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The entire world is narrowed down to the sensation between his thighs. Verso heaves for breath, his heartbeat pounding in his throat and eyes clenched tightly shut as his fingers flex desperately at the strands of his own hair that his hands are buried into. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, every half formed thought scattering apart at the next relentless wave of pleasure.
“Gusta–ah, ahhn, Gustave—”
Gustave doesn’t even react to the warbling pleas, singularly focused on his task to apparently reduce Verso to a delirious wreck. His mechanical hand is wrapped around Verso’s weeping cock, thumb occasionally brushing against the sensitive glans near the head and pushing more precum out of the slit. He doesn’t stroke, or pump, or move at all beyond that occasional brush of his thumb, the cold firmness a constant sensation either way that was well on the way to driving Verso to madness even before Gustave got experimental. Another gentle pulse of electricity rocks through his shaft and Verso throws his head back against the bed, wailing helplessly as another pathetic spurt of precum shoots out of him. He squirms desperately, feet pushing against the mattress as if there is any chance of escape, as if he isn’t completely frozen by that cool thrumming hand still holding him in place.
“You’re so beautiful,” Gustave murmurs, sounding genuinely awestruck as his flesh fingers buried deep inside of Verso tap against his prostate, making Verso jolt against the bed as a keening moan is ripped out of him. “Mon cœur.” Gustave leans up, trailing kisses down Verso’s jaw before sucking a wet bruise onto his neck, Verso’s eyes rolling to the back of his head. He feels untethered, like he would float away if it weren’t for the fingers locking him into place.
He shakes his head desperately. Verso doesn’t know if he is denying Gustave’s words or the sweet heat building in his belly, in his chest, in his balls, but it doesn't matter. Gustave rises to press a firm kiss against his lips, dragging his thumb against the slit of Verso’s tip and taking advantage of the gasp it elicits to lick into his mouth. Verso kisses back as best he can, brain fuzzy and foggy and Paintress above, he can’t think—
“You are,” Gustave breathes into his mouth, pressing his forehead to Verso’s. “Beautiful, perfect, so good for me.”
The words hit with the same force of Gustave’s overcharge against his throbbing dick. Verso moans helplessly, hips rocking desperately but there is nowhere to go, either direction bouncing him between twin points of inescapable pleasure as rocking up drags his cock through the biting chill of Gustave’s metal fingers and thrusting back spears him further open against the three fingers Gustave has mercilessly stuffed up his ass. There’s nowhere to go, he can’t think, his heart rate ratchets up and he can feel it pounding everywhere, in his temples, in his throbbing cock, red and leaking and harder than he’s ever been in his miserable life, in the rhythmic twitching of his hole as it greedily sucks those fingers in further as if they are a dick he can properly ride. He throws his head from side to side, desperate to escape the onslaught, desperate to escape those damning words that Gustave can’t possibly mean.
“‘m not,” he slurs, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth as drool escapes from one corner of it. “I’m not good, I’m not…” He gasps wetly as Gustave thrusts his fingers meanly, almost pulling out entirely before slamming back into him and Verso swears he can see every color of the Canvas bursting behind his eyelids as his eyes slip shut once more, turning his head away from the feelings, from the man invoking them.
“Just look at you.” Gustave’s fingers pull away from his prostate but the relief is short lived as he begins thrusting his hand in earnest, Verso’s voice cracking around a shrill whine. “Taking me so well, letting me hear your pretty sounds… How can you be anything but my good boy?”
Tears burst forth immediately and Verso is quick to slap his hands over his heated face, embarrassed and so disgustingly aroused he can feel it in his teeth. It feels so good. He can’t remember the last time he felt this good. He can’t remember if he’s ever felt this good, Julie being the closest but even then he’d been hiding to an extent because he couldn't give her the truth, not until it was too late and all of it blew up spectacularly and proved right every fear Verso has ever harbored. Until now, until this exact moment, until Gustave, who should hate him, Gustave who should be anywhere else other than wasting time on an old, decrepit and broken thing like him and yet is here anyway, working him with his hands and fingers and words and Verso’s mouth can’t decide on what sounds to make, sobs interspersed with desperate, reedy moans.
