superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

The hand on the back of his neck continues to feel really nice, actually. It's possible that the idea of just stretching out on the divan, accompanied by Verso and the rest of that bottle of wine and inane conversation, is actually more appealing than sex — but the truth is, he's not entirely sure if that's the case or not. He wants something in that vague way that happens when an unsteady mind causes the shine to dull on the things you usually love.

He doesn't know what that something is, but the hand on his neck is a good start. Gustave shakes his head no, a gentle dismissal of Verso's offer, and does what is probably the closest thing Gustave does to 'pouncing': he kisses him hard and without the sweetness from before, hands firm as they grip his upper arms and move to push him down onto his back.

"Or pouncing is good, too," he says as he complies easily, since he doesn't want Gustave to think he's not in support of whatever way Gustave chooses to try to forget about how awful everything is today. It's a good thing they didn't go to the bedroom, he thinks, because it's even more sad and pathetic in there. At least out here, there's a veneer of respectability and plausible deniability that he hasn't just spent the last week wallowing in self-hatred.

He lets his hand slide up to Gustave's hair, just getting long enough again to actually grab in any meaningful way. He likes it better this way, a little longer and more wild; it's soft and pleasant to the touch, sort of like Gustave. He says as much, a complimentary, "I like your hair like this."

It was the haircut that had led Emma to gently needle Gustave about shaving, and he won't mention now that she'd been suggesting he let her the shagginess out of his hair. He doesn't hold public office; Verso's opinion is much more relevant than however respectable people he doesn't know find his physical presentation.

He smiles down at the genuine compliment, a little of the warmth there that has mostly been ground out by exhaustion at their general circumstances. Maybe this was a good idea, he thinks, knees settled to either side of Verso's hips as he ducks his head to drag the slow and warm trail of his mouth against Verso's throat. "I'll keep it this way, then," he murmurs.

He doesn't really need to keep it that way, considering Verso's possible plans for his future are currently 1) disappear never to be seen again or 2) die, hopefully, but it's a sweet thought nonetheless.

"I like that, too," he says, because Gustave seems to like the compliments, and it's true. "Your mouth." The words that come out of it, too, even though they're dorky and awkward. "I guess you could say tu me plais aussi."

Bold of Verso to think he has a chance of actually disappearing for good when their entire world amounts to little more than a ten gallon fishtank.

Gustave smiles against Verso's skin at the compliment, shifting up to press a soft kiss to his jaw, just beneath his ear. He wants to say thank you, that he knows this kind of affection isn't second nature to him like it is Gustave, but he doesn't want to shine a light on it. Instead, he just murmurs: "Bit of the challenge gone now that we're not in uniform."

"I could go put a few more layers on," he offers, and it's not his ('vintage') uniform he's poking fun at. "A couple more belts, if that'll spice things up."

Gustave laughs at that, slipping his hand up the side of Verso's shirt. "Might need a little more wine before we bring extra belts into this."

Yeah, there's nothing kinkier than Gustave's truly excessive amount of belts. Verso laughs back, an easy call-and-response; it's a relief to see Gustave not in active wallowing, the weight on his shoulders a little lighter. Now Verso just has to keep things like this forever, which is fine and not impossible at all.

He untucks Gustave's shirt before tugging it over his head. "You know, you look a bit devilishly rumpled." From rolling around in bed from a fit of depression, but still. "You're encroaching on my territory."

Hey, Gustave is thinking the exact same thing about Verso! Their weird, depressing feedback loop is only getting worse and there is zero respite in sight.

Not that Gustave really feels like he has any time to spare to ruminate on that right now, what with the way his shirt has been pulled off. "You've had a lot more time to perfect the look, I think." He sits up just enough to navigate Verso's shirt off as well, knees locked gently squeezing Verso's sides to provide himself with leverage.

Verso helps, shifting so that Gustave can remove his shirt more easily before gently pulling him back down, hand back on his neck. The way that he kisses Gustave is unhurried, which still feels strange; it's odd not to have to worry about a Nevron or, god forbid, his father appearing and murdering Gustave mid-sex. They quite literally have all the time in the world now, which is a bit horrifying, but—

It still feels good to have a warm body pressed against his, something to fill the pit of loneliness. "That's what I spent all this time doing," he murmurs against Gustave's lips, and maybe he had a point when he'd said that Verso talks a lot but only says a little. "Finding the perfect amount of rumpled."

