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.
"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.
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.
It is, in fact, one of the sexier things that Gustave has heard, but it doesn't change the fact that he's actually a little sad that it's over. "You're right," he admits, dropping down behind Verso to just recoup for a moment before he gets up to clean up. "I appreciate you having me over." He desperately does not want to leave, but he's doing a pretty good job of hiding that.
"I appreciate you coming over," Verso says a little wryly, eyes finally open as he gropes around on the floor for his pants. When he manages to fish them up, he sits himself up and tugs them on, although he leaves his shirt off for now, still a little too warm and flushed.
Casually: "Still feel like wallowing?" Did his magical healing cock fix Gustave's depression or what???
"It was— a much needed respite." Gustave should get dressed. He will get dressed. He is just going to sit up first, still flushed and looking like a total mess, before he clears his throat, holding up his hand. "I'll, uh— a sink?"
Verso is thinking that Gustave looks like a very handsome mess when he asks for the sink. "Right. In the kitchen—" He can't make Gustave nakedly wash his hands in the kitchen. "I'll be right back."
Lest Gustave think that Verso is about to somehow ditch him while in his own domicile, he returns quickly, perching back on the divan with a warm, wet cloth that he runs over Gustave's fingers and palm.
"It was," he says, seemingly apropos of nothing before he adds, "A much needed respite."
Gustave isn't worried about that, actually, but he does smile when he sees Verso return — a reflexive, unintentional kind of expression, not worn for either of their benefit. "Thanks," he says, and it's probably insane that he finds the way Verso gently cleans his hand as intimate as anything else they've done tonight. His eyes cut up to his face. "Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?" Can he loiter, is what he's asking.
Lol. Lmao, even. Verso doesn't ask Gustave what plans he could possibly have, and with who.
"Oh, you know," he says with a shrug, before setting the washcloth down on the table and gathering Gustave's clothing out of the unruly pile he'd made on the floor. He can't exactly say that his plans for the evening were, in fact, wallowing in bed and feeling bad about himself. "More handsome lounging. Maybe even some attractive lazing or alluring reclining."
So, no. He doesn't have plans.
Handing the clothing over to Gustave, he adds, "But the plans could be... amended."
Gustave was trying to be polite, to give Verso an excuse to ask Gustave to leave if he didn't want him lingering in his home, but he'll take his flippant answer as an indication that he doesn't mind. He stands up to pull his trousers on, following with his shirt almost reluctant. It feels like an admission that it's time to return to what serves as regular life now.
"I wouldn't ask you to change them on my account. I might hang around, however. Take some notes."
Verso knows that he shouldn't allow their relationship to keep progressing when he's ultimately going to toxify Gustave's life the way he seems to do to everyone who's ever cared about him, but it's very difficult to be self-sacrificing when he just orgasmed to being told je t'adore.
"Stay as long as you want," he says unwisely, glancing up at Gustave. "I might do some writing, too."
Similarly, Gustave knows that he shouldn't be running from his home, from Maelle, but Verso's stay as long as you want is— enticing. A few hours isn't going to hurt anything.
"Sure," he says, and he'll drift to grab one of the books from the shelves before he sort of glances around the room. "Where do you normally—?" He doesn't want to take his writing spot!!
"In the bedroom." It doesn't feel like his bedroom, but it is, objectively, A Bedroom. Body finally returning to normal temperature, he pulls his shirt back on, although he does tug on the collar a bit. "Don't worry about it."
He's not married to the location. It's only because the bedroom is the only place he's done anything at all up until now; this is probably the longest Verso has spent here not holed up in there with all the curtains closed.
"Papa always said that a true artist can practice his craft wherever he is." The word 'papa' slips out without thinking, and he frowns. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."
Gustave wants to ask Verso about his family — the painted one, the one his authentic memories had been built around. He isn't sure how to do it without wrecking the calm between them, without reminding him of the fact that they were so recently erased from this world. So he holds his tongue and gets comfortable on the divan they had very recently defiled, apparently planning on flipping through a book and finishing that bottle of wine.
When Verso returns from his room, it's with his journal and a pencil in hand. He perches on the other side of the divan, legs pulled up so that he can rest the journal against his knees while he writes. It's mostly silent after that, save for the sound of Gustave flipping pages and Verso writing. The process usually goes like this: Verso writes a few words, then aggressively erases them, then writes something else, rinse and repeat.
He's not quite sure how much time has elapsed—definitely minutes, maybe an hour?—but at some point, he glances up from the page and looks almost surprised that Gustave is still here. After a moment, he extends his leg so that he can nudge Gustave with his knee.
"You can read some of it"—some of it; only if it's something he considers good enough for public consumption—"if you want."
"Are you saying I embarrassed myself today?" It's— nice. Companionable. Gustave isn't sure when it became difficult to catch his breath in Lumière, but it's easier here, somehow, and he gently catches Verso's knee with his hand like that might compel him to keep it near.
He has glanced at him a few times, too, found himself endeared by the sheer concentration on his face. Verso was an incredibly skilled combatant, but he liked trying to watch him concentrate on creation instead of destruction. He holds out his hand for the journal.
