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demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ฃ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐
๐๐ง ๐ฃ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฃ๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐๐ข ๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐ฬ๐ฌ ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ๐ข
๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐ข๐ก, ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐ฬ๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐ก๐๐
no subject
I would dream of you anyway.
[ And he did, often, more often than he could understand when he'd only known the man for a few short hours. How had Verso managed to slip so thoroughly under his skin, to take up residence so easily in his head? He'd dreamed of nights very much like this one, of waking up to find Verso asleep beside him in his bed. He'd like to see that, he thinks: Verso, laid out and quiet and relaxed, vulnerable in his sleep, breathing easy with the sheets muddled somewhere down around his hips.
But back to the danger: he really should have expected it, Verso turning the question around on him. And it's certainly not that he hasn't indulged in fantasies of his own โ or even this specific fantasy, one that took root in wanting revenge for Verso leaving, for Verso being the one to pin him against that trellis and taking him apart with such efficiency โ but the thought of speaking it aloud is like staring over a massive ravine with no visible grapple point on the other side.
Easier to play along with the picture Verso had been painting, letting it carry him away, a fantasy that really had next to no basis in reality because reality would see him turning beet red and embarrassed; far from the seductive ideal.
And he's embarrassed now, too, cheeks flushing more warmly now than when he offered those flowers, his glance shifting away, abashed. ]
Wellโ Iโ
[ What a time for all his words to pile up and die on his tongue, sentences he's not even sure he can half start, let alone finish. Whatever Verso says about liking it when he gets that way, confused and tongue-tied, he's sure it doesn't apply to moments like these. ]
I'm not... very good at this, Verso.
no subject
He stays close, kissing gently at the corner of Gustave's cheek, and he feels the warmth in his cheeks before he sees it, notices how he glances away. The corner of his mouth quirks up -- he's nervous. Nervous, embarrassed, unsure what to say when asked to tell him just what he'd do after he has his Monsieur le pianiste trapped against a door.
He can hear how anxious he when the words continue, like he's not just unsure but genuinely anticipating Verso being somehow unhappy or unsatisfied with this. And Verso laughs, the sound soft and breathless against his cheek but not at all mocking, one hand lifting to card through his hair, gentle, comforting, neatly avoiding that yellow flower still tucked behind his ear. The kiss he presses to his mouth is sweet and kind -- and still tinged with heat, by the way his teeth catches at his lower lip, by the quiet growl in his chest. ]
Okay.
[ Just a simple acceptance: He's not good at this. That's fine. That doesn't bother him, and if the look in his eyes is any indicator when he leans back a bit to look at him -- he might even like it. Still turned on, still on the edge of so much want it feels almost desperate, but smiling, too. Amused. Fond. Something deeply aching shining through his gaze. He's had countless fantasies about this man over the years, and is perfectly aware that not all of them are grounded in reality -- but when he's so earnest, so sweet, so willing to open himself up to him, Verso may have already assumed that he might need to be the one to lead him into certain pastures. ]
-- You're really cute, like this. [ His voice rumbling so much it might as well be a purr, eyes lidded as his hands move up between them, taking this chance to work at Gustave's jacket and scarf, working to push them off of his shoulders completely. Yes, Verso had said he likes when he gets tongue-tied, and yes, Verso had meant it. Even here, even now, that wanting look in his gaze is evident, not just unaffected by his blunder but clearly charmed by it. ] We can always work on it, if you want.
[ Practice makes perfect -- but only if Gustave actually wants to. If he thinks he isn't good at it, would rather not, either, due to discomfort or otherwise -- Verso won't push it, not now, not later. Another sweeter kiss, soft and pressed to his cheek, just to reassure him of the truth of that -- and then already his lips are drifting back towards his ear. A low, rumbling murmur. ]
But, right now. [ A smirk. ] Do you want to keep hearing me?
no subject
Which is happening a lot, and he really does need to get himself under control when it comes to Verso. There's so much he needs to know, so much they need to talk about, he shouldn't be indulging himself like this, lifting his own hands to help Verso remove his scarf and jacket and setting them aside near his pack. Even with the promise of tomorrow, again, he shouldn't be wasting time.
But how heartbreaking to have to think of this, of losing himself in Verso and sinking into him the way he would into a warm bath, of grasping a little happiness for himself amid a world of horrors and exhaustion and the promise of death in less than a year, as wasting time. In a just world, a fair world, they could spend as much time as they like learning each other, teasing, playing, losing themselves in kisses and touches. He would be able to ask Verso questions just to get to know this beautiful man who has so thoroughly stolen his heart away, not because Verso has intelligence his team needs to survive. He hates it almost as much as he craves Verso's touch, his heated words, his lips against his skin.
He huffs a helpless, breathless laugh, sliding his hand up into Verso's hair and dragging him close, left arm tight around him. ]
This really isn't the kind of information I should be asking you for, you know.
[ And he is conscious of just how frustrated his team is likely to be if โ when? โ they find out that he's spent this time with a man who has lived since the Fracture and used it not to learn more, but simply to... be with him. The pressure is relentless; who is he to decide he can simply let go of it, even for a little while?