“Gustave, Gustave, please, ah! Pl— oohhh, Gustave—” Verso’s voice is wrecked and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, for release, for an end, for Gustave to leave and never come back, for Gustave to pound his hole until Verso’s body doesn't remember how to shape itself without the engineer’s cock buried inside of it, for Gustave to let him cum, finally, please—
The hand around his cock disappears and the next sob out of Verso’s mouth is harsher, sharper from the loss, shaking his head desperately and hips riding up into empty air before slamming back down against those fingers. Metal fingers gently bat his hands away to cup his cheek and he presses into them with a ragged exhale as a thumb brushes delicately under his eye, rubbing away the tears. “Mon amour, give yourself a break, huh? Just feel me. Don't think about worthiness or what you think you deserve. Just feel me.” Then Gustave moves back down and Verso’s dick is enveloped by wet heat as he sucks it into his mouth.
Verso keens, desperation moving his body in ways he never would ordinarily. Verso has not allowed anyone to touch him like this in a very, very long time. He knows himself, he knows he cannot give himself to another like this and keep his stupid battered heart out of it, and that is the one thing he can never afford to give again, because he still wakes up screaming some nights from what happened the last time he gave the fragile beating thing to another, and there is hardly anything left of it to even offer and he shudders to think of the state it would be given back to him in were he to try again. It makes him sensitive, responsive in a way that is wildly embarrassing for a man as old as he is, even if physically he is still forever twenty-six. Verso shakes his head again, another denial that is just as meaningless as the first one as he feels himself hurtling towards that peak, the climb faster than it’s been all night.
Gustave, despite Verso’s every effort, knows him. He lets the head of Verso’s cock sit hot and heavy on his tongue as those chilled metal fingers move to roll his balls, another soft pulse of electricity making Verso jolt and let out a sound pathetically close to a squeak. His hands move to cover his face once more as Gustave begins bobbing his head, taking him deep enough that Verso swears he can feel his tip brushing against the back of Gustave’s throat, all the while keeping up the thrusting of his fingers in his ass, and Verso swears he is about to unravel entirely. He moans raggedly, the room starting to spin slow circles around him as every one of his senses is overloaded by the pleasure, by Gustave, by the love and the writhing fear that has never left him still, ever since the world broke apart seven decades ago, and he has no idea how to put it down.
He rocks up once into Gustave’s mouth, unable to hold his hips still, before viciously reclaiming his control, biting at his knuckle in a feverish attempt to muffle the awful noises coming out of his mouth. Gustave’s beautiful eyes, brown with just the faintest hint of green poking through, meet his, and Verso can read the disapproval there, knows what the engineer wants without him having to say a word, but he can’t. Verso has spent every second of every minute of every day of every decade in absolute control of himself, shying away from even the implication of vulnerability, and even with his cock feeling like it is about to erupt, it is not an instinct he can simply switch off. His gaze skitters away from Gustave’s, shame and desire and want and heat battling for dominance in his cotton stuffed head.
Gustave slowly pulls off his dick, just the barest hint of teeth scraping against it as he moves up, and Verso feels wild with it, a punched out sound escaping him, and then there are lips against his cheeks, kissing away the salty tears before they once again claim his own. Verso can taste himself on Gustave’s tongue and he feels wild, he feels like he’s on the precipice of a cliff that, should he step off of, he will never find his way back to the top of, it’s exhilarating, it’s terrifying—
Gustave cups his cheek again, bringing him slamming back into his body just as those fingers shift their angle, finding his prostate and offering no mercy this time as they tap against it in a consistent pattern that has him moaning obscenely into Gustave’s mouth, bearing down as they keep going, hitting his prostate again and again and again as Gustave’s thumb once again moves to brush under Verso’s eye, not bothering to try and wipe away the tears, just stroking his cheek, like he’s soothing a wild animal. Gustave’s mouth brushes against his ear as he leans down closer to him.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, and his voice sounds just as wrecked as Verso feels, as if he’s the one that’s been kept on the edge all night, as if he’s the one having every single one of his sweet spots plucked like the keys of his piano, and Verso whines, high pitched and drawn out, voice breaking apart halfway through it as he squeezes his eyes tightly shut. He can still feel them twitching wildly from the overload of pleasure, his whole face contorting from the force of it as his toes curl. “You’re right here, in my arms, Verso. You’re safe.”
The words are absolutely nonsensical, the useless sort of reassurances offered to someone long doomed. Verso hasn't been safe ever. But Gustave, who has already proven him wrong so many times over, makes him feel like maybe, one day, he could be. And that’s dangerous. It’s dangerous, and terrifying, that word. Maybe. Hope has always been a thing that burns. But maybe, maybe—
Maybe he can place just a little more trust into these mismatched hands that have determinedly carried him through and out of every hell he has sought to bury himself in.
