superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

I promise I won't drag things out. Clearly, his down-to-business approach had made Gustave feel like all of this was only about getting off, which it is, mostly, but it's about Gustave enjoying himself, too. It still isn't a good idea to take longer than strictly necessary alone out here where they could be stumbled on by Nevrons, or worse, Verso's father (ugh, he can just imagine the holier-than-thou chiding about how Verso is choosing base pleasures over his own family), but—

It's Verso's job to make things better, always has been, so he leans in, half-smile on his lips. "You didn't know? I'm into guys who kiss too much."

Gustave is much less worried about being discovered by Nevrons than Renoir or, god forbid, Maelle. Not that he'd enjoy a fight with his pants around his ankles, but at least he wouldn't scar a Nevron for life.

When he kisses him, it's hard and hungry, the gentleness all in the way his hand is sliding across his chest, back down to his stomach. He wraps it loosely around Verso's waist after a moment, like he's afraid he might knock him down with his own urgency, and seems to have flustered himself when he pulls back. "So you agree it's too much," he says casually, just gently needling him as he goes to actually pull Verso's shirt off of him entirely.

The kiss is unexpectedly enthusiastic, but he doesn't mind. The rush of being kissed like that makes him feel alive, a strangely rare sensation for someone who can't die. Or, more accurately, it makes him feel like a person, which is an even rarer sensation.

"Excessive," he says, muffled by the shirt being pulled over his head. Once it's on the ground with his jacket, he gets to work on pulling Gustave's off, because he certainly isn't going to be the only one caught shirtless out here if someone does stumble on them and get traumatized. "Can't believe they left a madman like you at large."

"Why do you think they shipped me off to the continent? Couldn't stand me anymore." Gustave will suppress the insane reflex to fold the shirt he pulls off of Verso, and instead just tosses it toward the pile of the rest of his discarded uniform.

For as awkward as he can be, he doesn't at all seem shy about his own body, though he does seem more interested in inspecting Verso's than anything else. "Even more obnoxious," he declares after a moment.

"You should see me when I haven't spent the last seven decades in the woods." Give or take. There'd been time in Lumiere, of course, but it doesn't merit mentioning.

Verso does not consider folding up Gustave's shirt, because that would be, in fact, insane. It ends up somewhere on the ground. He's not really sure. It's really not a top priority right now. He tugs Gustave closer by his belt loops, hip to hip.

"Sometimes," he says, somewhere between mock-tantalizing and actually trying to be trantalizing, "I even wore a suit."

Gustave hums appreciatively at the little pull, shifts very slightly to nudge his thigh between Verso's - but it's a suggestion, not a demand.

"Classy," he says, surrendering to impulse and kissing the side of his neck. "You must have been popular, monsieur." Similarly, he's teasing but also not at all. He likes to think he and Verso could have been friends, but without an Expedition to rally them together, doubts he ever would have gotten close.

Gustave is, once again, bolder than he'd given him credit for. Verso grins, rolling their hips together; the friction sends a pleasant little zing up his spine.

"I played piano," is apparently a response to that, although it's a little distant, focus pulled between being 'charmingly irreverent' and dry humping someone in the woods. The implication, of course, is that chicks dig musicians. "I did all right."

"Breaking hearts left and right, then," Gustave decides, but he's similarly distracted if the way he exhales sharply against Verso's throat is any indication (it is.) His hand has come to settle in the hollow of Verso's back, like he's afraid he might try to flee without warning.

He leans back up, taking a bracing breath. "Maybe I'll sneak a bedroll out next time," he says, but it's only a mock complaint. Mostly he's just floundering on etiquette here - as if there is established etiquette for hooking up in the woods.

Verso has done enough hooking up in the woods that, honestly, it would be stranger to have sex—or even sleep in—a bed. But never let it be said that he's an inconsiderate lay; he takes a step away (with some difficulty), crouching down to arrange their discarded clothing in such a way that they won't be entirely rolling around on the ground. With a flourish, he says, "Your atmosphere, monsieur."

Gustave actually tilts his head at that, eyes creasing again in both amusement and fondness. "What a hero," he says, easing himself down to a casual seat on top of their clothes. They're not gonna beat the grass stains. "C'mere, then."

Oh, the grass stains are going to be diabolical. Verso's going to be so upset. But that's a problem for the future, which Verso is determinedly not thinking about right now. If he does think of the future, then he'll think about how Gustave had despaired at the prospect of his life's premature end, and how when it still comes he'll have a split-second to hate the person who'd rested a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

So, definitely not thinking about that.

Verso takes c'mere as an invitation to crawl over onto Gustave, gently pushing him onto his back. He'd seemed to like being manhandled a little before, but Verso is still acutely aware that too many missteps could severely impact his standing in the group, so— gentle. On impulse, he cranes down to kiss him again, hoping to recreate the rush of before, that electrified feeling of being someone. "Too much?" he asks when he pulls away, half-joking.

Gustave isn't sure what to think about the almost-contradictions in Verso's demeanor. He's somehow both so certain and so tentative, and - well. It's endearing. He's fond of that, thinks it's sweet (if not a bit funny) to be treated almost as if he's fragile.

He reaches up to cradle the back of Verso's neck, answering that question with another kiss - less gentle, encouraging. "I will let you know if something is too much," he says. His mechanical arm wraps around Verso's waist, a leg locking around his, and he will attempt to flip them in a roll that feels more like a tussle than any part of their previous encounter had, his real hand still braced at the base of his skull to keep it from hitting the ground.