And still he can't let go of Verso, can't make himself push the man away. Every part of him is still yearning for more, as if he might wake up back in that bed in Lumiรจre, alone and aching for him. And he has to admit, because he knows Verso would hear the lie if he tried to say anything else: ]
But... yes. Yes, I want to hear you.
[ He does want to hear it, these impossible things falling off those lips. So far as he knows, nobody has ever thought about him like this before, wanted him like this before; why would they? He tried to be friendly and kind, a thoughtful colleague and a trusted friend, but none of that is precisely the stuff feverish fantasies involving mouths and hands and skin and shadowy corners are made of. ]
no subject
It's nice. It's good. It makes some quiet part of his heart sing, the same part of him that he'd forgotten was there until Gustave had somehow found it and dug it up with his own hands, carved a place in it just for him. He lets himself be dragged close, smiling against his mouth, peppering more kisses across his cheek and neck, that smile widening even more when Gustave tells him, yes.
These aren't the kinds of questions he should be asking. But for everything Gustave should do, has to do, its nice to just do something he wants to instead, and Verso is the same. So much of his life bent towards lies and deceptions and just one mission, so much of his own happiness sacrificed towards that end. Shouldn't he make some choices, sometimes? Just for himself?
Slowly, Verso shifts against him, a hand against his shoulder, pushing him down to lay him out across the soft grass. This is definitely nicer than it had been the night before, and he even has enough time now to reach up and shrug his own jacket completely off his shoulders, gathering it up along with the sash Gustave has already pulled open and pool them behind Gustave's head. Not a bed, not fresh linen sheet that smell of both of them from a night's sleep shared together before, but -- close enough, for what they have, for what they can do. ]
-- I used to imagine playing at the opera house, again.
[ A real dream he's had, time and time again -- clearly not as heated as the other, at least not initially, and Verso has absolutely picked something like that on purpose. He leans down over him, pulling open what's left of his shirt and running his hands down over his chest as he kisses at his bruise-covered neck ]
As an actual pianist. To a crowded hall. I'd already have a bouquet on the piano -- a gift from mon Monsieur le fleuriste, before the show started. [ Mostly purple flowers, in his imagination, like the ones that Gustave had given him before. he sighs, gently urging Gustave's legs apart so he can settle himself between them, making it easier to press his body down against Gustave's, kissing down from his neck to the dip his throat. ] I'd look for your face in the crowd before I played. And after, during my bows.
And when everyone else is pouring outside -- You'd come look for me backstage.
no subject
Gustave sinks back, letting Verso coax him down into the soft grass. It almost smells like being back in that garden, the scent of green and growing things, but it's mixed now with wet rock and river water and the breeze through the trees around them instead of the floral, salt-spiked air of Lumiรจre. But it doesn't matter, because Verso is there, tucking his jacket and sash between Gustave's head in the grass so that every time he breathes in, he catches wisps of his scent, headier than any cologne.
He settles back, but not without letting his own hands roam along Verso's shirt, undoing button after button until it's open and loose and he can push it off the man's shoulders completely. This, too, is a fantasy of its own: he's only ever seen Verso undone and mussed, but never with his shoulders and arms and body totally bare. Gustave coaxes at it, wanting to see the blue light of the chromatic tree gleaming over his bared skin, to run his hands over his shoulders and arms with no cloth in the way.
And he listens as his hands work, playing out the images Verso's describing in his mind's eye. Verso, neatly dressed in a suit for a performance, a bouquet of fresh flowers already there waiting for him atop the piano. Himself there in the crowd, feeling like the two of them are the only ones in that packed theatre.
He tips his head back into the soft material of the jacket, shivering as Verso's lips brush over tender, sore skin at his throat, easily letting him settle there between his thighs. ]
I would feel as though you were playing only to me, mon Monsieur le pianiste.
[ Verso, there in the spotlight, sweeping away an entire crowd and collecting them easily in his hand. Gustave smiles at the thought; how proud he would be, how delighted, how much he would love seeing Verso get to perform the way he deserves.
And then... ]
Yes, I would.
[ That much of this dream he might easily have dreamed himself: slipping backstage, along the narrow corridors, his heart in his throat and still glowing with pride and the reflected light shining off Verso himself. ]
And where would I find you? Some small dressing room, maybe?
no subject
I would be playing just for you.
[ There is part of Verso that's always liked performing, showing off in front of a crowd, and while he did study at the Conservatory, had his fair share of performances -- he could never shake the anxiety that came with them. Music pulls more truth out of him than anything else does, like he can't help himself but play to his soul, and part of him hated that as much as he craved it.
But with Gustave in a crowd -- he knows he wouldn't care. He'd find his smiling face in the crowd in the dark, and he'd play for him, just for him, trying to pour everything into his fingers and the keys and every sweet note that he always sees in his eyes, matching that earnest vulnerability in the only way he knows how.
