Work Text:
He had never felt his heart beat this hard before.
The group had grown to trust him, in the last several days especially. Harrowing battles, teasing, Esquie’s warmth and affection for him had all worked in Verso’ favour. Lune, in particular, had softened her distrust much quicker than he had expected when he had first met her, though she was often caught staring at him like he was a science experiment rather than a person.
Verso could not blame her. It made sense, after all, that they should distrust him - that they had come to see him so easily as part of their group, that he had fit into the puzzle of Expedition 33 almost seamlessly, was a stroke of luck. He had not seen it coming so quickly, and there was still a distant sense of shock that sat with him, despite the years of planning, of watching, of knowing.
Maelle’s face glowed against the flickering warmth of the fire. He watched her movements, the easy turn of her shoulder, the relaxed nature of her laughter. She seemed so distant, but so close; so different but so the same, like a sister he might have known. She was nothing like the Alicia in this canvas, damaged and shy and knowing herself only as what her mother believed her to be. She was something like the Alicia outside of the canvas, if Verso’s memories served him correctly: fiercely loving and loyal, angry at the injustice of the world. More confident than the Alicia his mind had conjured had ever been. Perhaps Gustave had always been a better brother to her than Verso had been. Perhaps it was impossible to compare.
He wet his lips, then pressed them together. The corners of his mouth were raw and red, but he couldn’t help running his tongue over them, his nerves jittery as he watched the three women talk. They did not recognize his anxiety. He was a shadow to them, at times like this, unfamiliar and faraway. Monoco, too, had left the circle to climb up a distant tree, where he would sometimes watch the Monolith. Verso knew better than to disturb him on those nights.
He was running out of time, and he knew it.
-
The warning had been clear: Rape that facsimile of your sister. Renoir had said it coldly, facing Verso with no visible warmth in his gaze. Verso had, once, recognized a father’s love in this version of Renoir, had recognized his desperation to keep his children protected. After Clea, he had changed - fractured, somehow. Verso had fractured too, he knew. Alicia stayed static, lonely, needing her brother and father’s attention more than ever. He had not known how to resist her.
Why? he had asked, brokenly. Couldn’t you just kill them, anyway?
Renoir had scoffed. Don’t you deign to argue with me, boy. Your sister - your last, living, breathing sister - relies on me, and not you. And that one is just a sliver, here to destroy us, to take away from us. Your family. Your real family, Verso. So if you won’t do it, then I will.
Verso had tensed, his shoulders bunching so hard he had felt a strike of pain at the back of his head. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
You wouldn’t hurt her. He knew it was a lie, but he had to say it, had to make him admit.
Pick one, then. If you won’t do it, decide which one faces the punishment you simply cannot dole out yourself. The real one or the ghost. It’s your choice, Verso.
He had been given three days. Three days that felt so equally long and short, like they were endless. He had fallen asleep, restless, in the early hours of the morning of the third day. He only had until sundown to fracture what was left between them. Perhaps he could lie to Maelle, tell her he was under the influence of some impossible drug or plant or magic, something that compelled him. But she would not believe him, because she had no reason to. It was already so fragile between them.
But he could not hurt his sister. And he could not accept Renoir’s alternative - the thought of it sickened him as much as the act sickened himself. At least if he was responsible, he would know what he had done, and could be careful with her. And then Alicia would be alright; at least for now. He could not break her.
“You seem particularly exhausted today,” Maelle commented as they packed up from camp and prepared to head out for the day.
“Told you,” he said, keeping his voice as lighthearted as he could. “I’m an insomniac.”
She smiled at him, head tilted. “Sometimes I wake to your tossing and turning. Do you get nightmares? Is that what keeps you up?” They made their way through a patch of dense forest and into a new clearing. Nevrons were scattered across the way, though none had noticed them yet. Lune murmured that they needed to be on their guard, and Sciel gave a snort of agreement.
“Nightmares is a…polite way to put it,” he said, half under his breath. She drew closer to him, her hand on the sheath of her blade at her side, though she seemed unconcerned about the monsters they chose to avoid.