Whether or not the maneuver works, he'll add: "I'm not made of glass."

If this were a real fight, Verso is pretty sure that he'd win. He's bigger, presumably stronger if they don't take the mechanical arm into account (he's not sure just how strong that is, yet). But he enjoys that Gustave is feistier than he'd expect, so he doesn't mind engaging in a little tussle at all; he lets it happen without complaint, only flicking Gustave's metal arm and listening to it clang softly.

"Just metal."

There's a story behind that arm. One he'll probably never hear, because a few short days from now, they'll be taking on the Paintress. There'll be no more curiosity left after that.

"Is this what they teach you Expeditioners now?"

"Only about seven percent of my body weight is metal," Gustave says, mock-offended. Very sexy, admitting that this nerdy shit is the kind of thing that you've previously calculated.

He releases the back of Verso's head to brace on the ground by it, leaning in to kiss him again, like he's claiming a victory. "They teach loads of things at the academy," he murmurs, not pulling away far.

Verso reaches down to undo Gustave's belt, although he's not in quite as much of a rush this time; as always, his emotions slowly win out over practicality, and his emotions are rather enjoying being right here. "I guess you don't need me to teach you anything, after all."

There is absolutely zero pause before Gustave confesses: "Obviously I was lying. I have no idea what I'm doing."

He shifts to sit upright, weight carefully distributed where he straddles Verso's thighs, just to make access to his own belt a little easier. And then, with a wry grin, "Real community service takes effort, after all."

Verso follows him upright, which is fully so he can remove the belt easier and no other reason. He tugs it loose from its loops, tossing it aside with a shake of his head. "You're supposed to lie and pretend you're an expert." You know, like he does.

Verso sits up, and suddenly it feels a lot more like Gustave is sitting on his lap than straddling his legs. "Sorry," he says, cradling the back of Verso's head to redirect him into another kiss. "Honest to a fault, me."

Verso gives him a little bit of a funny look, then, not because he's said anything wrong, but— it's strange, being face-to-face with someone who is, yes, earnest to the point of flaw. He realizes that he has no idea what that must be like, walking around the world wearing one's heart on their sleeve. Gustave is incorrigibly awkward, but he's real.

It's jealousy that he feels, he realizes. Verso will never be like that; everything he's ever done is, one way or another, predicated on a lie.

Ruefulness passes across his face for perhaps a fraction of a second before it's gone, and he unbuttons Gustave's trousers. "Tell me what you like, then, if you're so honest."

Gustave has had the luxury of thirty-two short years in a world that's never given him much cause to lie. He can tell he's said something strange again by the look Verso gives him; it's easier to read the subtle shifts in expression when your own face is so close to theirs.

"I like watching you do that," he says quietly, and then, like he's a little confused by it: "I liked it when you pushed me up against that tree so much that I short circuited a second. Still can't figure that one out."

Gustave shifts to reach down, gliding his palm with an almost curiosity against Verso through the fabric of his trousers, though it might be obvious he's just making an excuse to look away from his face when he confesses: "I can't stop thinking about that sound you made when you came apart in my hand. That was-" He flounders a moment for the word, and settles on- "Addicting."

More ridiculous earnestness. There's a twinkle in Verso's eye, a wry smile on his lips, like Gustave has said something funny. He hasn't, really — these are the sort of things that probably made his dead-too-soon love swoon. It's charming, endearing, some might even say verging on romantic if they weren't Verso, who is aware of the fact that Gustave has no fucking clue who he is and is therefore incapable of having any true feeling for him beyond an erection.

Still, it's cute. He likes the sound of it. Nothing wrong with basking in the sensation of being special.

"I was asking," he says with a half-grin, "what impolite thing you wanted me to do to you." Not to, like, ruin the sweet moment here. "But, please, go on about your addiction."

Gustave! Was trying!! To be sexy!!! It's maybe true that he's got a frustratingly limited amount of experience with sexual encounters that aren't - well. Pretty vanilla, honestly. Certainly nothing like sitting on top of a man sitting on a pile of their clothes in the woods.

He makes a slightly offended noise, if only because he's a little embarrassed by Verso's half grin, and he frowns to himself as he starts to pull Verso's trousers loose in turn. "I'm still trying to figure out what the options are," he says, but the defensiveness is in good humor.

"If you don't know, then maybe this age gap is an issue." Still, he reaches down to help Gustave with his belt, so clearly he's not that torn up about it. With a cant of his head: "When two people love wine very, very much..."

"I meant I don't know what you're comfortable with, you - utter ass." Okay, Gustave really is grumbling now, pushing at Verso's shoulders to try to urge him back to the ground. He swats the assistance away, stubbornness taking over.

Verso goes down easily, hands up and away from his own waist in a gesture of surrender.

"Don't worry about me — popular, remember?" And he's a fake-ass people pleaser (despite the fact that people often seem to be questionably pleased); it's a requirement to be a certified freak, practically. Besides, when someone lives an ongoing existential crisis, he tends not to be so precious about things like sex. Especially with people who aren't even going to be around soon.

"I'm pretty comfortable here," he says, reaching for Gustave's hips and carefully pulling them flush against his so that he can feel just how comfortable.

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ignore my typos... they're just creative spelling choices for artistic purposes.....

your first mistake is assuming I'm literate enough to notice

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