He really does need to play for him again. His fingers twitch where they're pressed over Gustave's body, hands roaming hungrily over his skin as he too pulls open the last of Gustave's shirt, pulling it off his shoulders and arms. He immediately leans down to from his shoulder and down, hands sliding up over Gustave's hands, his bare arms, feeling warm skin and cool metal under his touch both. He's beautiful, he's perfect, all lean and toned, moonlight and blue light catching at every line and curve of muscle. ]
Yes. A small room. I think you'd know it was mine. [ the opera house's backstage facilities are humble and functional, and Gustave would know which room he'd typically use when he performed because -- this wouldn't be the first time. Importantly, in this dream, this isnt the first show like this, nor is it the last. The most fantastical of all, this would be -- normal. Pattern. A habit. Something they fall into with each other, because of all the time they've had with each other and all the time they had in the future. A little shiver runs through his spine, he hates how indulgent even that fantasy has to be -- easier to focus on other things. ] You'd come in, excited and babbling. Telling me what you liked even if it was a performance you'd heard a dozen times before, telling me how much you know everyone liked it, about how someone you knew from work was in the crowd because you'd finally convinced them to come hear me play, and you know they didn't regret it.
[ Sweet, excitable, and just wanting to show off his Monsieur le pianiste. He smiles. ]
And I'd want to listen to you, but I'd also just --
[ Verso leans down, stretching himself out over him, a small pleased sound in his throat just from feeling them fit against each other, bare skin against bare skin with nothing in the way. One hand moves to twist into his own jacket tucked behind Gustave's head, bracing himself, the other carding through his hair, still careful to let that little yellow flower stay where it is as he kisses him, full and deeply. It's mostly sweet, at first, but it doesn't take long at all to gain an edge, to have more of that roiling hunger deep in his belly take over, drowning a wanting moan against his mouth and tongue as his fingers leave his hair and trace down over his body to start undoing the front of his trousers. ]
no subject
He's beginning to understand why Verso laid so many marks into his own skin, he thinks.
But he's swept along in the dream Verso's spinning for them both, helping Verso remove his own shirt and shivering a little as he lays back again in the grass, cool against his bare back. Verso reaches for him, running hands up over his arms, metal and flesh and bone both, and his hands lift as Verso's travel upwards, fingers curling around the backs of his arms, enraptured. Verso, playing only to him in a theatre full of people, just the way he had before. ]
I went back, you know. To see the performances there, after.
[ After. He doesn't want to interrupt the beautiful vision Verso's describing, but he can't help himself. And maybe Verso deserves to know that he wasn't the only one picking flowers and longing for something no longer within reach. ]
Week after week, I'd go and sit in the audience and pretend I was watching you. Everything else just... fading away while you played, just you and that piano again.
[ His hands roam over Verso's arms, lean and strong, down to twine momentarily with those skillful fingers before he lets go to allow Verso to reach back out for him.
This is a little embarrassing, but he doesn't care, every word sincere as he leans to press kisses to Verso's bare shoulder, working toward his collarbone. ]
Sometimes I'd convince myself so thoroughly that it was a shock to hear everyone else applauding when the show was over.
[ It hadn't been much, but it had been one of only a few ways he could feel like his monsieur le pianist was there, that he'd come back, that they were together. Silly, perhaps, for him to hold on so tightly for so long, but now...
But now it's real, all of it, and Verso blankets him with his body, kissing him sweet and deep and with rising heat, pulling a groan from his chest as Gustave's hands go to his back, his hips, coaxing him as close as he can get. ]
I think I would be coming back there hoping for kisses. And maybe a little more.
no subject
He still hates that he hurt him and left him so, but given how much time he's spent over all of these dreams of his own, it's -- nice, in an awful way. That they both felt this way, that Gustave really did never quite forget him. It's nice if only Verso stops himself from thinking too much about how he could've just stayed. Two years is a long time to be apart, not long enough to be together, but there's even less time, now.
He drowns that thought on another kiss, edged with a wordless apology, he's sorry, he's sorry he drove you to such yearning reveries. But now they're both here, and it's maybe a little sad that even being here is mixed up a little in both of them talking about missed what-could-have-beens, but it's what they have. The moment, and each other. He makes quiet little appreciative noises between his kisses, soft gasps and rumbles at Gustave's hands roaming all over his body -- the air is cool, pleasant enough, but the heat of his touches are all he wants. ]
-- And you'd get more.
[ So much more. He works open the front of Gustave's trousers, tugging them down a little just because he likes the way it looks when he can see just a bit more of his hips, his stomach. Trying to tease him, as his hand works down, but ultimately some of his own impatience takes over, callused fingers sliding over the length of him, slowly taking him into his palm. He kisses his way up his neck, voice low and soft against his ear. ]
All the times you've come to visit me there, with how effusive [ a small smile, there ] your praise would be, that room has probably seen so much of us.
You on your knees for me. Still holding flowers. Me seating you down in the chair, taking you in my mouth. [ His hand slowly starts to work over him, barely teasing, his thumb running over the head. ] I'd pick you up, put you on the dresser, pull your legs around me.