It feels a little strange to Gustave, too. Even when they'd been sheltered in his little ramshackle by the Ancient Sanctuary, it had felt like there was an invisible clock ticking. It had been nice, relaxing a bit in private after their hookup, but still: it had been quick and sloppy.

This is much better scenery than his room. Sterile, maybe, but without years of memories that feel more burdensome than comforting right now. He smiles a little into that kiss, metal arm curling around Verso's head in a frame. "Yet your hair remained absolutely perfect," he says, using that hand to give it a gentle tug. "A marvel, really."

"Mm," he hums noncommittally. "Almost perfect."

His white roots are beginning to show, which he's going to have to do something about sooner or later if he doesn't want to look like an old man. Vanity might be the thing that forces him to finally interact with the Lumiérians he's been staunchly avoiding.

But that's something to be anxious about another day; he has a job to do here. His hands move to Gustave's waistband, unbuttoning his pants. "I'd like to make you feel good." A slight tug at the corner of his mouth, and then he adds, "If you're amenable."

Verso, king of consent, should be absolutely fine as long as he avoids Sophie's stylist like the plague. Gustave is fond of the white roots, but he won't say that out loud if only because he knows Verso will probably just make a face and deflect. So he keeps it to himself, even with metal fingers toying with the streak of white.

He almost teased him — what, you have to ask? — but decides he doesn't want to risk ruining the sweetness that's settled here a bit. So, instead he says: "Yes. Please. You happen to be very good at that."

He was just adorably teasing!! But also, god forbid he ever do something that someone doesn't like, so maybe it wasn't entirely teasing.

Verso pushes himself up, getting them vertical again; it is not exactly difficult to manhandle scrawny little Gustave, after all. "Then you're going to have to let me up," he says, a little gentle ribbing. "Unless you'd like to stay in my lap for it, which—" A shrug, and a cant of his head. "I'm amenable."

Gustave isn't that scrawny!! He can't help it if his genetics have given him an absolutely snatched waist - Aline is apparently into lean guys. It's probably ridiculous that he feels a little silly to be perched in Verso's lap, like he thinks it's the kind of position reserved for petite women instead of grown-ass men — but at the same time, he really likes having Verso's face right up there in his own.

"Give me just a minute," he says, cradling his jaw, and apparently plans to spend the full minute tasting the inside of Verso's mouth.

Grown-ass Gustave in his lap is hot, actually. So is being kissed by grown-ass Gustave; somewhat humiliatingly, things like affection feel more scandalous than actual sex for their rareness, and Gustave's gentle fingers on his jaw make him feel a little warm all over. He's so out of practice in such things that it sometimes feels like he might as well not have ever practiced at all, but it doesn't mean that he doesn't like them — he likes them maybe too much, in fact, considering how little he deserves them.

He gives Gustave more than a minute, pleased by the faint taste of wine and the comforting heat of someone else's face close to his. When he pulls away for breath, Verso wraps a hand around Gustave's (scrawny!) wrist and presses his knuckles to his mouth, eyes flicking up to gauge Gustave's approval. Sincerely: "You have nice hands."

Verso's rustiness with affection doesn't necessarily stand out to Gustave. They're still both trying to figure out how exactly to navigate certain aspects of— whatever their relationship is. Despite the fact that he's grown surprisingly comfortable with Verso, he can still count the times they've actually hooked up on one hand; it only makes sense that some things are uncertain, that some things are awkward.

The breath he's catching gets hung for just a second in his throat when Verso brushes his lips to his fingers. "Thank you," he says after a moment, clearly very into that little display of affectionate touch. After a moment of buffering, he'll add: "So do you. Warm. They feel really nice."

Gustave is, as always, charming without trying to be. Verso is a little jealous, in truth, knowing that he tries so hard to achieve what comes accidentally to Gustave. For now, though, the charm is to his own benefit, so he smiles, a little amused by Gustave's delivery. "Thanks."

He'd been telling the truth when he'd said that he wanted to make Gustave feel good—in whatever form that might take—so, upon seeing Gustave's favorable reaction, Verso turns his hand over to kiss his palm, too, and the underside of his wrist. He's impossibly rusty, yes, but he doesn't let that stop him from attempting affection, knowing that receiving it will make Gustave happy. He'd been rusty with all aspects of physical intimacy before, and he likes to think that he got back on that wagon pretty soundly.

