𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏.

[demainvient]

𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⊹ 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒚 ⊹ 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍
 

Comments

[versorecto]

[ Verso is a wolf that hasn't eaten in years, and Gustave is sweet and tempting, a meal he intends to savor. He doesn't trouble himself much with tracking the exact passage of time anymore, with much of it blending together after all these years, save for the monolith itself counting the years as they go by, and the Expeditioners he sometimes lets himself meet have human needs just as much as anyone else. But really interacting with them is far and few between, and he really does try, however unsuccessfully, to keep himself from getting too tangled up in them each time. Its been a while, and Gustave is an attractive man with a way of pulling at the walls he's learned to build up for himself.

That, and he's by nature focused, intent. Cautious to a fault until the moment is right, and then throwing himself into it with reckless abandon after. Flirting around the edges, seeing what Gustave might let him do, and the moment its clear the man wants him -- he likes getting out of his head, and where better else to go than just narrowing in on making someone feel good. And Gustave, earnest and expressive as he is, seems like an especially potent drug for this, his every catch of breath something Verso drinks down with hunger and want, that quiet cry, the way he's breathless around his words, the taste of him under his tongue, warm and sweet.

He shudders appreciatively from Gustave's touch, his hands over his shirt, over his hip, the way the other man drags him closer. Without the jacket it feels that much easier to fit their bodies together, to feel how the other man's angles and lines mesh against his own, and he kisses his way over beard and scruff. He nips at the shell of his ear, murmuring against it; ]

-- For my performance?

[ Low, with a laugh. The piano, or this? He chases the question with another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and needy just under his ear, back down the side of his neck, latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to start to leave the hints of a bruise -- considerate enough to do that where it's reasonably easily hidden, at least. Reasonably.

He rolls his hips forward against Gustave's, shoving his thigh between the other man's legs, pushing his knee against that metal frame behind him, pressing up. One hand pressed against Gustave's side starts to tug a little at the material of his shirt, freeing the hem enough for him to push his hand underneath it, fingers dipping past the fabric to reach bare skin. ]

I hope it's still deserving.

[ He wouldn't mind more flowers. Wouldn't mind seeing him again. He knows he can't, he really fucking can't, but right now what he should know just fades back to what he wants and needs, and right now he thinks he'd like to see this man again tomorrow, and the day after, just as much to taste him more, just as much to see him breathless in wonder as the night he'd played for him on that lonely stage. ]

[demainvient]

[ Hot breath and an amused low voice scud across his skin, muddled against the sensitive edge of his ear, and it feels like Verso's pouring hot water over him with the way sensation moves in a wave from the top of his head through his body, fingers dragging against skin and muscle from the inside. A lean, muscled thigh slides between his and presses up not so sweetly at all against him.

He groans again, left hand gripping Verso's hip, rocking his own hips reflexively into the pressure. It's impossible to miss the effect the man's having on him, the heat and strain between his legs. His blood is at a hard simmer at the multi-pronged attack on his senses, mouth and body and leg and hands all working in tandem to play him as easily as Verso had played those melodies all those months ago. ]

Hey—

[ Laughed, breathless, as his right hand comes skating up Verso's back to fist fingers into his hair, drawing firmly to guide his head back up from where the man's dedicatedly trying to drive him crazy, mouth moving over the curve where his neck meets his shoulder and lighting every nerve there into fizzy life. Gustave tips his head to kiss the angle of his jaw, lips brushing over the soft roughness of beard and scruff, coaxing Verso back into meeting his mouth again. ]

Don't make me have to explain bruises like that to my sister unless you want her to invite you over for dinner.

[ Not that he precisely wants to think about Emma in this moment, but there's never a time when she and Maelle aren't always somewhere there in the back of his head, two constants within every equation he calculates. No life in Lumière belongs only to the person living it, and he's no different: every choice he makes affects not just him but the two people dearest to him in the entirety of this shrinking world.

It doesn't stop him from releasing his fingers from Verso's hair to slide them over his shoulder, folding back his loose collar to bare more of the man's skin, even as he shivers at the touch of Verso's fingers against his side. He ducks his own head to run his mouth over warm skin, following the graceful line of his throat down to the rise of his collarbone, tracing angles and curves with mouth and tongue and the edge of his teeth. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso lets Gustave guide him back up towards his mouth, lips curving into a hint of a smile against the other man's lips -- but there is, for the smallest fraction of a second, a hint of a pause, a brief stillness. A moment of reality seeping back in when he's desperately trying to put it aside and escape it. Wouldn't it be nice to just be invited to dinner? Wouldn't it be nice to be a man in Lumiere, a pianist who's just been a bit busy these past nine months, who's taken interest in the engineer with a kind eyes. Wouldn't it be nice to know nothing, to understand nothing, to not know that the taste on his tongue when they kiss is ink and paint and blood.

But that's not the world they're in. The world they're in is Verso once again vanishing without a word, and maybe Gustave might be alive the next time he comes to Lumiere or maybe he'll be gone, and Verso will simply press on, watching Expeditioner after Expeditioner hurl themselves into certain death --

-- Refocus. Not this, not now. It's selfish, and Gustave may not forgive him for this ( if he lives long enough for it to be an option ), but for as long as this lasts Verso would like to pretend to be his monsieur le pianiste in a world where nothing matters but the breathless groans he can draw from his throat when he touches him just right. The moment passes, helped along by the heat of Gustave's mouth against his shoulder, his collarbone, his throat. He groans appreciatively, tucking his lips against Gustave's ear, the edge of a growl in his voice; ]

-- Maybe I want someone to see it.

[ Not just Gustave's sister, of course. And in the end, that slight bruise he'd managed to leave before Gustave urged him away is still somewhere hidden enough. But there is truth to that, a hint of a possessive heat under his words, a desire that many in Lumeire could probably empathize with: the want to leave a mark, that says after. And Verso knows, he knows he will have to leave Gustave again, and while its better for the man to simply forget him and move on, he can't help but want part of this to linger with him.