“Terrors?” she quipped. “I used to get them, especially when I was very young.” She frowned, her delicate eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “I was very afraid of fire for a long time because of them,” she said. He glanced down at her, trying not to look too interested. His heart was still beating so hard and so fast. He was unsure if it had ever stopped. A permanent and new ailment. It did not matter how deeply he breathed.
“Yes,” he said when she did not elaborate. “Night terrors are more accurate.” He chose to leave out the part that they also involved fire, though it seemed ghoulish to not relate to her in this moment when they should have been able to find the connective tissue that would link them. If only she knew, he said, then swallowed. She should not know. It would only make it worse. “Maelle,” he said, stiffening and pausing in the path they were headed. He grabbed her shoulder and she turned, mouth open as if to tell him off though she did not physically resist. He looked at Sciel and Lune. “There’s something I want to investigate,” he said, lightly. “That way.”
Lune glared at him. “We’re wasting time,” she said, because of course she did. Every moment counted to her, and to him as well. Sciel shrugged, though she hesitated, standing nearer Lune and nodding along with her. “If you two get yourself killed -”
“We’ll meet back here shortly. But there’s someone I know, a friend, a Monoco of sorts…”
Monoco snorted. He had been trailing, mostly silent, but said nothing. He did not confirm Verso’s story, but Verso was just grateful he did not argue.
“Oh,” Maelle said, “that’s great, if we can have another ally.”
“We’ll meet you on the main path,” Verso said, careful not to start tugging Maelle away before they had turned. “Monoco, you stay with Sciel and Lune. There could be trouble ahead.”
“Sure,” Monoco said, his voice and face as motionless as ever.
“Fine,” Lune said. “But if you’re not - “
“They can handle themselves, Lune,” Sciel said gently, touching her arm. “We should scout ahead anyway, and if they’re able to find another ally, there’s much to be gained.”
Lune bristled, but nodded. She was still stung by her distrust of Verso, by her longing to have Gustave back, but she did not argue further. She had no reason to think that Verso was lying about this in particular, no reason to think he wanted Maelle alone for anything nefarious. She was a strong ally, and the three-two split made the most sense with their skillsets, and Verso knew this worked to his advantage.
Three days, rang in his head. He let go of Maelle’s arm and motioned for her to follow him.
Maelle did, like a curious cat, her arms tucked behind her back. She smiled the whole way as he led her through another clearing, more trees, bigger than any they had ever seen. They did not encounter any new Nevrons, as Verso had known they would not.
Report back to me, when the deed is done.
Why? He hadn’t bothered to ask, but why?
He turned to her, and took her arm.
She hesitated, frowned at him as he pulled her closer.
But Maelle was small. She was strong, but - he had known he could overpower her easily enough. He held tight to her elbow, and she flinched and pulled back, but he did not let go. Her face changed, working through her feelings. Annoyance, confusion, anger for a moment before a spike of fear that was clouded further by her irritation. She did not understand why Verso was touching her, why his hand was on the small of her back. She assumed, maybe, that he was trying to shield her from something, and looked around desperately, like a rabbit in a trap. He crushed her body to his, and he felt her against him, stiff and confused.
“Maelle,” he said, and pushed her back again so he could look at her face. He rested his hands on her cheeks, the spread of his fingers nearly engulfing her face, and then kissed her.
She was too stunned to struggle, to argue. She did not return the kiss, but her mouth was open and warm, her teeth hard and pressing against his. She was so warm, so unlike anything Verso had ever imagined, and the sliver of Verso that still existed - in the canvas, in him - cried out in anguish, in satisfaction, in fear.
“Verso!” She had finally gained her footing back, and shoved hard against his chest. Her face was utterly twisted in shock, and then she relaxed, though there was a stunned silence in her gaze that wouldn’t disappear. “What’s wrong?”
His gut twisted hard, clenching against her denial. She believed, then, that he had been overcome by something. Let her believe it. It was better than the alternative, the truth.
He took her arm again, and she flinched but didn’t resist. This time he twisted it so that she gasped, and then he dropped her to the ground, so she was on her knees and so was he, pressing her into the dirt.
He expected her to fight back, to kick him in the groin or push him off of her, but as he straddled her waist she did none of that. She laid flat, staring at him, that shock still so clear in her expression. It was clear that she didn’t know what he was doing, wasn’t aware what kind of test this was, what he was suffering from.
