superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

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."

"I did suffer in silence."

Instinct is to reach out and touch him, but Verso tempers the urge, mouth meandering down from the point of Gustave's knee to the soft skin of his inner thigh. He drags his teeth against the skin there, not a bite so much as a suggestion of one. So much of what they've done together has been perfunctory, and he doesn't want it to feel perfunctory now. He wants to be good, to make Gustave forget about everything, to offset at least a small amount of the unhappiness he's caused.

When he finally does put his mouth on Gustave's erection, it's gentle kisses along the length of it, not meant to tease, exactly, but— he won't be broken up about it if it feels like teasing. His eyes flick up to Gustave's, reading his reactions, searching for his approval.

Gustave had taken Verso's hesitation as teasing the other time he'd put his mouth on him like this. And this, too, feels like teasing - but it feels like fondness just as much, like appreciation for his body. He's pushed himself up onto one arm just so he can watch Verso more easily, his mouth very slightly slack.

"Putain de merde," he whispers, very clearly distracted for this moment at least. "Verso—?" The name curls up into a question out of his mouth, a clear and obvious request.

It's a good reaction. A very good reaction. He rests a hand atop Gustave's knee, a warm, affectionate weight, as he leans his cheek against Gustave's thigh. "Yes?"

All right, maybe it's a little teasing.

Rude!! Except he can't say anything, because he's aware he's also been a shithead to Verso at least once, and his exhale is half laugh. Gustave's hand returns to Verso's hair, blunt nails gently raking his scalp in overt fondness. "Please, mon beau?"

At least once. Multiple times, really! But despite the fact that being an annoying little shit is, in fact, in the Dessendre genetic code, Verso is far more interested in being nice to Gustave. He laughs, too, shooting Gustave a lopsided grin. "Only because you asked so sweetly." And since he didn't call Verso chouchou.

There is still some level of intimidation to this, seeing as he's really only done it once recently, but he's been unpracticed in most things, and surely enthusiasm will make up for rustiness to some extent. He pretends that he isn't at all daunted, wrapping a hand around Gustave's erection and pressing the flat of his tongue against the underside, licking a stripe up it before confidently fitting his mouth around the tip like he isn't out of practice at all.

He's still exploratory, though, seeking out the things Gustave likes but might not tell him to do. A swipe of the tongue over the head, a gentle suck, his free hand nudging Gustave's knees open further. He's attentive to the reactions of Gustave's body, but what's more, he wants Gustave to know that he wants to be here, and he hums contentedly against him.

It has occurred to Gustave that there's very little reason why he should be so stubbornly interested in Verso, as callous as it sounds. He who guards truth with lies, easily the most evasive and shielded person he'd ever met. But he's also aware of the fact that logic doesn't dictate emotions—and, beyond that, he became very fond very quickly of the bits of Verso that truly seemed authentic. Protective of him, even, in a way adjacent to the way he'd been of Maelle.

All of that to say: he believes that Verso wants to be there, with him, even if Gustave couldn't put it in those exact words. He makes no effort to hide what he likes, mostly through ripples of tension in his thighs, a straining of his hips. It turns slightly more vocal the closer he's coaxed to orgasm, his fingers squeezing Verso's hair carefully, wound in at the root. "Hey," he murmurs then, "careful— okay—?"

Well, Verso's never swallowed, never felt the urge or even been asked to, but he supposes there's no time like the present. After all, his aim here is to give the perfect head that fixes all of Gustave's problems (an achievable and realistic goal). He pulls off, hand carefully stroking in his mouth's stead, and says, "It's okay."

Very casual, like he does this all the time. Then, with just as much unearned confidence, he moves his hand to Gustave's hip so that he can slide his mouth down Gustave's erection until he feels a bump at the back of his throat. A little much, but not unpleasant or painful. He presses his fingers into Gustave's hip bone, then, encouraging, leaving little indentations in the skin there.

Oh. Well. It might be the hottest thing he's ever seen, and Gustave's breath stutters audibly when he feels that drop start to happen low in his belly. He repeats Verso's name a few times, both encouragement and just general, all-purpose adoration as he rocks up subtly into him.

Slowly, carefully, he peels his hands out of Verso's hair, genuinely taking a moment to catch his breath. "Fuck," he whispers, and then: "Fuck, that was good." He'll remember to actually check on Verso but like, in a minute.

The taste is more bitter than he expects, a little surprising, but he's committed already, so he swallows it all down without complaint. The praise is reward enough, though, and he leans against Gustave's leg to catch his own breath, too. "Thanks," he says a little roughly. "That's what I was going for."

Gustave takes that moment to recover, but the way his hand strokes through Verso's hair never pauses. Gustave's post-nut clarity seems to have filled him with warmth and affection instead of the standard regret and shame. "Mon chéri, Verso, come here, come here," he practically coos at him. It's clear he's got no issues with the idea of tasting himself in Verso's mouth, because he seems to really want to kiss him while his brain finishes unscrambling itself.

Demanding! But Verso obeys without argument, or at least he almost does. He crawls back up Gustave's body so that their faces are close again, but he kisses him on the (tragically unbearded) jaw instead. Dessendres love to make decisions for other people, after all. By way of explanation, he says, "You... might not like the taste."

Gustave makes an overtly annoyed sound at that, shifting to brace Verso's jaw so he can catch his mouth with his own. It's not necessarily a pleasant taste, even second hand, but he genuinely couldn't care less.

"Shut up," he mumbles affectionately into his mouth, lowering his hand then to try to start working Verso's trousers down in turn.

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verso when he gets called out on the problematic age gap https://tinyurl.com/4b23jztk

holy shit that's hilarious

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