That edge of possessiveness is there when he twists his fingers back through his hair. Pulling his head up, gentle but firm, until he can crush their mouths together again. The kiss starts off a little lighter but then just like before starts to deepen, growing into something hungry, devouring. his hand sliding up further under the material of Gustave's shirt. The way he palms over his chest, calloused fingers tracing over lean muscle and skin, almost like he's learning him, mapping out his body with his fingers. His hand eases back down, over the muscle of Gustave's stomach, further down to pluck pointedly at the front of his pants, punctuated with that thigh still pressed between Gustave's legs, pressing up against him. The question is there, not verbalized, though this time, with the way he's tonguing into his mouth, Verso seems distinctly impatient for a response. ]

[demainvient]

[ Someone certainly will see it, even if Emma doesn't. Gustave will know it's there, hidden beneath a neat collar and tie; he'll feel it when he tips his head to stretch the muscles of his neck and shoulder. A little souvenir, just for him, courtesy of the mysterious pianist he'd met almost a year ago and hadn't managed to forget in all that time. A bruise smudged into his skin the way ink had smudged on that note; another ephemeral bar of music, this time written on his body instead of on paper. A signature, maybe.

As if there were any way Gustave would be able to forget him now, even without any visible reminders. The fresh green summer-hot scent of crushed plants that wafts through the air now will always carry a little of the taste of Verso's kisses on it. It'll be a long while before he'll be able to see a purple flower and not remember the one that was smashed between their bodies, how it looked, tucked snugly into Verso's lapel, in the moment before he kissed him. ]

You think you haven't marked me already?

[ Not visibly so, but it's there, drawn along the inside of his chest in lines of fire, a little uncomfortably similar to the way he can tag a target with pictos for an attack. Verso is there already, bruises and the pink flush of a bite mark just superficial remnants of his touch, his mouth, the path he's taking along Gustave's body. They will fade far sooner than the true mark he's leaving behind.

Verso's hand runs over his skin, traveling beneath the light material of his shirt, not hard but firm and it feels so good that it's an enormous shock when those fingers slide over a section of his body and are met with a surprised flinch of pain instead of pleasure. The side he'd landed on when they crashed onto this roof is scraped and sore, bruises blooming beneath the surface of his skin; he'd forgotten about it, lost in the heat and sensation of Verso's mouth against his and Verso's leg pressing between his and his own hands desperate to feel more of the man beneath his fingers.

It's a jolt, enough of one to feel for a moment like he's stuck his head into a bucket of cool water, clearing his steam-filled mind for long enough to lift his own hand away from Verso for the moment, lay it over the one the man has working at the front of his trousers. ]

—wait. Wait.

[ It's almost the last thing he wants to do — wait — but he pulls his head back from Verso's devouring kiss, enough to take a breath, to try and calm his wildly sprinting heart. His fingers curl around the hand he's stopped, and all he wants is to let go, to urge him onward, to take that hand and guide it lower to where he's so desperate for the man's touch, but this is all so sudden. He just— needs a moment.

Gustave licks at his lip, sore and bruised with kisses, and smiles, searching Verso's expression, wanting to know what he's thinking beyond the need that's driving them both; if he's thinking at all. ]

Are all musicians this passionate?

[versorecto]

[ Verso notices when Gustave's response shifts to something else instead of just pleasure, that flinch, a ripple of tension throughout the other man's body. He does immediately adjust, making sure to not brush up against what's clearly bruised and sore from his tumble before. Even then he still wants to keep going, keep pushing, wants to touch him, and when he feels Gustave's hand settle over his own there's a moment where he wants to just push it away or ignore it, a tension wound through his fingers, his wrist.

Then Gustave says to wait, and he does. His hand is still curled into the front of his trousers, but he settles his fingers against the hem, thumb running just underneath it against and soothing against heated skin, running over a button but not actually popping it open. The other man breaks away from his kisses, catching his breath, and Gustave might be able to see it in the way he almost but not quite sways back forward, in that burning hunger in his still half-lidded eyes. He has to actively push down the impulse to kiss him again anyway, to drown any protests on his mouth and tongue, to devour him whole.

But he does give him the space. His other hand, still tangled through his hair, slowly starts to relax, Verso forcing himself to do so, one finger at a time, until its just a gentle touch carding through those dark curls. And as Verso himself gets to breathe again, it's like his lungs only just remembered how much they were burning, there's a certain halting, hesitant quality to his response. Its not anything bad -- its more like being jarred, woken from a dream. If it weren't for that sharp, almost predatory hunger still lurking in his eyes, the distinct want with which his gaze briefly drops down to Gustave's lips, tracing the curve of his throat, it'd almost be like they're back in the opera house and Gustave had just interrupted him in the middle of his playing. Reality, unwelcome, seeping back in.

His fingers twitch. He wets his own lower lip with his tongue without realizing it, has to force himself to meet Gustave's actual gaze again rather than just keep staring at his mouth and thinking about how he just wants to keep kissing him. ]

-- I think. [ Breathe. And a bit of a laugh, as if at himself for realizing how out of breath he actually is. ] I think all artists are, monsieur.

Especially when struck by -- something inspiring.

[ Or someone inspiring, as it were. His hand shifts through Gustave's hair, watching some of those mussed curls fall back against his face. ]

[demainvient]

[ He leans his head into Verso's gentler touch, watching the way the other man hauls himself back from his own all-encompassing desire. He manages it, but it was a near thing for a moment, Gustave thinks. Both of them are breathing hard, flushed and dark-eyed with want, and seeing the effect he's somehow had on Verso only makes him want to lean back in and capture that mouth, those full and expressive lips, with his again.

His own lips tug into another, smaller smile, one that isn't so wide and laughing but which seeps into his eyes and warms them, crinkling them up into fond half-moons. It's a little bit of an effort with his shoulder and arm joint still wrenched and awkward, but he lifts his left hand to curve it at the side of Verso's neck, running a cool metal thumb over warm, flushed skin. ]

Monsieur le pianiste. You play me like a song.

