superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

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.

"It's good?" he asks for confirmation, trying and failing not to sound as if he's been very concerned about it being good. It's definitely good for him, overwhelming and intense but in an impossibly positive way, and he'd hate for Gustave to only be going through the motions. A little breathless, but definitively pleased: "Good."

His hips roll against Gustave's, a little more persistent but far from rough; he's not trying to fuck someone into the mattress on their first time. Loath to be selfish, he reaches down between them and wraps his fingers around Gustave's erection, stroking as best he can in this position, which is admittedly not as easy as he would hope, but—

"I'm crazy about you," he admits, and he'll be incredibly embarrassed at being so sappy later. "You make me crazy."

An unfair accusation. He was definitely crazy before.

It's overwhelming and intense for him, too, considering this was something he was curious about more than actively hoping for — but also good. The slow gentleness of the morning has set the pace to rolling and comfortable, and Verso's little confession (he's going to hear that in his head all week, I'm crazy about you in a voice too compromised to be a lie) makes him suck a sharp breath in through his teeth.

"I—" He doesn't know what to say to that, because between the hand on him and Verso inside of him, he's too overstimulated to trust himself to tread the correct line. "Je t'aime bien," he blurts instead, innocuous enough. Tentatively he rolls his own hips up as well, swearing under his breath, and he's horrified to feel himself spasm when Verso grazes an extremely sensitive spot inside him at the perfect angle. "Very good," he manages.

Gustave is treading that line so carefully that it would definitely get him teased, were Verso inclined to do such a thing right now. What, like as a friend? while literally inside him.

Luckily, Verso is far more inclined to make Gustave feel pleasure than embarrassment at the moment. (That could change, though.) He can feel Gustave's shudder, and it's endlessly encouraging; he chases that sensation, rocking against Gustave in that same way, squeezing his erection on the downstroke. It's not long before he's quivering, too, thighs tensing.

He is immortal, but he might die if Gustave doesn't reach his climax before he does. "Mon chéri." Sweetly, but insistently. "Come for me. I want you to."

Gustave is on the verge of telling him to slow down, telling him it's too much — the pressure building in him is more intense than what he's used to. But then Verso says that to him so sweetly and words escape him, his shoulders lifting slightly from the mattress and his hips straining against Verso's hand.

He's immediately ashamed of the sound he makes when he finishes, something like a sob of grateful relief. His hand grips Verso's bicep like he's grounding himself with it, and also because he has no idea how else to encourage him along, his mind briefly blank.

Verso doesn't need to be encouraged along at all. He's already there, muffling Gustave's sounds—which are nowhere near shameful and are, in fact, fucking hot—with his mouth, spilling over quickly once he knows it won't ruin things for Gustave.

He's reminded of why he'd ever engaged in this sort of thing in the first place when he'd known it was dangerous to let himself grow attached to people who were likely to die in the very near future. The explosion of happy hormones is a reprieve from the heaviness and guilt; he feels lighter, unburdened, if only for this brief moment.

He breathes against Gustave's mouth for a long moment, basking in the come-down. Finally, with a laugh: "Ow."

Gustave is grabbing his arm really hard!!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

these characters have the unsexiest names it could only be worse if one of them was cletus

aw cletus & jed touchin dicks

exp33 but it's set in fantasy kentucky

🤢

cletus-gusgus: for those who are fixin' to come after