Then, it finally kicked off for her, and he struggled to pin her to the ground as she struggled to get away from him.
“This isn’t funny,” Maelle snapped at him, “if this is some kind of test, just tell me.”
He wanted to say: Of course it’s a test, Maelle. This is all a fucking test. But he stayed silent instead, pinning her legs between his so all she could do was wiggle.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly. She stared up at him. He wondered what she was thinking. He could only see a blank certainty in her eyes. She could scream, but she hadn’t. She could beg him to rethink things, to find some other solution, but she hadn’t. She could slap him, punch him, kick him, overpower him with all she had, but she didn’t.
His heartbeat roared in his ears. Her lips parted, and she shook her head.
He reached for her ponytail and untangled it, loosing her hair. She made a sound, an oof of discomfort as her head hit the ground, but she didn’t say anything else. With her hair down, she looked more like Alicia than she ever had. Her eyes were the same colour, her hair, her body, her age. His cock twitched and he cursed himself, cursed this body he had been built inside, cursed the last bit of Verso that existed that knew he would never hold his sister this way, cursed the perception Aline had of her children, cursed his mother’s obsession with their love, their familial bond. It had always been tainted, but they could not see that, they only saw their codependence and the fire and anger and desperation.
He undid her trousers. She did not shout.
Her body was quivering, every part of her seeming to shake.
“Are you cold?” he said. A stupid question.
“No,” Maelle croaked.
He opened her jacket, revealed her breasts, her body. He adjusted so he could put a hand on her breast, curve it in his palm. She felt so good. He touched her nipple and she flinched, gasped - but was otherwise silent. He leaned down and mouthed at it, nipped at her breast with his teeth. She gasped again, moaned, then squeaked like she was trying to resist the feeling. He rolled his tongue over her nipple, kissed it again and again, and then her hand found his hair, tangled in it, and she rocked up into him.
With his other hand, Verso reached between her legs, cupping the heat of her cunt. He slipped a finger between the lips of it, parting pubic hair and skin and feeling where she was wet, her arousal so intense he could feel where it had spread up to her clit. He played with the bud of it while tonguing her nipple and she moaned again, rolling her hips and rocking against him.
“Verso,” she said. “Please, stop.”
Her words did not match her body’s reactions, but he understood. Her words didn’t match his, either; or his feelings on the matter. He could barely hear her voice. His cock strained against his pants. He wanted so badly to be inside of her, knew he had been vicious to her, to tease her like this, to make it last.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said in response, undoing his trousers so he could release his cock. She shivered and squirmed again, trying uselessly to get away from him, and he pinched her nipples in turn so she moaned and slid between her legs. The head of his cock rubbed against her clit a few times, wetting the space between them, and then he slipped into her, easy. She was so wet and she groaned and made a sound like she had been punched in the stomach. She was wet, yes, but tight - no one had ever penetrated her like this before. It made another twist of agony and pleasure fill him, and he pushed inside of her, lost in the heat of her, in the sound she made.
“Please,” she begged again, “Verso, I can’t.” It must have been difficult for her to talk. She sounded pitiful and scared, but arousal creeped into the edges of her voice. She was afraid of orgasm; afraid she would come from his stimulation, afraid it was too much. Verso clenched his fists on either side of her head and kissed her again.
She still did not kiss him back, but that was alright. She didn’t bite his lips or his tongue or turn her head away. She was perfectly still instead, and so tense that she stayed tight around him even as her cunt grew used to having his cock inside of it. She gripped him like she needed to hold on, to keep him close, and he shuddered with the sensation, rocking into her in slow, shallow thrusts.
Maelle made little breathy moans with each thrust, vocalizing into his mouth, her pleasure swallowed by him. At least he could know he had made her feel good, know that he had done something for her that no one else ever had, or ever would, if he succeeded. He bared down on her, covering her chest with his so their bodies were hot and tight together, reaching one hand for her thigh to position it at his hip, giving himself an angle to be buried further inside of her.
She let out a wrecked sob when he changed the position, and her cunt fluttered around him at the change in stimulation. “Please,” she said again in a whisper, “it’s too much, please, stop.”