[ And like a song, he finds himself coming alive under Verso's touch, under the skill and passion in those fingers. His other fingers curl around the hand Verso has low against his belly, gently coaxing Verso to let go and let Gustave take his hand and lift it between them. He lowers his head to meet it, pressing a kiss to the tips of the fingers that had been driving him so mad with need. Another follows, gentle against calloused skin before Gustave parts his lips to slip the tips of those two fingers shallowly into his mouth, tasting the salt and warmth of them against his tongue, gently nipping at them with the lightest possible edge of his teeth.

He lingers a moment there, then turns Verso's hand over so he can press a kiss into his palm, against the thin delicate skin just over the pulse point at his wrist. ]

Are we in some kind of rush?

[ His voice low and still more than a little rough with lack of air, and despite his gentleness, there's heat in the way he presses his mouth to Verso's skin. ]

Must I take what I can now?

Will it be another nine months before I see you again?

[versorecto]

[ This is dangerous, again.

It always was, but its easier to forget and let that slip away when he's just carried by the moment, by heat and want and the desire to pull someone apart beneath him. Having space to breathe and think means his mind can't help but latch back on to the reality of things, who he is, where they are, who Gustave is, how much of a fucking idiot and a terrible person he's being for letting anything get this far -- and how he couldn't help himself, not nine months ago and not now. He doesn't know this man. He knows him more than Gustave thinks he does, with the time he's spent watching him from afar, but he still doesn't know him. But the immediate connection he'd felt that night was unmistakable. In the months since, he's thought back on it. Was it just music, was it just being able to play for someone again after literal decades? Yes, at least in part, he thought. But not entirely.

Because there's also this. That smile and how it stirs something in him, a faint fluttering that makes him feel almost a bit absurd when moments before he'd been kissing him like he needed the air from Gustave's own lungs more than his own. His touch, gentle and earnest even after Verso had distinctly tried to flood him out with something much more heated and raw. And just like before, the only word that Verso can find for it in the haze of his thoughts is -- disarming. And dangerous, for it.

For the incredible effort it clearly took for him to stop, Verso's easily coaxed into letting Gustave take his hand. He watches, pupils blown under half-lowered lids, as Gustave kisses delicately at the tips of his fingers ( the calluses there maybe a bit more coarse and rough than might be expected, for a pianist, not to mention spread across his palms ). His eyes widen noticeably when he takes those fingers into his mouth, his fingers twitching, pressing slightly down against his tongue. Watching him take them in so gently with those lips, kiss-bruised as they are, has a little almost-growl sounding in his throat, a reflexive tension through his shoulders before he pushes it down. Putain de merde, he just wants to push him down to the ground, right here on the rooftop.

There's that question, though. And again, a bit of a stillness in answering it. A flicker of something across his eyes that isn't just want. He keeps his hand relaxes in Gustave's grip, letting him do as he will -- only turning it only just enough to lightly trail his thumb against his lower lip. The gesture soft, affectionate -- and delaying the answer yet another moment more. ]

The only rush is mine.

You can forgive me, I hope, for being so -- inspired. [ The corner of his mouth twitches upward, something that's a bit more of a smirk than just a smile. Surely he can be forgiven for the great sin of finding Gustave so infuriatingly tempting that he's just desperate to get a taste of him, get a feel of him, to take what he can, before.

He wishes he could be honest. He wants to be. But especially when they're here on Lumiere, when Verso doesn't have the additional safety net of the sheer impossibility of Expeditioners making it home -- he can't afford the risk. But as always, while he'll lie through his teeth when it comes to it, if he can simply -- evade. Then that's better. ]

I can't tell you when you might see me again.

[ There's a sadness in his words, thats at least partially performance -- but its performance that comes from something true. It sounds like a man that could be talking about his own Gommage, or anything else that might be in his future that might take him away from this, from the world. Verso doesn't know how old Gustave is, and will not ask, because it invites the question in turn, invites a necessary lie. So he genuinely doesn't know if he might see him again. And when life in Lumiere is what it is, desperately clawing something for itself out of the dark . . . His fingers curve slightly to gently press under Gustave's jaw, guiding his head up ever so slightly, to look at each other full in the eyes. ]

-- But I think we're all always taking what we can.

[ In the time they have. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's a little cruel, maybe, to tease Verso with tongue and teeth, to suck lightly at the tips of those fingers and watch the way it blooms over his face: impatient want, barely held back by the scruff. Just as interesting are the heavy calluses he can feel beneath his lips as he brushes them over the man's palm: they're strangely similar to the marks on Gustave's own right hand, where his palm and fingers curl around the grip of his sword. Not wholly surprising, maybe, given Verso's agility with the grapple points, but... interesting, yes. His mysterious pianist has clearly trained at some point at the Expedition Academy, and either kept it up since or left only recently, because the calluses show no signs of softening or loosening.

He presses a last kiss to warm skin, then allows Verso to tip his head up so their eyes meet, and Verso is... wistful, maybe. The ripple of sorrow underlying every note he'd played those months ago now seeps into his eyes, the line of his mouth, the timbre of his voice. ]

I don't understand.

[ It's a kneejerk reaction to that sadness, not the words that come after — Gustave is plenty familiar with those in Lumiere who choose to grab hold of anything they can, savoring it, lingering in it, indulging in the physical and whatever small delight they can. He doesn't think they're wrong — they all do that here, to a greater or lesser extent — but Verso hasn't struck him as that sort of person. If he were, wouldn't he have shown up that night at the opera house? Wouldn't he have coaxed Gustave to stay longer during their very first meeting?

His metal hand isn't as desirable for touch as his flesh and blood right hand, maybe, but Gustave shifts it a little up the line of Verso's throat anyway, thumb rubbing through scruff along the angle of his jaw. ]

If you want to see me, you can.

[ So there must be some other element to all this. Maybe he's married; maybe he's spoken for in some other way. Maybe he's throwing himself into training for the next Expedition. Maybe he has some disease which will steal him away even before the next Gommage.

Gustave shifts the way he's holding the man's hand and guides it back towards himself again, to his chest, settling Verso's palm back on his belly. If you want to see me, you can. If you want to touch me, you can. ]

I'd like to see you again. But I think you know that already.