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He shifts, drawing one leg slowly up to set his foot in the grass and allow Verso more room, the hand at Verso's hip moving to the front of his own trousers to work the buttons free, to loosen them, as Verso sets him alight with images. The wooden floor of the opera house backstage under his knees, the scent of dust and flowers and sex and the weight and taste of Verso on his tongue, Verso's hands in his hair. His own fingers twining in Verso's dark waves as he looks down to watch the way Verso's head moves, focused and intent, between his own legs. Verso stripping him down in an unlocked backstage dressing room, knocking over a hatrack and making the vanity rattle with every movement. Verso under his mouth and tongue. Verso taking him apart with clever fingers and heated words. ]
Verso.
[ He's half caught in the fantasy, half here in this quiet clearing on the continent so far from home, where he's likely to die, with the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Even after everything, the three years, the months of longing, the uncertainty, it's worth it, he thinks. It would have been worth it to have only a moment of him.
He huffs a laugh, singed at the edges, and slides his hand up into Verso's hair to grip, pulling him away enough from his throat and ear so Gustave can turn his head and kiss him full on the mouth, deep and needy, tongue slipping into his warm mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip. ]
We'd make such a racket, mon cher. What if somebody heard us?
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I'd let them, maybe. My finest performances.
[ There is certainly some element of that in the way Verso touches him, kisses him, the way he moves over him. Every slight movement of his fingers over him, every brush of his lips against his skin, he's always listening, always watching, tuning himself into him as well as he can. Every single gasp and tremble and draw of breath, he chases it down, shifts his touches until he can draw even more from him, hunting down Gustave's highest pleasures and most sensitive places, pulling it all from him the same way one would learn to pull a bow against the strings of a violin to play the sweetest notes.
You play me like a song, Verso still remembers him saying, breathless and surrounded by gleaming sunlight -- and he seems to have taken that to heart, all these years. Every little whispered nothing that day, burned and carved into his soul. ]
But sometimes, when there's too much of a risk, when there's people nearby -- Maybe we'd have thought of stopping, but I wouldn't be able to help myself. [ A theme of Verso's fantasies, apparently, just how much he can't keep his hands off of him, how he can't help but want to touch and kiss him and take him apart anywhere they are no matter where or when. ] So I'd do it anyway. Clasp my hand over your mouth, so -- every sweet sound you make. It'd just be for me.
[ His voice is starting to break up a little, less full sentences and more heated fragments, his lungs starting to burn with heat and want and his thoughts getting a little too flooded out to chase the thought completely. He takes a moment to help Gustave with his own trousers, only just barely, lets him do most of the work of taking them of before turning his attention back to Gustave. Working him up and down, slowly building into a rhythm, shifting and bracing his weight above him and using his other hand to pull Gustave's trousers down further. ]
I'd take you there. [ Even lower than before, a bit of a rumbling growl. ] I'd have you everywhere you'd have me, everywhere at all. Pressed inside you, your legs around me, knowing you're moaning my name even as it's muffled against my palm.
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And Verso โ this Verso, Verso here with him, right now, starting to lose his train of thought โ can almost certainly feel the effect it has on him, twitching against his hand, his whole body flushed and arching up and wanting. It's not enough, he has to get his hands on Verso, too, and once he's shoved those aggravating pants down enough he's there, his warm right hand closing around him, squeezing and stroking. ]
Everywhere I'd have you?
[ He's too lost in Verso's touches, his kisses, to think too hard about what he himself is saying, too lost in the taste of his skin when Gustave leans up to run his mouth along Verso's collarbone and up to his throat, drawing up hard on the skin there to pull another reddening bruise into existence. But he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't had feverish daydreams of the same ilk himself, some of which took place in that very garden they'd tumbled into originally and which went not unlike what's happening right now, some which involved the piano and that empty opera house and an evening in which he hadn't had to go home early for dinner.
(Verso would want to hear them, he thinks. He'd want to know every detail, which daydreams involved him taking Gustave and which involved Gustave taking him, which were just light teasing and promises for later, which were slow and sweet and loving and which had them go up like flashes of chroma. But they still stay locked back in his throat; even now, he's too self-conscious to speak them aloud.)
Verso is everywhere, attuned to every rock of his hips and gasp for breath, drowning him in pleasure, and he does his best to marshal his own thoughts enough to do the same, just like he had in that garden. Working over him in a firm rhythm, moving with him when he moves, wanting to give him everything he could possibly need. Verso's thumb sweeps over him, and he arches up, a flush of heat rushing through his body. ]
Versoโ
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Gustave wrapping his hand around him is enough to jar him out of it slightly, any word he was meaning to say next suddenly lost on a low moan, his head dropping to Gustave's shoulder. Warmth, friction, the pressure of a now familiar grip from a hand he's felt all over his body, under his mouth and tongue, seen gripped tight over a sword. His head spins, it takes a moment for Gustave's question to fully register. ]
-- Everywhere. [ He repeats, almost a little automatically as he pulls his thoughts back together enough to actually answer. A laugh, breathlessly lost against where he has his face tucked against Gustave's neck, his hips rolling and pressing into Gustave's touch. ] Anywhere. Any time.