Gustave’s hand leaves his cheek to once again circle his cock, the thumb rubbing over the tip and smearing precum down the whole length of it before sending another charge pulsing through his length, this one stronger than the previous ones, and he feels his balls tingling, drawing up near painfully, before his dick twitches hard and he bursts.
Ropes of cum splatter across his stomach, up his chest, he thinks some even shoots up to his chin, and Verso sobs with the release, panting and heaving and tears burning twin paths down his cheeks as he cums and cums and cums, cock pulsing relentlessly and his hole fluttering desperately around Gustave’s fingers in a rhythmic clench and release, as if trying to milk them. The entire world fades away to a distant buzzing, sounds distorting as if reaching him from the other end of a very long tunnel, and Verso covers his face once more as he sobs, just as unable to stop the tears as he is to stop the pearlescent liquid still slowly drooling out of his flagging cock.
A cool hand brushes delicately through his sweaty hair and Verso leans into the touch like a stray cat, desperate for pets but far too wary to ask for them outright. Gustave huffs a quiet laugh, indulgently running his fingers through Verso’s hair until his sobs taper off into quiet sniffles. He feels those fingers give one last scratch at the base of his skull before they pull away, and Verso prepares himself for the coldness that comes after. Prepares himself to have to tuck himself, still stained and shaky, back into his pants, wipe away the tear and cum stains and drag himself back to whatever miserable place he calls home. He’s already shifting on the bed, placing his hands palm down on the sheets to push himself up, when a gentle hand presses down against his chest.
He blinks his eyes open and sees Gustave smiling warmly at him with a wet towel in hand. Verso watches, uncomprehending, as Gustave begins wiping off the sticky mess on Verso’s stomach, one hand coming up to brush some cum out of Verso’s beard, and he feels his cock give a pitiful twitch of interest when Gustave presses that finger into Verso’s mouth. He sucks the finger clean eagerly, eyes fluttering half shut as Gustave watches him with a piercing gaze that burns. Has anyone ever looked at him like that before? Like they want to eat him alive, but not to devour, not to consume, but to have. His face feels horribly flushed as Gustave pulls his hand away, moving it down to rub comforting circles into his hip as the towel moves downward.
Verso’s breath hitches on a soft whimper as Gustave carefully cleans his cock and hole, his face burning further at the filthy squelching noises and the overstimulation shivering down his spine.
“Shh,” Gustave croons, finishing up between his thighs and tossing the towel to the side to be dealt with later. “It’s ok, it’s over.” He shifts both of them to a clean spot of the bed and wraps Verso in his arms, pulling the blanket up over both of them. “You did so good for me. Rest now.”
Verso tentatively rests his head on Gustave’s shoulder, hesitant, waiting to be kicked out because it’s done now, right? Gustave got what he wanted, even if it doesn’t make sense because Gustave didn’t cum at all, and he still wants to care for Verso and hold him? And then Verso remembers, he is not with some fling. He is not with some Expeditioner that decided they wanted one last night of fun before their inevitable death. He’s with Gustave, who tells him he deserves to feel good, too. Who tells him that he deserves softness and kindness and tenderness. Who tells him—
“I love you,” Gustave whispers, pressing a kiss to Verso’s temple, and the words send his heart racing. He doesn’t think anyone has ever actually loved him. The only person that came close, that knew him not as Verso Dessendre but just as Verso, she— well, it wasn’t love. She never knew him at all, really. He hasn’t heard it since, and he hasn’t wanted to. Declarations of love are declarations of possession. They are chains, shackling him to this Canvas, to this life, to whatever performance of a life the current holder of the chroma wishes him to put on for her. Declarations of love are heavy, and terrifying, and painful, he doesn't want to grieve anyone else, he doesn’t want anyone else to have to grieve him, he’s still so tired.
A hand strokes a soothing caress down his back, pressing him closer against Gustave’s chest as the man presses another fierce kiss to the top of Verso’s head. “Rest, Verso. Rest. You’re with me. You’re safe.”
Verso closes his eyes and buries his face into the crook of Gustave’s neck. He can’t bring himself to respond, but he also knows that Gustave doesn’t expect one of him. It is a whole additional can of worms, but Verso is tired, and he doesn’t want to.
He has carried the weight of his existence for so long. He has no idea how to put it down. But maybe, maybe— maybe, for tonight, maybe he can lean some of it on Gustave. Just a little bit. He sinks into Gustave’s arms and when he does slip into sleep, no nightmares hound his heels.