[versorecto]

[ I don't understand, Gustave says, and that's something Verso is used to. How could anyone? There are a dozen layers of truth to the world that no one's begun to unravel, that he could never have known if it wasn't forced down his throat for him to choke on all those years ago, and there are a dozen layers of lies he has to live through to keep going. And even at the surface level of it, with the way Lumiere has to live, how society has warped itself to lives that are inevitably fleeting and short -- how can anyone even hope to understand a life lived too long? He's learned to accept it. That no one will understand.

But in this, for a fleeting moment, he feels something twist in his chest. He wishes someone could, wishes Gustave could, but no -- no. With the weight of what he knows . . . He wouldn't wish it on anyone.

He leans into Gustave's touch, grounding himself back in this, in him -- the metal is cooler than his other hand, yes, but its a touch all the same, still has his warmth and intention to it, still has comfort. He can tell Gustave is trying to understand, to figure out what is holding him back, what keeps him away. And Verso will have to let him keep wondering. He'll never know. He turns his head slightly against his hand, metal as it is, brushing a kiss against his fingers, and his eyes flicker noticeably when Gustave guides his hand back down.

That's something he can focus on again. He thumbs over his navel, fingers curving back into the hem of his trousers. ]

I know. [ He knows now, though he's still at least a little surprised, had hoped that their encounter from nine months ago would be the last, unfortunate but forgotten in Gustave's mind. But now, after this, after learning he'd turned up that night with a bouquet in hand, after hearing Gustave's breathless voice tell him about how he's left a mark already. He knows. And feels awful for it, as much as he savors it, and feels awful for that in turn. Push that aside, swallow it down. Back to this, now. More -- urgent, matters. ] I can't promise that.

But I can give you something else.

[ Similar to before, his demeanor shifts. It isn't quite as instantaneous, not like a light switch, but an easing from one stance into another, almost the way one would shift in a fight, aligning his body to a different purpose. That hunger in his eyes never went away, but it did quieten down, patient enough, waiting -- and now it it surges back as he ducks his head. His other hand moves up to Gustave's hair, again, he does love how it feels between his fingers, tightening hard through the curls and yanking his head back to bare his throat so he can mouth hungrily over his pulse, pushing him up against the grown-over frame behind him as he kisses even further down towards the dip of his throat.

He shifts his knee again, pressing up between his thighs, rocking purposefully against him. His thumb plucks at the button of his trousers, pops it open -- but doesn't work on them past that. Instead he lingers there, fingers resting against him through the material, and it'd be easy to slip his fingers under the material to touch him, or even just palm at him over his trousers -- but he doesn't. His hand is just there, fingers resting over him but applying no pressure. All the while his kisses only get more heated, his body molding itself to Gustave's again, pinning him bodily to that trellis behind him. He kisses his way back up to his ear, his voice a murmur; ]

-- If you ask for it.

[ There's a hint of something teasing there, but there's also something else under the heat, an air of authority, a demand. With Gustave teasing him before, he might like to extract a little bit of petty revenge -- you told him to wait. Now you want him to touch you? He wants to hear you say it. ]

[demainvient]

[ He has just enough time to see the way Verso's eyes turn sharply intent once more, and then the man is everywhere, blanketing him back against the trellis, fingers carding through his hair and gripping almost hard enough to hurt as he tugs Gustave's head back. The metal trellis creaks against their combined weight, giving way just a little to the back of Gustave's skull as he tips his head into Verso's possessive hand, baring his throat to Verso's wandering, dedicated mouth. The milky-green scent of crushed plants wafts around them, the scent of new life and growth. They'll both be a mess of stains by the time this is through.

His fingers curl hard around Verso's wrist as the man undoes with a flick the button at the waist of his trousers but makes no other move aside from to press his thigh back up until Gustave groans, the sound falling off his lips as thick as tar, heat shooting dully up into his gut. All he can do is hold on, his left hand leaving Verso's neck for fear of tangling his hair in metal fingers and instead goes to his back, fisting in the material of his shirt. Hot breath scuds across his ear, carrying a growled order, and Gustave makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan before he turns his head to try and crush their mouths together. ]

Show me.

[ The hand at Verso's wrist loosens, runs warm fingers up his forearm, leaving Verso's hand where it is, teasing and warm and not close enough. Gustave pulls against the fingers in his hair, wanting more: more of Verso's mouth against his, more of that growled voice, more of his touch, more. If he can't be promised more tomorrow, or the day after that, then he wants it now.

But his own voice, though it's rougher around the edges now, tight with desire, is still warmer, softer than the other man's, murmuring his name against his mouth before Gustave kisses him again. ]

Verso.

Show me, please.

[versorecto]

[ If it'd just been show me Verso might've chased for more, drawn it out more, just to see how much he can get -- but then he hears his name in Gustave's voice. Its might be the first time he's actually heard him call him by name, he doesn't know, but hearing it especially with his words starting to fray around the edges, heated and wanting and half-muffled against his skin -- it feels like it sets his nerves on fire. And more, again, when he says please.

Putain. The things he wants to do to this man. A breathless laugh; ]

And how am I to resist?

[ He draws him into another kiss, just as hungry, just as raw -- but maybe a little elss edge, now. Dialing back a bit on pure instinct, on that drive he has deep in his chest to just take and take and take, more trying to meet Gustave where he is. Like an instrument, tuning himself to Gustave so better to pluck at his strings and drive him wild. Its no less passionate, tonguing deeply into his mouth to taste him, teeth catching against his lower lip in nips and bites.

Now, he doesn't hesitate. He lets his hand palm down, over the top of his trousers, just to drag it out for a few seconds more, finding the shape of him, an easy but firm pressure. And then back up, callused fingers teasing back over the flat of his stomach, tracing the muscles there and feeling the way his belly quivers under his touch -- before finally dipping down, past the fabric, following hot and bare skin. His fingers are firm, taking him into his hand, making some quiet appreciate sound into their kiss.