[ His own hand, briefly faltering over Gustave from that momentary distraction, starts to move back into its former rhythm. Verso's mind is spinning, turning his head to kiss again at his neck, over old bruises, down to the dip of his throat, cursing softly under his breath before lifting himself up enough that he can look Gustave properly in the face. His free hand moves, shifting where his elbow is braced against the ground until his fingers can twist through Gustave's hair, using that grip to guide him so that they can actually look each other fully, matching his gaze with his own. Verso's eyes are dark, hungry, starved and wanting. ]
I'd let you have me any way you wanted.
[ Punctuated by a rough squeeze of his hand over him, fingers flexing along his length. ]
no subject
Maybe he even wants to ask for it. Maybe it's what he wants, needs: Verso everywhere, over him and inside him and around him. Maybe then he really would be fully believe this is real, that Verso is, that he's here and will stay and they finally have time.
Is it too much power to be offered? Verso, handing himself over without even a single hesitation, half-drunk on fantasies and daydreams he'd spun out of their too-short meetings. And yet he's already handed over his heart โ it's yours, Gustave โ as if it was the easiest thing in the world. What can he do except cherish it, him, these gifts he keeps holding out like the thought of doing anything else is impossible.
Gustave leans up to catch his mouth with his, settles back again with his hair mussed on the piled-up jacket, breath coming fast and almost panting. Verso squeezes and he moans, answers with a rippling squeeze of his own fingers, the rhythm beginning to stutter as pleasure builds and builds, knotting tightly low in his belly. ]
I want you like this. Here, with me, right now.
[ He watches Verso, that beautiful face above him, blue light glimmering off the streaks in his hair, the curve of his shoulders, the slope of his back. His voice is strained, rough with the effort of putting together words, but his eyes never leave Verso's face. ]
You can tell me more daydreams later. I want you here, now.
You came back.
[ And that is worth more than a hundred, a thousand feverish fantasies: the reality of him, right here, already in Gustave's arms. ]
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And Gustave doesn't look away. Just lets him see everything, every daydream and fantasy flickering through the back of his mind that he can't bring himself to say, how much he wants, how much he needs. He doesn't look away and he tells him, that out of everything he could ever want, out of every fantasy that Verso could weave for him and promise to make true -- all he wants is this.
Both of them. Now. And he feels a pulse of something warm twist painfully around his lungs, something that makes him feel like he's drowning but in the best possible way, taking his breath away and replacing it with something warm and gold and honey-sweet. He squeezes his hand around him again, feeling Gustave's own fingers stuttering slightly around him in turn, his own hips instinctively tipping into that touch.
Gustave is laid out beneath him, spread out and breathless and completely bare from the waist up and looking like a dream, blue gleam of those chroma-stained trees spilling over his skin, catching the tendons and muscle in his arm as he touches him. Verso finds himself remembering the garden, after he'd first tried to steal away, however half-hearted it was: part of him really was ready to leave after finishing him off with his mouth and tongue, to vanish over the horizon and never see him again. But of course Gustave had bid him to stay, with touches, with kisses, with the look in his eyes, and as he'd laid him out on the grass Gustave could tell that there was something in him holding back, locked away, knowing the lies he was living, that he'd have to tell.
And Gustave had simply reached in past those walls to some door he never knew was there and pulled them open. Until Verso was just there, there in the garden with him, moaning into his touch and then pressing up into his mouth, and Verso's head spins because now he's here and thats what matters, more than anything else. He came back, except he didn't -- Gustave brought him back, seized him by the heart and hauled him close, and now he doesn't ever want to leave.
Verso sinks down, presses closer, lips ghosting against Gustave's own. ]
-- I'm here. [ A kiss, a bite, and then a softer murmur; ] I'm yours.
[ And he means it, merde, he means it. His breath is starting to come in shorter, sharper stops, his hand working over Gustave at a good, steady rhythm, trying to match how Gustave touches him but getting a little impatient in turn before forcing himself back down. The knot in his stomach is building, building, his hips starting to stutter as he rocks against Gustave's sweet fingers. He's here. He's yours. And nothing else matters. ]
no subject
Maybe they didn't have those three years. Maybe they've both been existing, half dreaming and half heartbroken, on memories run so many times under their fingers that they almost don't feel real. But this is: Verso's body lowering over his, Verso blanketing him, Verso everywhere, his mouth on Gustave's and his hand around him and his name caught on a moan that falls off Gustave's throat as his hips stutter, pushing helplessly up into the hand that's driving him insane.
He feels when Verso's pace picks up, feels when Verso gathers his willpower to slow it back down again, and recklessly moves his own hand faster, stroking long and firm and building a rapid pace as he tries to catch up with the edge he himself teeters on, between Verso's hand and body and putain de merde, that voice, telling him yes, he's here, yes, he's Gustave's, and isn't that the real fantasy that's come true? That somehow this man, painfully beautiful over him, charming and heated and carrying with him always some of the danger of this wild place, could possibly feel this way. That he could choose Gustave, of everyone.
