[ Lightning, wind, fire (unbeknownst to him, there are two variations of that last element: life-giving, and life-taking). Clive presses a hand to his chest, picking apart the colors sitting under his skin and listening for each one, eyes closed. He's never stopped to wonder if everyone in Lumiere has the same sort of synesthesia that he does. ]
You feel like...
[ A breath, here, as he reaches for sparkling silver-white. It gets easier and easier to access every time he calls on it, and more and more familiar every time his consciousness brushes up against it. ]
...Starlight. [ With conviction, as he lets that warmth flood from from chest to fingertips. It makes him glow somewhat― just a little silver streaking his night-black hair, mimicking Verso and his stripes of white. ] Like guidance.
[ So, no, nothing interpretable or concrete. Nothing that Clive can pull apart for clues or information. Just a feeling, an essence, the intent that Verso had tried to slide into his heart that night, tired and desperate as they both were for some sort of connection. A reassurance, even, that Verso exists.
He tucks the feeling back into his chest for safekeeping, and breathes through his nose. ]
It feels good. [ Simply put. ] I doubt I could part with it.
[The sound of starlight twinkles in the space between them. Its light glimmers in Clive's hair. Clive speaks of guidance, but the only guidance Verso feels works in the opposite direction; he finds himself carding his fingers through that patch of light, releasing a slow and gentle breath as if he's worried he'll spook it all away.]
Hey. No fair. You wear it better than I do.
[Laughter rings through his voice without gaining its own momentum. Fondness, too, but that's almost become a staple of how he speaks to Clive these days, with an almost ever-present hint of a purr chasing his rumbling tone. An impulse to kiss him rises and goes ignored; were they anywhere else Verso wouldn't have thought twice, but not here, never here where so many lie dead and displaced. So, he takes his hand instead, summoning a burst of chroma to pool between their palms, brimming with the warmth and softness of something shared. Another good feeling, Verso hopes; a reassertion opposed to the thought of parting. Being kept as a part of someone has long been a very complicated thing for him, given how it tends to end up with the other person throwing themselves into their own fires. With Clive, though...]
I like that. The thought of you keeping a part of me with you.
[Clive is his Clive and he is his Verso, and possessive though those impulses may be, they feel liberating more than anything, a celebration of a sense of belonging that once felt as fantastical as anything else in this world. But having his question answered only breeds more curiosity. Albeit a different kind, one Clive can't really answer: how it would feel if Clive's chroma were a part of Verso. And while Verso has never absorbed chroma in the way Clive's describing, he still has to ask:]
[ The glimmer of silver pulses when touched, resonating with Verso's presence in a way that makes Clive's heart tug and flutter. Magnetized to him, Clive sways on his feet and leans in, almost like a hound lowering its head to be scratched between the ears.
Good. It feels good, always. Even better, when Verso deigns to curl their fingers together and floods Clive with more of that starlight chroma, making Clive bend even more towards him, forehead to the furry lining around Verso's collar, where he nuzzles inwards for a few, long breaths.
No other color has felt like this. It sates that hungry, ravenous hole in his chest in the shape of Ifrit, who sits in his consciousness with its mouth open, still demanding to swallow Verso whole; Clive doesn't consider that he was painted to harmonize with the immortal shift of Verso and his family's chroma, because the truth of that doesn't resonate with him. He feels this way because he chooses to, and he feels this way because he wants Verso. With or without Ifrit, he will always want this beautiful man and the white-silver shimmer of his soul.
Finally, Clive sways back upwards. Relaxed, but poised. Pleased to know that Verso isn't horrified by the idea of Clive laying claim to part of him, and reciprocally curious about whether his power could work in reverse. ]
...Would you want to chance it? [ You know. Because he's not sure if the color of his own chroma will be pleasant at all, tinged by Ifrit as it is. Maybe it'll be corrosive for Verso, a virulent thing that eats away at all that precious silver. The thought of it pinches Clive's brows inward in a slight frown.
But he does try it. A little mote of fire, burning quietly on the palm of his hand. (Again, if he knew about how 'Verso' died, this might horrify him a lot more.) ]
[The Canvas has long lapped at Verso with its perpetual flames. To embrace them now – to get even a glimpse at the chroma inside of Clive, chroma that quite likely has the power to burn everything to the ground – doesn't scare Verso. What greater expression of denial exists than to embrace that which has been used to try and imprison him? So, when he feels the tickle of Clive's fire, he wraps his own chroma around it then retracts them both deep inside of himself, closing his eyes and letting the fire work its way through him.