"Mon chéri," he says, and maybe he's laying it on a little thick in the effort to give Gustave a good time. "You really are handsome." No wonder Ophélie was one step away from throwing herself at him.

Gustave's expression is fond, focused — like he's trying to memorize the sight of this, the feelling of Verso's mouth, gentle against the thin skin of his wrist. "You're one to talk," he says, and to his abject mortification he realizes there's a lump of tears in his throat that he has to speak around. He swallows it, and it's not subtle.

He pushes on immediately, like he's worried Verso will misunderstand. (He's not unhappy, not upset; he'd just gotten a little choked up in the way that someone might when given a brief respite from the pain of an enduring injury. This, here, was far from permanent, but it was a balm, and he's grateful for it.)

"Your mouth," he starts, clearly feels a bit awkward about it, but pushes on anyway, "is beautiful, even when you're not doing impolite things with it."

If Gustave is mortified that he teared up, Verso is a million times more mortified that Gustave teared up while Verso was trying to seduce him. Throwing himself into the harbor is back on. He frowns momentarily, a brief flash before he schools his features back to neutral. It feels a bit like a failure, but that only spurs him on to try harder, be better.

He leans his weight against Gustave, urging him inexorably back so that Verso can press their mouths together like he can kiss the sadness right out of Gustave. (Which is kind of the point here, really.) "Just lie back," he says encouragingly, mouth dropping to Gustave's throat, "and close your eyes."

There's no way that pausing things to explain why his getting a little choked up was actually a good thing will do literally anything but take an actual wrecking ball to the mood here. It's why Gustave almost resists when Verso leans him back, but the kiss and the mouth to his throat are enough to kill his complaint.

Well, most of his complaints. His singular protest: "But I like seeing you."

It shouldn't come as a surprise, but it still does. It's difficult to shake the feeling of being everyone's second best, somebody that people only choose because their first was unavailable. Even now, he's trying to give Gustave the opportunity to imagine that he's someone else.

It makes the smile return to his face, though, and he ducks down to kiss the hollow of Gustave's throat, followed by the flat plane of his sternum. He'd always gotten down to business relatively fast, even when they'd visited his hut. It had never felt like they'd had the time or space to linger, but he's trying this new thing called 'foreplay' now.

"You always have a complaint, don't you?" he laughs, but it's a harmless gripe. "Keep them open, then."

It's true that Gustave is expecting things to— escalate a lot more quickly than this. He'd assumed making him feel good would mostly just entail tugging down his trousers for a pleasantly rough handjob, which of course Gustave would have had no complaints about.

This is nice, though, the overt sweetness, and he tries not to think about how tragic this will be if they have to boot Maelle from the canvas and promptly get erased. "I think I will," he says, giving an appreciative little hum. Gustave's hand moves briefly to the back of Verso's neck, mimicking the idle stroking from before. "I like this," he murmurs, half gratitude and half praise.

"Oh, good," he quips, trying to sound jokingly relieved and not genuinely relieved that Gustave is pleased by this. It's once again something that he's only pretending to be confident about; it no longer comes naturally to take his time with someone, because any time he would have had with a person was always on a ticking clock. He forces himself to slow down now, mouth leaving a wet trail down Gustave's abdomen. "I was kind of hoping you would."

It's only now that he makes any attempt to tug Gustave's pants down, shifting back to give himself the space to properly remove them. There's very little space with which to maneuver, and it makes it challenging to peel off Gustave's trousers in any sort of sensual way, but by god, he tries. His shoes come off along with his clothing, and Verso leaves it in an unfolded heap on the floor, more interested in crawling back between Gustave's legs and pressing his mouth to the inside of his knee.

"Can I tell you a secret? I hated those belts."

It's an intensely appealing sight, even if parts of it are less sensual than they might be in a roomier location. His pants hit the floor and he's halfway to another complaint, doesn't like feeling selfish when it comes to acts of intimacy; it's hard not to feel like things are slightly unbalanced when Verso is only nude from the waist up.

Gustave forces himself to swallow the complaint. It's not a race, not a competition. They're not on alert for Nevrons or little sisters. Maybe absconding from Gustave's bedroom had been the right call. "Oh, is that right?" He's doing his best to seem cool, composed, but - despite his fears that his self-diagnosed depression might create some stumbling blocks - he's already unmistakeably hard. "I had no idea. Really."

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