It is embarrassing to try to keep a relationship with someone this unwell, but— "I'm saying I want to show you." He's no good at this 'emotional vulnerability' thing, but he's trying.
But just because he wants to show Gustave doesn't mean he doesn't feel anxious about it, so he thumbs through the journal, worrying his lip as he picks out what he's willing to let Gustave read. Anything too far back is off-limits; there's too much about Julie. Anything too recent feels too raw. He finally hands it to Gustave, open to about halfway through. "You can stop here," he says, indicating a page that he's dog-eared.
It is a veritable treasure trove of depressing poetry, confessional in a way that he never audibly is, but interspersed throughout are pieces light enough to give tonal whiplash: an insulting limerick about Monoco, an ode to Esquie's rocks, a humorous ballad about getting eaten by a Bourgeon.
Gustave knew, realistically and rationally, that Verso had dealt with a lot of pain. Selfishly, it's easy to forget that when Verso has instead chosen to wear the easygoing mask of a gregarious rogue. The book of poetry strips those layers of paint right off; it's clear Gustave wants to keep reading when he reaches the indicated stopping place, but he closes the journal carefully instead.
Verso hadn't actually thought Gustave would go ripping through his journal for his most vulnerable, innermost thoughts and feelings, but it's still a relief that he closes it when asked to, and he visibly relaxes at the sight.
"Oh, it's not a big deal. Just my bared soul, is all."
It's a colossal deal.
"...Besides, there's still work to be done on it." If the incessant erasing and rewriting wasn't proof enough, it's obvious that he's critical of his own work. Most of the self-criticism is of his darker pieces, but he doesn't want to give Gustave a reason to think poorly of those, so he says, "I relied too much on rhyming Florrie, Soarrie and Dorrie."
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superniceone) wrote2025-06-23 06:53 pm
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"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.
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Let the record show that he talks an appropriate amount, but he says, "I can be very quiet, if you want."
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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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Casually: "Still feel like wallowing?" Did his magical healing cock fix Gustave's depression or what???
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Lest Gustave think that Verso is about to somehow ditch him while in his own domicile, he returns quickly, perching back on the divan with a warm, wet cloth that he runs over Gustave's fingers and palm.
"It was," he says, seemingly apropos of nothing before he adds, "A much needed respite."
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"Oh, you know," he says with a shrug, before setting the washcloth down on the table and gathering Gustave's clothing out of the unruly pile he'd made on the floor. He can't exactly say that his plans for the evening were, in fact, wallowing in bed and feeling bad about himself. "More handsome lounging. Maybe even some attractive lazing or alluring reclining."
So, no. He doesn't have plans.
Handing the clothing over to Gustave, he adds, "But the plans could be... amended."
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"I wouldn't ask you to change them on my account. I might hang around, however. Take some notes."
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"Stay as long as you want," he says unwisely, glancing up at Gustave. "I might do some writing, too."
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"Sure," he says, and he'll drift to grab one of the books from the shelves before he sort of glances around the room. "Where do you normally—?" He doesn't want to take his writing spot!!
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He's not married to the location. It's only because the bedroom is the only place he's done anything at all up until now; this is probably the longest Verso has spent here not holed up in there with all the curtains closed.
"Papa always said that a true artist can practice his craft wherever he is." The word 'papa' slips out without thinking, and he frowns. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."
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He's not quite sure how much time has elapsed—definitely minutes, maybe an hour?—but at some point, he glances up from the page and looks almost surprised that Gustave is still here. After a moment, he extends his leg so that he can nudge Gustave with his knee.
"You can read some of it"—some of it; only if it's something he considers good enough for public consumption—"if you want."
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He has glanced at him a few times, too, found himself endeared by the sheer concentration on his face. Verso was an incredibly skilled combatant, but he liked trying to watch him concentrate on creation instead of destruction. He holds out his hand for the journal.
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But just because he wants to show Gustave doesn't mean he doesn't feel anxious about it, so he thumbs through the journal, worrying his lip as he picks out what he's willing to let Gustave read. Anything too far back is off-limits; there's too much about Julie. Anything too recent feels too raw. He finally hands it to Gustave, open to about halfway through. "You can stop here," he says, indicating a page that he's dog-eared.
It is a veritable treasure trove of depressing poetry, confessional in a way that he never audibly is, but interspersed throughout are pieces light enough to give tonal whiplash: an insulting limerick about Monoco, an ode to Esquie's rocks, a humorous ballad about getting eaten by a Bourgeon.
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"I liked it," he says, and he's being honest. It's mostly depressing as hell, sure, but it means a lot, being offered this look into Verso's mind. "Thank you, chérie." The nickname is teasing, but gentle and quiet in the privacy of Verso's living room, it also isn't teasing at all.
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"Oh, it's not a big deal. Just my bared soul, is all."
It's a colossal deal.
"...Besides, there's still work to be done on it." If the incessant erasing and rewriting wasn't proof enough, it's obvious that he's critical of his own work. Most of the self-criticism is of his darker pieces, but he doesn't want to give Gustave a reason to think poorly of those, so he says, "I relied too much on rhyming Florrie, Soarrie and Dorrie."
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