even have to look. He knew who it was. There were arrangements to be made, media to contact, Modette’s story to tell. Hell, they probably had another court date Monday and...

  Loic tapped the tip of his cock, hard, and he jerked, blinked. “Hey!”

  Loic stared at him, one eyebrow lifted.

  “What?”

  That tap came again, then Loic sighed, kissed his nose, and leaned over and grabbed his phone, handing it over with a half-smile. He had the good sense to be a little ashamed. “It’s not that I don’t want to, I just...”

  Loic snorted, grabbed his phone and started typing. “Shut up, asshole. I know.”

  “We need to make sure Modette’s taken care of.”

  “I know. We will.” Loic met his gaze, serious, right there for a long minute, then the fingers started flying again. “But I need to make sure Justice’s taken care of.”

  Oh.

  Oh, damn.

  He groaned, his heart doing this weird little pitty-pat thing that made him more than a little breathless.

  Loic nodded, then kissed him again, hand on his belly, easing him back, putting the phone down on the coffee table, closed. Quiet. That was right.

  It was Saturday. He didn’t have to do everything right now.

  He didn’t have to save anyone but them.

  ***

  Sunday was spent meeting with Modette’s family, making the beginning of what had to be a million funeral arrangements, and dealing with Sheila, the warden at the prison -- who, Loic was surprised to discover, was a gentle, dear, generous woman with a soft voice and a will of iron.

  Justice had taken the family to sort throu
gh Modette’s effects and he was in the office, checking over paperwork. Sheila smiled over at him, her eyes dark in her cafe au lait skin. “Can I help?”

  He shook his head, rolled his eyes playfully. Paperwork was the bane of any lawyer’s existence.

  “Thank y’all, for all you’re doing for Miss Modette. She was a special lady.”

  Loic nodded. She had been. It was a blessing, that the Good Lord had taken her before the government could make the decision to do so.

  He blinked at himself. He sounded like Justice inside his own head. Figured, didn’t it? That the man was sunk deep into his skin.

  It wasn’t like the man hadn’t been sunk into him ten ways from Sunday all day yesterday. Justice needed a warning label that read, “Stocky, but full of stamina. Use lube.”

  Sheila’s voice broke into his thoughts, which was probably good, given that the office at a maximum security prison wasn’t the place to spring a woody. “Is it true, that you lost your voice in court?”

  He shook his head, grabbed his iPad. “No. Before court. They call it Broca’s aphasia. It’s absolutely insane.”

  “Broca’s aphasia? Did you hit your head?”

  He shook his head again. “No one knows -- there were a series of unfortunate events that day.”

  “Unfortunate events?”

  Justice’s wry laugh filled the room. “Y’all talking about Modette?”

  Focused bastard.

  Sheila snorted. “Nope. His voice.”

  “Ah. It was hoodoo.”

  He looked over at Justice, tongue like led in his mouth. “Justice?”

  Justice grinned at him, looking like a huge kid, a big dork. “What? It’s true. Eloi La Bauve’s granny hexed your skinny butt. Got the Roubichoux’s too. It was amazing, well, barring the whole it didn’t get better thing.”

  He stared. “Are you insane?” he typed.

  Justice shrugged. “You got a better answer?”

  Sheila chuckled. “La Bauve, eh? They come from a line of folks?”

  Justice nodded. “Granny’s got chickens in her backyard and everything.”

  “Hoodoo isn’t real,” he typed.

  “Sure it is.” Justice grinned at him. “Doctors don’t have a better answer, do they?”