He lingers in that, just feeling him, merde its been a while, a long, long time. He breaks from their kiss briefly, catching his breath -- and just watching him, for a moment. Wanting to drink in Gustave's every response. The way he touches him and starts to slowly work his hand over him, the way his eyes are dark and focused in entirely on Gustave -- there is nothing else in the world, for the moment, other than this heat, nothing that matters more other than making him feel good. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso laughs and it feels like someone's struck a match somewhere deep inside his gut at that sound, at the way his lips curve and his eyes warm right before he leans in for a kiss that feels like drowning. It's open-mouthed and deep, Verso licking into his mouth and savoring him, and Gustave kisses him back with a brush of tongue and small, affectionate nips to repay the tiny bites Verso gives him. He tastes salt and just a hint of copper, but he can't tell whose lip has split or bruised. Even the scrapes and bumps littering his body from the harsh landing onto this rooftop vanish in a haze of the chemicals pumping through his system in response to Verso's kisses, his voice, his touch.

His touch. That hand sliding down over the front of his trousers, making Gustave's hips rock reflexively into his palm, wanting more even as Verso teases him, slips his hand back up again along his belly, leaving Gustave shaking and almost crazed with want before finally, finally, dipping his fingers back under the band of his trousers, and— ]

Merde.

[ A strangled curse as Verso's elegant, callused fingers close around him, hot and firm and perfect, and Gustave's head pushes back again, eyes sliding half-closed and his brows drawing inward into a furrow like he's in pain. It might look that way, if it weren't for how blown dark his eyes are, drugged and hazy with pleasure as Verso moves his hand against him, strong fingers and a rough hot palm against sensitive skin.

It's been almost two years since Sophie, and longer still since he was with anyone who looked, felt, anything like Verso, and all he can do is shudder against the metal trellis, both hands running feverishly over whatever part of Verso he can reach, gripping, holding on, while his hips try to push further, harder, into that mind-melting touch. His lips part, breath coming hard, and his heart has not slowed since the moment that grapple point crumbled and gravity took over.

He feels like he's still falling even now, as he forces his eyes open to meet Verso's, watching as the man watches him, how he can't keep everything he's feeling from scudding across his face like light over water. ]

[versorecto]

[ Its nice having this much effect on someone. Nice to be wanted, almost needed. He finds a nice, easy rhythm, languid enough to linger in every stroke of his hand, just fast enough to keep a steady fall of friction over him -- occasionally interrupting it just to squeeze, sometimes just letting his wrist flick just a bit. And all the while, Verso's eyes never leave Gustave's. Fixed, hungry, taking in everything, every twitch of his brow, every time his lips fall open on a gasp or moan.

He leans forward to brush a is against his mouth, catching Gustave's lower lip in his teeth, tugging on it slightly. Chasing it with his tongue, swaying back again so he can see him. ]

Gustave.

[ Its not even necessarily to say anything. Just a heated echo of his name, half-lost against his lips. Appreciative as much as it is wanting. ]

I thought you looked good before. [ Punctuating it with another squeeze, nimble fingers letting pressure ripple along the length of him. That thigh pressed between Gustave's legs stays where it is, warm, solid, a steady pressure to add to everything else. His other hand lifts to Gustave's cheek, cradling it against his palm, touching him just to touch him -- but also distinctly keep his head in place. So he can just keep -- watching him. ] Merde, you look better like this.

[ He wants to do more. He wants to push him down and spread him out across the grass and concrete. Wants to pick him up and sweep him away. Wants to sink to his knees, take him in his mouth -- and its there, in his eyes, just how much more he seems to want to do. But he's not pushing. Not pressing, at least not yet. Taking what he can, in the time they have. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso is hardly doing anything — the rhythm of his hand steady and relaxed, dragging melting heat down Gustave's spine — and it might still be more than enough to push him over the edge sooner rather than later, pushed along by the intent way the man watches him, like missing even a single stuttered breath would be a crime of the highest order. Every part of Gustave is focused on the glide of those fingers, the way they leave him shaking, the knot beginning to tighten deep in his gut, the legs that were already unsteady after the fall feeling like they can barely hold him up.

But he can't stop watching Verso, his eyes heavy and half-lidded but steady on the man's face. Offered a little bit of control and Verso has already taken the bit in his mouth, ready to run wild. There's a promise in his eyes, in his voice, in the way he squeezes his hand and punches another low moan from Gustave's chest. And this promise, at least, looks far more reliable than the half-answers and evasion of earlier. Whatever else might happen, he thinks he can take Verso at his word when it comes to the things he's planning to do, wants to do to him.

Gustave, he murmurs, sending a hard, sidelong lurch through Gustave's chest, his already sprinting hard tripping and falling all over itself against his ribs. He wants to hear Verso say it again, wants to pull it off Verso's lips when it falls from them like a reflex. ]

I thought you looked beautiful.

[ Earnest, even now, even as he's being systematically burned into ash, just as completely as the Gommage itself. His eyes are dark, wide black pupils surrounded by a thin ring of color, but they're hazy and affection, as he reaches with his right hand to palm the man's cheek in return, fingers sliding through scruff, thumb brushing the scar that mars the skin beneath his eye. Fuck, but he had been beautiful, impossibly so, sitting there at that piano in front of a crowd of empty chairs, eyes downcast and fingers moving gracefully over the keys.

Here in the sunlight, in reality, he's almost painfully, heart-wrenchingly beautiful, every part of him like one of the tumbling measures of notes in his music. Beautiful and untouchable, warm and generous all at once. An impossible, infuriating dream of a person, somehow real and here and wanting Gustave just as much in return. ]

I still do.

[versorecto]

[ Beautiful. Even in all of this, that catches him off guard, the rhythm of his hand stuttering just slightly, something flickering in his eyes -- Verso is quite aware that he's an attractive man, has gone to some pains to stay that way even with the way he lives. But like everything else that's drawn him to Gustave, its just the sound of his voice. The way he can tell how achingly earnest he is, even here, even now. Vulnerable, opening himself up to him.