But he couldn’t listen to her, couldn’t comply, knew that there was nothing he could do for her or for himself. He stroked a hand over her face, over her hair, and looked at her. Sunlight broke through a gap in the trees, illuminating them both. Verso imagined the humiliation if they were found out, the anger and brokenness of Sciel and Lune, the disgust they would have for him. But he was so far gone that it only aroused him further, and each thrust of his hips brought Verso closer to the imminent. Would it be enough, if he came inside of her? Would that satisfy Renoir’s cruelty? Did it matter if either of them came, after all - it was about their misery, wasn’t it? Renoir would only need to be convinced that Verso had sufficiently shattered what trust had built between them, as he was sure he had.
“Hush,” he said to her, touching her lips with his. “It’s okay.”
Each push of his hips pushed her closer, and he could feel it in the tension, the winding of her body around him, how she held him so close through her tears. She clung to him with her legs and her arms and he held her head in his hand and fisted her hair and tried to ignore the spiral of guilt, and shame, and rage that sank so deep into the pit of his stomach. It was useless. So he sought the pleasure instead, remembering that he was inside of her and twitching with it, angling her hips again so his hips hit hers. She made another sound, sharp and pained and desperate, and then whispered his name like she could barely hold it in. She then clenched around him, so tight and hard that he had to stop, nearly consumed by her orgasm, and she let out little whimpers, squirming again as she tried to move off of him.
Her cunt twitched in the aftershocks and he pressed inside of her again, languishing in the warm, wet heat of her.
“Please,” Maelle said, and he heard it as he wanted to hear it.
He drove inside of her, holding her up so he could fuck her in fast, hard strokes. Each thrust punched out another strangled cry from her, and he touched her swollen clit, teased the nub of it between his fingers. She was crying in earnest now, tears streaking her face, and he looked at her and saw her hair splayed there on the ground, her jacket beneath her, her thigh muscles taut and tense holding onto him, and he gave three more thrusts, hard and fast, and spilled into her.
It felt like it would last forever. He came inside of her harder than he could ever remember having orgasmed before, and filled her deep. She was sobbing quietly beneath him when he pulled out.
He expected that something worse would have happened. That he would collapse in his own sobs, that he would be unable to look at her ever again.
“That was your first time,” he said instead.
She nodded, wordless, squeezing her eyes shut.
“It’s alright, Maelle,” he lied. “It’s okay.”
She did not resist his hand on her face, how he tucked her back into her jacket and used his hand to gingerly wipe some of his semen from her thigh and hole. He helped her into her pants, stood up and fixed his own clothes and said, “I’ll be right back.”
She could leave, if she wanted. He knew it was possible she would realize what had happened completely and run, scared. He found a source of water and put his hands into the icy cold stream, then wet his own face and ran his fingers through his hair. It was hot, and the water was so cold.
When he returned, he found her wiping her eyes, standing on shaky legs, sword sheathed at her hip.
“Let’s go, then,” she said, her voice brittle.
“Yes,” he agreed, because he could not tell her the truth, could not reveal anything to her, not yet.
She would believe he was capable of this atrocity, and it would eat at her mind until she could not stand to look at him. Or, maybe, she would look at him and wonder something else, something just as terrifying about herself, and she would disappear in the middle of one evening and they would never see her again.
He did not know what the future held for them, but he kept his distance from her as they walked back towards where they had been separated from the rest of the group. Perhaps Monoco would smell the sweat on Maelle’s skin, the fear of it, and wonder; but more likely they would see nothing wrong except some tension, and Maelle would melt into the comforts of the women who cared for her, and she, like so many before her, would try to brush the moment off as a fluke, a glitch in their reality, something that was preordained to make her stronger.
Verso would tell another lie to his friends, say he was wrong about the person he expected to find, and they would not question him too harshly because they would see Maelle’s dispondance, her disappointment, and they would comfort her instead. Another lie to add to the pile - the real Renoir would be proud, and disgusted, just as he always had been of his son when he had lived.
He closed the distance between them, as Maelle walked slowly, like she was trying to keep each part of her together.
“I am sorry,” he said, because he simply could not help himself.
She looked over her shoulder at him, blankfaced still, and nodded.