That he would come back and offer himself so freely. ]
Versoโ
[ Even his thoughts are fragmenting now, and it's harder and harder to keep his eyes on Verso, hazy as they are with pleasure. ]
I'm yours. Mon cher, Iโ Versoโ
[ His name the last thing on Gustave's lips aside from the wordless cry that's dragged up and out of him as his hips rock sharply, once, twice, and he throbs against Verso's palm, spilling over his fingers and onto his own belly in a hot rush as he comes. ]
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And the moment they share together seems to expand, fractals into fractals, until Verso can dig his fingers into every single thing he can reach. His hand wrapped tight around him, every single throb and pulse of him against his palm, the way his hips stutter and shift. The feel of Gustave's own fingers, gripping him hard, picking up the pace, both of them urging each other on, getting closer, closer. Its nothing, its everything, the entire world fallen away. And as Gustave gets even closer, as his own pleasure builds, as he hears those words fall from his lips, its a fleeting second that Verso wants to wrap up all around himself and spend the rest of his long, miserable life in.
Each word sends a jolt of desire and heat through his body, tearing through his spine like fire, each one somehow stronger than the last. His name makes his toes curl in his boots. I'm yours, he says, and if his lungs had any air left in them they would all be swept away. Mon cher, and he feels his heart shatter even further, and there's his name again --
The fleeting moment passes but instead of fading away it crests up into something better, more perfect, more beautiful. Gustave falling apart beneath him, and Verso following him down so quickly that they're making a mess of each other at the same time. It's good, it's so fucking good, feeling Gustave spill hot across his fingers and feeling himself do the same over Gustave's, the muscles in his stomach twisting as his hips judder and shake, as the world whites out into nothing but pleasure, and one word on his lips. ]
Gustave --
[ And coming down from it feels like landing from an impossible height, sinking down into something impossibly soft, all but collapsing onto Gustave's body beneath him. He rolls his face against him, breath still caught on a breathless moan as his fingers stutter over him -- and he as he catches his breath, he can't do anything but smile, but laugh, the sound half-muffled against his cheek.
A dream come true, that's somehow real. ]
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Good thing we're right next to a river.
[ To wash off, he means, sweat and more, but he doesn't let go or make a motion to get up. Right here, Verso in his arms and the night sky filled with the silvery sheen of stars and the scent of crushed grass warm from their bodies floating around them, he's as content as he can remember being for a long, long time.
He rubs his hand in the grass, lackadaisically wiping it, then lifts it to trail his fingers over the round of Verso's shoulder, marveling all over again at his perfection. There's a faint dusting of bruises from his own mouth, his fingers, but they're the only flaw. In contrast, his torso, his body, has become littered with scars faded by Lune's magic and their tinctures. He's leaner now than he was that day in the garden, a little more battered, a little older, with new sorrows and regrets that cling to him. But right now, when he opens his eyes and turns his head to press his mouth to Verso's forehead, he feels remade, brand new.
A chuckle of his own rumbles in his chest, pressed into Verso's hair. He feels as though he'd just drunk a bottle of sparkling wine, the effervescence bubbling through him, sweet and warm and happy. ]
I think you enjoy making a mess of me.
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He's here. And he does feel . . . happy.
He hums a little, warm and acknowledging and amused, pressing a few lazy, affectionate kisses over Gustave's neck -- not to mark or bruise him further, but just to do it, just to kiss him and feel him and taste him. The river might be nice, later. Right now, he barely wants to move. He shifts, one arm braced against the ground and the puddle of his sash and jacket, fingers just barely threaded through Gustave's hair ( he really likes playing with his hair, clearly ), his other hand idly wandering up over his side, tracing over old and faded scars and lines with so much care that it feels like he's mapping his out with his touch. ]
Oh, I definitely do. [ A smile, tipping his head to kiss at his mouth. ] Looking the way you do? I don't know how I'm supposed to resist.
[ He just wants to kiss him and tear his hands through his hair until it's tousled and tangled, lay him out beneath him and wreck him completely until he's all shakes and shivers. ]
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What, looking what way?
[ Rumpled, grass-stained, barely able to catch his breath? A little rougher from his time spent here on the continent, where such things as hot baths and nice suits and even a decent comb to keep his hair reasonably under control are impossible luxuries, things of the past?
But Verso does seem to find him irresistible, a thought that goes to his head like wine. Those fingers drift lazily over his skin, muscle contracting and twitching beneath the path they take. Verso leans up to press his smiling lips against Gustave's in a sweet, languid kiss, and he makes another sound, humming low and content in his chest, as his right hand comes up to card gently through the mussed waves of Verso's hair.
This, too, is an impossible luxury, something he never thought he'd be able to have. The music of the river is as calm and sweet as the finest music discs he could play back home in Lumiรจre, the grass as soft as any bed, and the starsโ merde, they've never been able to see stars like this in Lumiรจre. He'd never have seen the way the blue light from those chroma-stained leaves overhead kisses Verso's skin so gently, how the moonlight and starlight limns every gentle curve of muscle and limb. It makes his heart ache just to look at him, just to draw his metal fingers idly up the graceful curve of his back.