It makes something ache and twist in his lungs, in the pit of his stomach, distinct even through the haze of lust and want. Maybe Verso just wants what he can't have. What he can't be. ]

I feel like -- [ He turns his head into Gustave's hand, letting him thumb along that scar ( old, but prominent, somehow not healed over enough to fade ), pressing a kiss to his palm. ] -- I feel like you're going to be the death of me.

[ He won't be. But in the moment, at least figuratively, it feels true. Gustave is beautiful, too, and he'd seen it that night, a stranger framed in the shaft of light from the opera house door, stepping haltingly towards the stage. Light catching in his hair, on the lapel of his suit, in those brown eyes that were so eager and curious to hear more. Beautiful in how he didn't just hear the music, but was listening, really listening, opened himself up to it, let it carry him away. Verso has spent so much of his long, long life behind a dozen different walls, and to have one man so effectively, disarmingly pull them down, even for moments at a time. It's devastating, leaves him clinging to the other dozen walls he still has, equal parts desperate to hold them in place and desperate to have them all torn down.

Verso suddenly feels a bit in over his head. Probably what he deserves, when he'd went into this wanting to flood Gustave out, to make him feel like he'd gotten into something he couldn't control and get swept up in heat and want under his mouth and tongue, but with just a few words . . A little shudder runs down his spine. His hand works over him just a little harder, a little more firmly. ]

Gustave. [ He leans in again. A kiss to Gustave's neck, up to his jawline, to the corner of his mouth. ] I want you.

I want more of you.

[ Simple. Direct. It doesn't have the ring of aching earnestness that Gustave does -- Verso simply can't do that. But it's raw, real, not lowering his voice to make it sound a certain way, not dancing around anything, just those words and the gravel of his voice, the heat and weight of his hand as he keeps touching him. But it is, intentionally, nonspecific. He wants to see what it does to him, what his face might look like as he imagines and wonders what Verso might want, what he might mean -- because he does want more. He wants more than this. But only as much as Gustave will actually give him, as much as Gustave himself might want. ]

[demainvient]

[ He sees it land, feels it in the way Verso's rhythm shifts, just for a second, making a corresponding wince flicker across Gustave's face — not in pain, but still sore, aching for his touch. Every part of him feels narrowed down to this: Verso's hand on him, warm and just a little rough and touching him just right, each firm stroke feeling like it's undoing the nerves in his spine, one by one, and attaching them to the tips of his fingers. Verso's eyes, expressions flickering through them so quickly Gustave can't begin to name them all. The way Verso turns his head, pressing a kiss into Gustave's palm.

His own laugh, a breathless, burned-out groan chasing the tail end of the sound. ]

I hope not.

[ But right now it certainly feels like Verso might be the death of him. His heart is pounding, his breath too shallow and rapid to clear the steam of desire from his head. His hips push helplessly into the man's touch as his fingers curl into Verso's shirt. More.

A hot mouth chasing up his neck as he moans, head tipping back into the metal trellis, the leaves and vines there tangling in his hair just like Verso's fingers. I want more of you.

Merde, but what else can he say other than I want all of you in return? They're entwined just like these climbing vines, here in the sun, and he's almost as desperate to get his hands on Verso as he is for the man to never stop touching him. ]

I want—

[ So much more. Verso's body, and his smiles, and the way his eyes light up. More songs, drifting through the air. He wants time. To sit at a café table with him and drink wine and let his warm, gravelly voice wash over him. He wants to run his mouth over every inch of the man's skin, here in the sunlight and again in the dark, sheets and shadows muddled around them.

His fingers slide into Verso's hair, curving around his skull, blunt nails running lightly over his scalp. ]

Yes. I want more of you, too.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave's answer is simple, an affirmation, yes, he wants more too -- but even before the words leave his lips, Verso is watching for everything, burning every detail into his memory. How his breathing starts to get even more shallow, how his body starts to arch against his own as as he pushes his hips into his touch, that sweet moan and how good it sounds, ringing out sweet and clear. He can see how the question seems to take a while to even land, how the other man's thoughts are clouded over, and how when it does reach him he can see -- something, a thousand things, flickering through his eyes. Thinking of everything he wants. And he does want, too many things, too overwhelmed to even say anything except yes.

Putain, but he does love this. He answers him with another kiss, full on the lips, drowning a pleased sound against the other man's tongue from the feel of his fingers in his hair. When he breaks away its again to start to kiss down his neck, his other hand working firmly and languidly over him stilling in its rhythm. He pulls back, just enough to catch his gaze, his eyes lowered, pupils completely blown out -- and a smirk tugging at his lips. ]

-- Good.

[ Just the one word. Nothing more, and then Vero starts to ease down. Squeezing around him, fingers rippling pressure along his length, his free hand shifting between them to press against the flat of his stomach, to roll his shirt up until more of his skin is exposed to the air. Verso kisses at his neck, his collarbone, mouths lightly over his shirt and hotly over the muscle of his stomach, tracing hard lines, kissing near his navel, easing down to his knees. His hand moves to his trousers, pulling them down until they're tangled around his thighs.

He lingers there for a moment, turning his head away to trail his mouth along one inner thigh, roughness of his beard and scruff scratching lightly at his skin -- but he won't drag it out for too long. Flicking his eyes up to look at him, as hungry to watch him respond as he is for this, tongue wetting his lips before his mouth falls open and he starts to swallow him down. ]

[demainvient]

[ That smug smirk never seems to be far from Verso's lips, always only a heartbeat from quirking into existence, and Gustave eyes it with a mixture of amusement and wariness. ]

What are you—

[ But the question is answered before he can even finish the words, as Verso pushes at the material of his shirt and starts working his way down the shaking line of Gustave's body, trailing fire in his wake. All Gustave can do is watch, his throat working, going dry, and thread the metal fingers of his left hand into the trellis behind him like he's bracing himself.

Cool air scuds over bared skin, kissing the tops of his thighs with an even more teasing touch than Verso himself, and Gustave shivers at the brush of his beard, rough and soft all at once, over flushed, sensitive skin, only to shudder hard as Verso ceases his mischief and turns to the task at hand, leaning in to slide him along the hot wet warmth of his tongue and into his mouth. ]

Verso.

