superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

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.

Well, he can't say it isn't sexy. Strangely intimate, actually, knowing that Gustave is tasting himself on Verso's tongue. It's a wholly new experience, and that alone makes his brain light up in pleasurable ways. Life so often feels like endless repetition of things someone else already did; there's something about knowing a thing is solely his, not a rehash or mimicry. That's probably why he's so fond of Gustave in the first place.

"What happened to mon chéri?" he complains, although he assists in the undressing, blindly kicking his shoes off to god-knows-where. They clatter on the floor somewhere behind him.

"You are the only person I've met who talks more than I do," Gustave says, but he's grinning a little bit, butting another kiss against Verso's jaw. He hesitates, then tries to shift so that he's on his side, attempting to guide Verso off of him. "Let me hold you again." He's trying to be very obvious that Verso is meant to be the little spoon this time.

Come here, shut up, let me hold you — Gustave is so bossy. Verso allows himself to be guided off regardless, although it's a small divan and it requires a bit of maneuvering to get parallel without falling off. If there's awkwardness, he'll blame it on that and not the fact that this is a position he's never been in before today.

Let the record show that he talks an appropriate amount, but he says, "I can be very quiet, if you want."

Gustave is well aware that it's a small divan, but he's planning on staying pretty close, at least. (His bed had been plenty roomy, but he'll point that out later, when he isn't actively trying to get Verso off.)

In a normal situation, he might insinuate his arm beneath Verso's head to make a pillow of it, but the metal doesn't seem comfortable, exactly. So instead he just focuses on pulling his back snug against his chest, kissing at his shoulder as he reaches to take him in hand. "I like your voice," he says, a playful apology. "I like hearing it."

Verso had been so focused on performing well that he'd given comparatively little thought to the growing discomfort in his pants, and it's almost a surprise to feel himself twitch in excitement under Gustave's touch, although it shouldn't be. While the wider circumstances they're in are hardly arousing, abject hopelessness has never gotten in the way of his libido before.

He exhales, closing his eyes; Gustave might not want to imagine Verso is someone else, but Verso would like to imagine Verso is someone else. "Lead baritone in the school choir," he says a little distantly, and yet again it's uncertain whether it's a complete fabrication.

"Talented," Gustave says with a breathless laugh, raising himself up just enough to kiss at Verso's neck. There's not much space for it, but he'll try to draw Verso's knees into a bend with his own, to urge his hips back just enough to make it easy to reach without straining.

His own arousal has faded, but the pressure of bare skin against his own is — comforting, and he's a little embarrassed by how greedy he finds himself for it. "You're gorgeous," Gustave murmurs a little more seriously, pressing his face against Verso's shoulder. His hand is still slow, but steady, firm. "Je t'adore. Je t'adore."

You don't have to say that is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down, knowing Gustave probably won't appreciate him saying so. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, focusing on the feeling of Gustave's hand against him. He really does like Gustave's hands, both of them — Verso likes to imagine them taking apart something defective and rebuilding it perfect. He wishes Gustave could do that with him.

It's not in his nature to be demanding, but it's really not enough; he fumbles blindly for Gustave's hand with his own, urging him to pick up the pace. If Gustave tries to edge him right now, he's not responsible for the brutal dumping that might occur.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispers, pressing a warm kiss to his ear. Gustave chooses inconvenient times to savor him, but he's — well, selfish. He likes this side of Verso, the vulnerability and honesty, but he doesn't mean to torment him. Gustave speeds up, gently biting at Verso's shoulder from behind, but it's true he's incapable of shutting up for long. He keeps the little patter of praise going, near stream of consciousness in a low voice. "You feel so good against me, mon chéri. You feel so good in my hand. Je t'adore."

It's embarrassing how much a steadily working hand and a few nice words in his ear do it for him, but it's like that sweet tone of voice is directly stroking his neuroses, and he's jerking and tensing in no time at all, making sounds he's only half aware of making. Gustave is not the sexiest name to call out during sex—no offense—but he breathes it out as he comes against Gustave's warm fingers anyway, and it sounds much sexier to his ears than he'd imagined.

A breath passes, and then another. Verso still hasn't opened his eyes yet. "See?" he finally says. "My place was a better choice." He would have died—figuratively, unfortunately—if Emma had walked past Gustave's room and heard that.

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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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