Verso, smiling in the sun, had haunted him with memories of warmth and golden light saturating everything like molten honey. Verso here in the dark, under his hands, somehow real and warm, a heavy blanket over him, is more perfect than anything his daydreams had ever managed to concoct. He shakes his head and ghosts another kiss over Verso's mouth, sweet and full and smiling. ]
Well, I think it's pretty clear I can't exactly resist you, either.
Not that I've been trying all that hard, if I'm being honest.
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He reaches for that yellow flower he'd tucked earlier into his hair, just a bit displaced, lightly tucking in back into place. ]
Looking like you.
[ That seems to be all that matters.
He presses back down into him, making some soft, pleased sound intot hat kiss, his hand slowly reaching for Gustave's to thread their fingers together one by one. Gentle, intimate, thumb stroking over the side of a knuckle. ]
You're doing an awful job of not being seduced, yes.
[ Teehee. ]
Your master plan must be, of course, seducing me.
[ With another smile, a warm kiss. That plan's working out better. ]
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He's seen those hands travel lightly over the keys of a piano, coaxing music so beautiful it felt like his heart would break just hearing into existence; he's seen them grip a sword and dagger and strike down a Nevron in only a handful of blows. All that, and now they touch him with so much focused gentleness, drawing him into life with every stroke and caress. Their fingers tangle together, and Gustave lifts their hands to press a kiss to Verso's knuckles, lowers them again to set them comfortably on his own chest, just over his heart. Even now it beats a little faster, trying to push past ribs and muscle and skin to the hand lying above it. ]
Perhaps I should be calling you fleuriste.
[ That little yellow flower, he knows, will go between the pages of his journal to join Verso's note and Sophie's picture and the red petals he'd caught in his hand just before the ship set sail from Lumiรจre's small harbor, bow pointed to the continent lying low and menacing on the horizon.
His own smile is caught in Verso's kiss, his thumb running idly, affectionate over the angle of Verso's where their hands are laced together on his chest. ]
You threw all my plans on their ear. And it wasn't even hard, was it? All it took was a song I happened to hear on my way home one night, a few stolen hours in a garden. And now, this...
[ This unlooked for bounty of time. His left hand drifts over firm muscle and soft warm skin to the small of Verso's back, to his hip, thumb sliding under the loosened waistband of his trousers. That laugh hasn't left his voice, warm and low and rumbling in his chest, almost a contented purr, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks over at Verso, lingering on the line of his nose, the full sweet bow of his mouth. ]
If my attempts at are at all successful, it's not due to my plans or ability to seduce, trust me. But something seems to be working, and I don't know whether I should be glad about it or worried you've hit your head and may yet come to your senses.
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It seems so quick when Gustave describes it like that -- and he knows it is. Not much time at all and a man still doesn't quite yet know, and for beauty this moment brings, will likely never know as well as he wants to. But he knows how he makes him feel: like all he wants to do is piece him apart and ruin him, like his heart is soaring so high he fears how its wings might melt in the sun, like something sweet is swelling in his chest and filling his everything with such a sweet ache that it feels like it might burst. It feels like, for all the lies he's told and will continue to tell, Gustave sees some part of him that's real, that's true. And he wants so badly for him to see everything of it.
It feels less like falling and more like Gustave had just pulled him with him, with a touch impeccably gentle and soft that Verso nonetheless never had the strength to tear himself away from.
And now, this. Reality still far away, but the dream starting to flicker at the edges, maybe, now that he's remembering all the things he wishes he could tell him and all the things he can never say. But Gustave is still here and smiling beneath him, rumbling in his chest almost like a purr, and he can feel it where Gustave's clutched his hand to his chest. ]
Don't downplay yourself like that. You've been able to seduce me perfectly well. Look where we are.
[ Here, together, and that's more Gustave's doing than Verso's own. The flowers, the smiles, the stumbling but earnest words. Hurling himself off a cliff had unfortunately been a factor here, but Verso -- is going to just make sure that doesn't happen again. He leans slightly into the cool metal touch of Gustave's hand, a metal thumb just sliding under the band of his trousers -- he's not sure how much he can feel through that, if any, but it's Gustave all the same, and his eyelids lower slightly in turn, his mouth quirking upwards as he leans for another sweet kiss. ]
Now, if you were talking about your ability to conduct interrogations, then. Yeah.
[ Absolute failure. F minus. ]
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[ A patently absurd observation, and his laugh makes it clear he thinks so: if anyone's been doing any seducing, it certainly hasn't been him, awkward and too earnest with his flowers and the way he'd stumbled over even asking to see the man again. He wasn't the one whispering searing word or stealing kisses, drawing fire sweetly over skin and filling heads with steam. The only thing he'd done that could conceivably count as grabbing Verso's attention was to step off a cliff.
Which, well, had worked, in fairness. Twice now the man has appeared from nowhere to save him from a fall, giving it a one hundred percent success rate. Something to keep in mind in case Verso does indeed slip away again, despite all his promises.