[ His eyes squeeze shut involuntarily, metal fingers gripping the trellis so hard the wire bends. His other hand, shaking, palms the side of Verso's head, runs down his neck to his shoulder as Gustave marshals every last bit of control he has left to keep from simply rocking his hips mindlessly into that perfect wet heat.

It's an effort to open his eyes even halfway, pupils blown huge and dark and drugged with desire, but he wants to see, to watch, as much as Verso wants to watch him, even as the sight of Verso's mouth wrapped around him threatens to shove him over the cliff edge without even another moment's pause. A breathless curse falls from his lips as his breath catches, as melting heat threatens to overwhelm him. It's been so long and it feels so good— ]

Putain—

[versorecto]

[ Gratifying and perfect, everything he could ever want. Gustave questioning him before quickly realizing what he's doing, unable to do anything but tremble and brace himself -- from down here, he can't quite see all of his face when his head falls back, but he can see and feel everything else, hear his name torn from his throat, the almost violent shudder that moves through his entire body when he finally starts to take him into his mouth. Gustave's hand, clawing and desperate, moving from his neck and shoulder, desperate for something to hold onto.

Verso lets his eyes slip shut for moment -- its been a while, but he knows what he's doing. Sinking down further, inch by inch, making a low pleased sound that Gustasve would be able to feel rumble in his throat. He likes the taste of him, the weight of him on his tongue, the way he can feel him hot and throbbing, likes his desperation. He's been trying to get really overwhelm him this entire time, push him out of his head, away from his thoughts, make it so he can't think or do anything but feel, and feel good -- and this seems to have finally gotten them there. He'll savor it.

He winds an arm around one of Gustave's legs, hand sliding up the back of his thigh -- and not at all helping Gustave hold himself back as his hand palms roughly over his ass, pulling him closer, almost urging him to move. His other hand moves instinctively to brace himself against the metal frame through crushed and broken vines, blindly brushing against Gustave's metallic hand and immediately moving so he can cover it with his own, holding onto him. Verso breathes in, smells crushed grass and greenery and dirt, smells him and his eyes flicker open again to look up at him as he shifts slightly where he's knelt on the ground.

He pulls back. Slowly, deliberately, letting his tongue drag against him in his mouth, all the way back along the length of him until Gustave is leaving his mouth with a wet pop. One fleeting second where he'd be without that heat, without any pressure and touch, before he's pressing his tongue to him and immediately starting to swallow him down again. Faster, this time, closing his eyes again on another muffled pleased groan, finding and settling into his an easy rhythm. ]

[demainvient]

[ He shudders again as Verso's hand roams up the back of his leg, fingers firm against his ass as he coaxes him closer, deeper, but it's the fingers that grip onto his metal hand where he has it latched desperately on the trellis that has him tipping his head forward, down, letting him meet Verso's pale, heated eyes with his own dazed ones.

His lips part as he watches Verso pull slowly back, as he feels it in his gut, like the man has reached a hand into him and is now dragging his stomach, his lungs, his heart right out of his body. The sweet suction and the feeling of the man's tongue sliding along the underside of his length is almost enough to drive him mad, cool air brushing over hard wet skin and making him shiver again.

And then Verso's there again, dragging another groan out of Gustave's chest and filling his world with heat, with the softness of his tongue and the slick hot perfect pressure of his mouth, and this time Gustave can't stop himself, pushes his hips forward to rock more firmly into that mouth, tiny movements to match Verso's rhythm for the moment. If Verso doesn't stop him, though, they'll speed up, little by little, and the rolling motion of his hips will push a little harder, a little deeper, as he pants for breath, as he watches Verso's face, his closed eyes and the smudged line of his lashes against his skin.

He's beautiful. Again, again. As beautiful here on his knees, making that indulgent, pleased sound that rumbles in his throat and straight into Gustave's gut, making his hips jerk and a flash of white heat run right up his spine, as he was there at the piano, idly picking out a melody. Beautiful. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't stop him. He might need to adjust slightly, as that rhythm keeps builds -- he knows what he's doing but its been a long, long time, and there are moments where his throat needs a moment to catch up with what he actually wants to do. But he manages it well enough, and if anything, the more Gustave moves, the more breathless he gets, the more he keeps trying to urge him on. He likes that, seeing him lose control, so overwhelmed by his mouth and his touch and by him that he can't stop.

Verso himself doesn't stop either, not content to let Gustave just move against him, keeps building his own rhythm with him, working his tongue and his throat around him as much as he can. Verso's hand shifts over Gustave's left hand on the frame, his own fingers fitting between the gaps of Gustave's metallic ones, gripping onto him tightly.

His other hand palms hard over his ass, back down to the back of one thigh, gripping hard enough to leave some bruises in his skin alongside everything else -- and then falling away. It's a bit clumsy, compared to how he touches Gustave, its clear where his focus and attention really is, his mouth and tongue never faltering as he bobs against him and he pops open the front of his own trousers. He starts to work a hand over himself, languid, unhurried, almost an afterthought compared to his focus elsewhere but doing it all the same, groaning appreciatively around his mouthful, eyes flickering open to look up at Gustave again.

This is nice. This is good. No need to think about anything other than this, Gustave in his mouth and under his hands and under his tongue and above him and under him and everywhere else, Gustave and his breathless gasps and moans, Gustave and his hips rolling deep and hard against his mouth, his grip tight over his neck and shoulder, anchoring him close. If Gustave wants to stop, he'll have to summon self-control himself, because Verso isn't stopping him, hungry to keep pushing him on and on and on until he hurtles over the edge. ]

[demainvient]

[ He doesn't dare uncurl his fingers from the trellis to grip Verso's hand, unsure if he can control the pressure of his metal fingers enough to keep from hurting him, but his right hand slides up along Verso's neck to the side of his head, thumb at the angle of his jaw, a tender touch despite the heat of the moment.

