superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

Gustave... had kind of liked the aesthetic of the stupid uniform pants, but that's only because he's a giant fucking nerd who also ran around with a cute little backpack.

But the pajama pants have their merits, too, when he's able to lift his hips just slightly and that's all it takes to help Verso pull them loose. "I can't believe we're doing this in an actual bed," he says, face a little warm.

Admittedly, Verso isn't quite sure how to take that. 'I can't believe we're doing this in an actual bed—because I'd assumed I would die before that'? Or maybe 'I can't believe we're doing this in an actual bed, because I'd figured this would be a wilderness-handjob-exclusive fling'? He tilts his head slightly as he tugs Gustave's pant legs off and deposits the article of clothing on the floor, puzzling it out.

Reaching over to pull a small glass jar from the drawer of his nightstand, he says, "Unless you want me to go kick Monoco off the divan." He'd be so incredibly pissed that Verso had the gall to kick him out of the bedroom and the living room in 24 hours. Popping the top off of the jar, he coats his fingers in the shiny, slippery substance within. Seems like it would be more useful than saliva for this part, too.

Carefully, he strokes Gustave's erection with the slick fingers; everything is a lot more wet than it usually is, but he supposes that's the point. "Mon chéri, you have the most beautiful cock." Just don't think about the fact that his mom basically designed it.

Gustave hadn't put anywhere near that much thought behind the remark. If anything, it was an amused acknowledgment of how unusual their situation together was, that it had taken them so long to progress to sex on a real mattress instead of a jacket spread across the grass.

"I wasn't complaining about the bed," he says, but he's already distracted, watching Verso move with his usual laser focus. Gustave opens his mouth to reply, and thinks suddenly about Verso's remark the night before, about his tendency to brush off the little compliments Verso levies his way— "Putain de merde," he hisses instead. The combination of the careful, slick touch and the voice of the man he's perhaps a little unhealthily attached to complimenting his dick sends a thrill through him. "That feels incredible."

"Good," is half-laugh, fond. That's what he was going for, actually! His hand is gentle, coaxing; he's not trying to rush Gustave to any sort of finish, only make him feel good, relaxed. "You feel incredible."

Again: trying in the most gentlemanly, respectful way to let Gustave know that he's a big fan of all parts of his body. He seems to enjoy cheesy, sort of embarrassing things to traditional dirty talk, though, so Verso adds, "You are incredible, bel homme."

Okay, it's objectively true that Verso has lied to them like... a lot. But it goes against the nature of the world, apparently, to hold that against him for long; Gustave has reconciled that. And it's not like he's ever tried to bring them harm directly—

All of which to say, he was being genuine when he said that he trusted him, and that trust is evident in the way he holds himself, the way he watches Verso. "Je t'adore," he murmurs, shivering pleasantly once beneath his touch, "so when do I get to touch you?"

It's fine!! Verso is inherently untrustworthy, but he's, like, really nice.

"I wasn't aware I'd set restrictions on that." It isn't that he doesn't want to be touched—it's just not a priority right now. The priority is pleasing Gustave enough that, ideally, he won't have it in himself to tense up when the more uncomfortable part comes. "...Unless that's something you like."

It isn't the sort of thing he usually does, but sure, whatever, if Gustave wants to be soft-dommed, he'll give it a whirl.

Verso had asked Gustave to lay back, so Gustave had lain back — but he's probably not the first person in the world to have his general politeness mistaken with a kink, so: shrug.

"Well, you seemed quite proud of doing all the hard work, so I didn't want to take that away from you." He's pushing himself upright enough just so that he can reach Verso, to pull at his waistband in turn.

No, he's definitely the first person in the world this has happened to.

But Verso takes the rejection of his BDSM offer in stride! He withdraws his hand and sits up only so that he can help Gustave remove his pants, underwear and all, a little overexcited despite the fact that his promise to 'take things slow' means that his cock isn't about to get much action just yet.

He reaches over to dip his fingers in the jar again; admittedly, he is not quite sure how wet things are supposed to be in this situation, but more is probably more. His hand returns to Gustave's erection, lightly caressing, and for a moment he wonders if he should get Gustave off before he even tries anything else—but he would like Gustave to be aroused during the main event, so he holds off and lets his fingers trail lower after a moment, exploratory. Certainly not inserting anything, just feeling, waiting to see if Gustave will have an unfavorable reaction to someone touching what he assumes is an as-of-yet untouched body part (although, hey, he doesn't know how freaky Sophie might have been).

Gustave patently rejected nothing — he just assumed that he was being teased, which is exactly why he had teased back. It's probably ridiculous, but stripping Verso of the rest of his clothes helps with some of his lingering anxiety; being the only completely naked person in the room only adds an extra layer of vulnerability.