But it's hardly what Gustave would call a successful seduction technique, and he's amused as he lies there, head pillowed by Verso's clothing, body lax and breath easy and slow beneath their tangled fingers, his eyes warm and smiling and full of everything he knows he'd never be able to express in words at this moment, not without tripping over them and making a mess of it all. It's too big, expanding throughout his chest, glowing like the sun.
Just for these few moments, he finally feels the weight of everything... lift, brief but relieving: the grief, the sorrow, the strain, the worry and fear. He's been existing on a razor-thin edge since Lune found him in that cave. Finding Maelle helped ground him, finding Sciel offered even more stability, but he still feels it, more often than not. The teetering sense of trying to keep his balance. The yawning pit beneath him, cool and coaxing and dark. But here, with Verso, wrung out and sweat-slicked and drunk on his kisses and his touch, for these few moments, it's all quietly slipped away. He doesn't know how to say how grateful he is for that, for this reprieve, the way he comes to life and quiets and remembers how it feels to simply be in his body under Verso's touch.
The other comment has him chuckling again, rolling his head back and forth on soft fabric as he shakes it. ]
I don't want to interrogate you. There's — well, there's so much I don't, we don't know, and you do, so of course I have questions, but it's not—
[ He licks his lip, eyebrows flickering into a frown, self-conscious and faintly concerned. Verso's teasing, he thinks, but just in case: ]
It's not why I came to meet you, I'm not going to, going to grill you for information. Yes, there's a lot I'd like to know, maybe need to know, but we can just...
[ He can feel himself starting to flounder again, and closes his eyes in a grimace at himself, taking in a breath and letting it out in a sigh before he looks back over at Verso. ]
We can just, well. Talk.
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[ Verso won't press it too much, but it's clear in that simple response: He does, in fact, believe that its' Gustave's doing. Verso's tried to leave multiple times, and has expressed more than once that he wanted for Gustave to forget him; he was never lying. But Gustave has managed to draw him back, keep him close, stay at the front of his thoughts, tangle himself up so close that Verso can't even think to leave, anymore. Maybe everything they've done has been more his fault, the kisses, the touches, how eager he is to push him somewhere and start peeling his clothes from him to touch him, but everything else.
He's stolen moments with Expeditioners before. Nights, days, weeks. He's never done it in Lumiere, but it's still happened, and sometimes he let himself get more carried away with it than he knew he should, his heart falling away from him no matter how much he tries to guard it. But he's never gotten tied up in someone so quickly, so completely. The difference, from his perspective, is Gustave.
Like in this. He'd meant interrogation mostly as a joke, but it's also mostly been true. Exactly how and when he's chosen to make himself known to the new Expedition is never quite the same, but the outcomes are similar. Sometimes he's given more benefit of a doubt, sometimes he's even treated as a friend immediately, but most of the time, especially in the scenarios where he hasn't specifically engineered an occurrence to earn him a bit of trust -- he gets questioned. Sometimes inquisitive, sometimes aggressive, but always questioned. Sometimes pushed further when they brush up against what he obviously doesn't want to talk about. Sometimes given temporary space. It's rarely just a chat or a conversation, it's always at least a questioning, and very often, an interrogation. Verso thinks it only makes sense, acquiesces to it.
Gustave clearly doesn't see it that way. Verso can see the genuine moment of concern play across his face, how his brows knit together in the slightest frown -- how he tries to put that genuine feeling into words and it pours out until he starts to stumble on his own thoughts and words, again. Verso still likes that. It's really adorable.
He laughs, taking another moment to kiss him and tongue into his mouth before peeling away from him slightly -- not to move away, but just to sit beside him, one knee drawn up to his chest as he lets his gaze cast over Gustave's body, close enough they're still touching. Gustave's beautiful as always, sprawled next to him in the moonlight and the glow of the chroma-stained trees, and he idly walks his fingers up over his stomach, to his chest -- wetting his lower lip briefly, as if picturing following that same path with his tongue. Verso glances back up at him, quirking an eyebrow. ]
I thought we were talking.
[ A great multitasker, of course. ]
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Yeah. I guess we are.
[ Another luxury he'd thought was relegated to the world of daydreams and fantasies forever.
His glance shifts minutely, studying Verso's face, caught there even though there's something achingly appealing in the way Verso is lounging, like a predator that just had a big meal and is contentedly lazing around. How could he do anything else, when tiny expressions flit over Verso's features: a quirk of a smile, a lifting eyebrow, the flicker of his tongue over his lip.
His own voice is a murmur, low and just audible over the murmuring breeze, the flowing river lapping gently at rocks smoothed by years of running water. ]
I've always wanted to know... what was it like? Before the Fracture?
[ It's impossible to keep the eager curiosity from his voice. Yes, there are so many things he needs to know that are of more pressing importance — what are the dangers of this continent, has Verso been to the Stone Wave Cliffs, does he know what they should expect there, what remains of the expeditions that made it further inland —
But he's always hungered for information about the world before the Fracture. What it looked like, if people were as happy as he's always imagined, how it felt to be here and simply exist without the shadow of the Paintress hanging over them.
And maybe he wants to exist in this pleasant bubble a little longer, without the worries and fears of the days and their mission creeping back in just yet. ]
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