He's watching when Verso slides his own hand down between his legs, opening his trousers with casual ease to take himself into a curl of fingers, and it sends another wave of heat boiling through him, tightening low in his belly. The thought that Verso is doing this to him, enjoying it that much, that he's touching himself at the same time, and Gustave wants to feel it, too. Verso hard and hot and wanting in his hand, his mouth, against his body. He wants to hear the sounds the man might make, see his expression cracked open and bared.

And then, suddenly, it's all overwhelming. Too much, too fast, it feels too good and his hand is tightening against Verso's cheek. ]

Verso—

[ He doesn't know if it's a warning or simply another helpless reflex, unable to say anything but that name that comes hard off his tongue, chased by a long, low groan and a stumbling, fraying collection of curses. ]

Putain, Verso— my god—

[ Everything tightening and tightening, coiling hard until his hips judder and the pleasure peaks almost painfully, punching out of him in sharp bursts, his body shaking like he's been hit with round after round of chroma shots as he comes hard into the man's mouth. He groans again, rough, as his hips jerk a last time, a dull, blooming ache following the wave of sensation as it crests through him and slowly settles again. ]

[versorecto]

[ The only problem with doing this is that he can't get a good look at his face, and he does wish he could, wants to see those eyes filled with lust and pleasure, wants to see his mouth falling open around every gasp and moan. But in exchange, he has a dozen other things, and merde its more than worth it. He can feel it when watching him start to touch himself has something pulsing in Gustave's body, in the way his hips jerk and his thighs tremble on either side of him, his fingers tightening against his cheek. He can feel the mounting desperation and need in his every movement, every buck of his hips against his mouth. He can feel it and taste it on his tongue, throbbing pulses the close rand closer he gets, how he stretches his lips, his throat.

And fuck, he loves it when he says his name. Especially like that, when it doesn't even sound like he's calling him, when it just sounds like the only thing he can think to say, when he tumbles on over and in the mess of his thoughts as he's overwhelmed by the heat and pleasure the only thing he can do is curse and call his name.

When that tension builds, when he knows he's right on the edge, Verso shifts. He lets go of himself, lets go of Gustave's metal hand, instead running his hands along his thighs, gripping his hips tight, bracing himself, bracing him, relaxing his throat and sinking down and taking him as deep as he can, all the way, lips stretched around his base even as Gustave's hips continue to jerk and try to push himself deeper -- and fuck, when he comes. He shudders with it, leaning in, sinking down, swallowing him easily and readily. His throat burns, just a little, still out of practice, but he doesn't even care or mind, thumbs pressing into the line of his hips, kneading into skin and muscle as he rides it out.

He stays there, suckling and swallowing down, until he feels him soften, until he knows he's completely spent and even then lingers just a while more, sweeping his tongue over him in his mouth just to savor it that much more. Verso shifts his weight back slightly on his calves, finally leaning back, letting him slip from his mouth and immediately turning his head to press a kiss to one thigh. Still with that smirk, looking quite self-satisfied.

He'll wait. You take your time and catch your breath. ]

[demainvient]

[ He shudders again as Verso finally slides him slowly out of his mouth, tongue lingering there along softening, too-sensitive skin, and lets out a long, shaking breath as the man presses a kiss to his thigh and sits back, looking like a self-satisfied cat.

Well, he's earned it. Little aftershocks ripple their way through Gustave's veins, trembling and twitching in his muscles. His body feels heavy, sated in a way he hasn't been in... longer than he'd like to recall, and his head is only just beginning to clear of the smoke that had filled it, driving out every thought but how good it felt and how impossibly beautiful Verso is and how his every touch seemed to coax Gustave's body back to life.

One by one, he carefully uncurls his fingers from the trellis, where they've dented the wire beyond hope of repair, until the only thing keeping him upright is the metal behind him and his own dazed and trembling legs. Slowly, Gustave shifts down, knees bending, keeping his weight back until he can finally come to his knees in front of Verso, and he's smiling, wide and white and laughing, his eyes pressed into cheerful half-moons. ]

What a mess you've made of me.

[ His pants around his knees, his shirt a stained and wrinkled mess, his body bruised and scraped and aching and still feeling as though he's flying, even now, as he reaches for Verso with both hands, curving his palms at either side of his jaw to drag the man in for a lazy, heated kiss. He can taste himself on Verson's tongue, sex and musk and salt, and it jolts into him again. The edge is gone, but he still has wants, and they still involve the man kneeling here with him. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso is quite content to stay there on his knees for a while, reality not quite yet seeping back in. Pressing lazy kisses to his skin, happy to watch Gustave in the lingering moments after. Small twitches, shivers, breathless and flushed, sweet and vulnerable and absolutely beautiful. Eventually, though, his own head starts to clear, maybe egged by the pulse of heat still lingering in the pit of his own belly reminding himself he's not exactly taken care of himself -- but he doesn't care. That was never the focus, never the intention. He can take care of it later when he's alone if he wants to.

Which, ah. There it is. That sinking feeling, the reminder of who he is and where they are. His eyes flicking briefly from Gustave's to the sky behind him, still bright, the shards of the Continent and the monolith suspended between clouds stretched across the sky. But before he can even start to think about what kind of excuse he could try to make to leave -- Gustave is there, sinking down beside him. Instinctively Verso reaches to his waist, the tiniest flicker of a frown creasing at his brow, watching how he holds his weight, remembering he's still hurt, but he seems well enough. Not just smiling, but laughing, reaching close.

Some part of him thinks, now. Now he should pull away. But the thought never materializes beyond that, not when it's so easy to just lean back into him, to wind both his arms around his waist and let himself be pulled in. He kisses him back easily, that heat and want still present even if some of the urgency has edged back.

This has gone poorly, technically. But it feels good. He breaks from the kiss, sitting back a bit to look at him, pupils still blown. Gustave is still beautiful. Maybe more beautiful, like this, all freshly taken apart. One hand stays around his waist, sliding up a bit under his shirt, following the notches of his spine -- the other reaches for his face, tucking some messy hair back. Its futile, it falls back forward, Gustave's hair is a mess with how much he's been gripping it. ]

My finest work.

[ A smile. And -- ]

I -- shouldn't stay.

[ Even to his own ears it sounds half-hearted. ]