He sighs, not unhappily, when Verso's fingers brush his cock again, and the subtle tension that tremors through him when that hand moves lower relaxes right away. It's not unfavorable, but it certainly is brand new, and he gives a breathless half-laugh after a moment. "I don't know where I'm meant to be looking," he confesses.

"Wherever you want," he says, voice as soft and encouraging as he can make it. It's impossible, probably, to make someone like Gustave not feel painfully self-conscious, but Verso wants to assuage whatever anxieties he may feel all the same. He wants this to be good; there's no other option than to make it good.

The inward slide of his finger is very careful. Slow, unrushed. This isn't the sort of thing he can treat like a quickie in the woods.

"I know it's asking a lot," he says, "but you could try turning that big brain of yours off."

Oh. It's an— unfamiliar sort of sensation, and Gustave's breath goes careful and shallow. "Um," he says, and his hand moves to rest on Verso's chest, the pad of his thumb stroking slowly against the skin there. "My brain is— full of nothing but you, mon chéri."

He leans in, like he might solve the question of where do I look by tipping his forehead against whatever of Verso he can comfortably reach, scattering some clumsy kisses to his bare skin. Okay. Yes. He can relax. "Only you." He might be unconsciously trying to reassure Verso that his reassurance is working, because they're both fucking crazy.

Verso shouldn't encourage sentimental behavior like this, but he already has a finger inside the man he was fully willing to let die, so it's hard to imagine how he could be any worse. One corner of his mouth crooks up, the emotional part of him pleased by this even when the rational part of him isn't; currently, the rational part of him has been exiled to the farthest recesses of his mind.

"Good," he says again, and he can't help noticing that his heart is pounding despite the fact that he's not the one having anything inserted into him. His finger moves just slightly, closer to a stroke of Gustave's inner muscles than anything else. Admittedly, he's a little skeptical about fitting more fingers in here, much less anything larger.

"Does it feel—?"

He's not sure how to finish that sentence. Good? Bad? "How does it feel?"

The cogs in his head are functional enough for Gustave to recognize that telling the truth too bluntly here will absolutely obliterate the mood. It feels neither good nor bad, really; just a little strange. Different. He doesn't want him to stop.

"Keep going?" He leans back, dropping his head against the bed again, before he repeats his question in a breathless, coaxing statement instead. "Keep going. Mon coeur, I want you." The discomfort eases with each moment, the unconscious little furrow of his brow relaxing.

It's encouragement enough that Gustave doesn't say that it feels awful, but being explicitly told to keep going certainly helps, too. He draws on prior experience, crooking his finger and gently pumping it in and out, the way he might with a woman. It's a bit more cramped than he's used to, but the general idea must be the same.

Once he feels confident that he's thoroughly explored with one finger, he presses another one inside, suddenly grateful for his overenthusiasm with the lubricant. It's even more cramped now, but the slickness of his fingers helps ease the way.

"It's... very tight," he says, trying not to sound like he's choking on his own arousal.

"I'm relaxing. I'm relaxed," Gustave says; it's meant to be a quiet and reassuring little promise, like he's worried the tightness might be a problem, but the way his breath catches in his throat probably gives away how fast his heart is hammering away. It feels like so much more than two fingers, and he's trying so hard not to get into his own head, not to tense and stiffen for fear of going tense.

He swallows, stretching his arm above where his head lies, then seems to fidget out of that position immediately. "Come here? Give me your mouth, just - for a second?" He wants to kiss him, he means, like he thinks it might chase the rest of his lingering nerves away.

The reassurance causes Verso to look up, surprised—oh, he thinks, oh, Gustave must think that he's worried about the tightness when, in reality, this is quite possibly the most arousing thing he's ever experienced. The pressure between his legs is unbearable, and he wants nothing more than to be inside Gustave right this very second, but like a good boy, he waits. He's good at waiting; he's done it for a long time.

Still, Verso presses his weight down against Gustave in a way that is probably too excited, covering his mouth with his own to ease the discomfort of a third finger breaching him. Surely Gustave can hear the pounding in his chest, it's grown so loud, but for what must be the first time in his life, he can't bring himself to be self-conscious about his own feelings.

"You're doing so well," he murmurs affectionately, although admittedly, he has no frame of reference with which to compare this. "Impossibly sexy."

Gustave's breath stutters hard into the kiss, only barely suppressing the reflex to jerk slightly up. He distracts himself with Verso's mouth, with his tongue, tries his best to relax himself into sinking down against the pressure instead.

His flesh hand catches the side of Verso's face, then winds gently in his hair. Gustave has had to force shut down the scientist part of his brain, the little voice that wanted to pick apart and understand everything around him. He's uncomfortable but he wants this, achingly hard between them, and spending any processing power on figuring out the why of these feelings right now is a waste of energy.

There is an attempt to reply to that affectionate murmur in turn, but he's flustered enough to be tongue tied. "J’ai un faible pour toi," he manages eventually, dropping his hand to the back of Verso's neck.

Verso responds to that with wet kisses peppered along the underside of Gustave's jaw, one every time his fingers press in, soothing away any discomfort with something soft. He keeps up like that for what feels like ages, carefully working the ring of muscle into relaxation even though he's practically trembling with desire. Pathologically self-denying, even now.

Eventually, though, it's unbearable. Intolerable. He can think of very little besides his own aching and entirely untended to erection, and he asks, "Can I—?"

Gustave still doesn't understand it, can't reconcile it, but it doesn't matter: he's too far past the point of self-consciousness to be embarrassed when he cuts off the question with a husky "Please."

His mental approach to this before had been entirely too clinical to actually prepare him. Sex with Verso was traditionally awkward and strange and ultimately good, but the intimacy and trust here tipped it over into something so much more intense than their trysts before. There's a slight tremor in his hand when he leans over to grab for the little pot. "Here, let me, for you—"

It takes every bit of self-control that Verso has not to rip that jar out of Gustave's hands so that it'll be done faster. He thinks, distantly, that he didn't buy enough. He'd been embarrassed to purchase it at all, certain that everyone would know exactly what it was for, but now he wishes that he'd bought five times as much. After all, they can still do this at least twenty-one times.

He swallows, withdrawing his fingers slowly and cautiously. They're still wet and warm, the remnants of Gustave's body heat clinging to his skin. God, he's practically vibrating out of his skin, a combination of adrenaline and nerves—

"Be quick," he allows himself to plead, despite how humiliatingly desperate it sounds.

Gustave's own gasp catches him by surprise when Verso's fingers slide out of him, a sharp and audible intake of breath at the slick sensation. He's frozen in place for just a split second there, before he swallows again and passes the jar to his metal hand. The lubricant feels cool on his fingers, and his touch is careful, extremely light as he strokes it fully down the length of Verso's erection.

His voice is a little unsteady when he leans back. "You have the most beautiful cock," Gustave parrots from earlier, tone sincere and pupils blown wide with his own arousal. He can't quite help the way he reaches down to give himself a few long and slow drags of the hand, naked want on his expression.

Unexpectedly, Verso laughs, the sound surprisingly bright even to himself.

"—You are such a plagiarist." Get your own lines! This, coming from the man who plagiarized Chopsticks. He leans his body into Gustave's, mouth on his as he blindly fumbles below the waist to line himself up and push in—

If he'd had anything at all left rattling around in his mind, it's not there anymore. No room for doubts and loneliness and unhappiness; it feels like being a fresh canvas, wiped clean. He doesn't dare move past the initial bottoming out, allowing Gustave to adjust to what is undoubtedly a strange—but hopefully not unpleasant—feeling.

It is, indeed, an intensely strange feeling. There's enough of a stinging ache as Verso sinks into him that Gustave has to choke down a breathless pant into the kiss, but there's someone indescribably good about it, too. It could be the tender care Verso had been showering him with since he'd gotten naked; it could be the way that they were joined in the most intimate possible way. He isn't sure and doesn't care to introspect right now.

Gustave relaxes the clinging grip he has on Verso's waist and shoulder when he feels himself start to relax again. "Ah—" His body might be growing calmer, but his voice is strung tight, obviously strained. "You're perfect, Verso. Mon chéri, mon couer— so perfect for me."

Under quite possibly any other circumstances, such a compliment would make him feel exceedingly bad about himself. He is not in any way perfect despite a century of trying to be, and anyone who thinks otherwise is just someone whose eyes he's pulled the wool over. But everything feels somehow lighter here, now, so he doesn't fight the compliment, doesn't even feel the need to try.

He rests his forehead against Gustave's, already covered in a thin sheen of perspiration from mere anticipation alone, and rocks gently into him. Slow, steady, because there isn't a place in the world he'd rather be right now. Not even 'nowhere at all'.

"You feel—" He breathes in, breathes out. Indescribable, really, but he finishes, "—better than my imagination."

The praise sends a jolt of arousal through him; it feels almost vain to admit to himself, but the notion that Verso has spent enough time imagining this to compare it to the actual act—it's a little embarrassing, but mostly just impossibly hot.

He kisses him softly, a brief brush of the lips more than anything else. Their stolen evenings in the woods had always happened on relatively equal footing, but he feels like he's entirely at Verso's mercy right now. Tongue-tied again, he wants to meet compliment with compliment, but instead just sort of groans. "Verso," Gustave says when he collects himself, catching and gently squeezing the back of his neck in encouragement. "It's good. You're good." The scale is finally starting to tip more towards good than weird, at least.

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