It burns at first in the way that the real Verso had burned: sharp and searing, moving with a hunger that will never know sating. His grip on Clive's hand tightens and he hisses through his teeth, focusing on how these flames – even if starved for more – are not greedy. They touch his own chroma without lingering, simply delivering the abstractions of their truths, and Verso finds comfort in how they don't hide away from how honesty fucking hurts, sometimes.
Eventually, he stops burning. The brightness of the flames syncs up with the origins of starlight and they harmonise, leaving Verso's whole body tingling like a star field billions strong, each one with a determined flame at their hearts. Hearts that beat to the rhythms of love songs, playing in the pitch of hope.
At first, all he can let out is a breathy laugh and a simple:]
Merde.
[His palm is sweaty; he thinks he can feel more sweat beading along his hairline, too. His own heart beats to adrenaline's rhythm, and while he doesn't know whether his chroma will retain Clive's in the same way that Clive's has his own, the after effects make him certain that he wants it to last for as long as he has breath.]
I'd say that was worth the risk. Your fire, it... It makes my light feel brighter.
[ There's a moment of internal panic when Verso hisses, when the grip of their hands conveys pain instead of companionship. Fire is an element that's inherently destructive, and Clive lingers on the thought that it was foolish to expect it to be anything but.
Breath catching, he opens his mouth to call Verso's name; closes it a moment later, as he tells himself to trust that Verso will be alright. That they were made for each other, and that they're both better for it.
Validation comes in the sound of that merde, in the way that Clive's hair also turns starlit again to match the patter of Verso's elevated heartbeat. It's both perfect and agonizing, and it fills Clive with the sort of need that belongs nowhere in this broken battlefield with its thousands of corpses looking on in muted horror.
A huffed breath, and he reaches to wipe some of the sweat off of Verso's temple, using his free hand to sweep at the soft wave of Verso's two-toned bangs. ]
If such a thing is possible. [ Brighter? When Verso is already the brightest thing in a five-hundred mile radius?
A love-drunk thing to think, certainly, but it's the first thing that comes to mind. Then: ] ...We should discuss this elsewhere, before you make me want to get on my knees.
[ Verso is very lovely when he's framed by Clive's flames. (This better not awaken something in Clive.) A mental note, here, to see how he can tame his own flames so that the process of containing it might be less of an ordeal for Verso if the mote he just passed on fades; Ifrit rumbles in his chest again, pleased and possessive. ]
[Clive casts his doubts and Verso casts him a beaming smile, still bearing all the warmth and the wondrousness of what's he's just experienced.]
What, you can't see it?
[Surely it's sparkling in his eyes; it must be blooming slightly pink across his cheeks, too, from the way the force of it all leaves him feeling flush and interconnected with Clive. It still feels like both the wrong and the right time to kiss him, but there's an appeal to holding back and letting it build inside of him while the still-crackling flames reassert that everything about Clive is hearth and home, right down to the literal core of his existence.
The original plan was to power through the Forgotten Battlefield and set up camp once they reached Monoco's Station. But because Monoco isn't expecting them – and because he might not even be home – when Clive brings up the notion of elsewhere, Verso decides that it can wait. These past few moments do beg discussion. And the rest of what he says, well, that makes its own pleas and creates its own warmth that Verso wants to wrap them both up in. So, with a nod ahead, he gestures to the ruined fortress just off to the side. Rough-hewn stone contrasts against ornate gold-and-black doorways with their sharp lines and geometric designs seeming wholly out of place. Most of the wall on the other side of the doors has collapsed in on itself, but the door furthest left backs onto something more solid. There's even the hint of lamplight peeking in from a faraway corner.]
We can set up camp in that building. There's a room we can use. Takes a bit of navigating to get to it, so it's safe from the Nevrons.
[ Clive can see it. That's the problem, especially in this place of grief; it seems more than a little disrespectful to flaunt their connection in front of the dead, so it's a bit of a relief to be directed towards a place less carefully monitored by the tragedy that surrounds them.
So. He nods, and they head off in the direction of the looming structure. They make short work of a Ramasseur in the way― bolstered by each other's chroma, the Nevron is almost an afterthought― and that quick shot of adrenaline only makes Clive's pulse quicken in his chest.
Up some broken steps, past fractured walkways. Clive tries to imagine what any of this was before strife rendered it all rubble, but everything he can think of is too melancholy for the moment; he sets it all aside in favor of Verso, still burning bright in yellow-gold sunlight, and finally, finally reaches for him once they find themselves in the safest patch available to them in this hell.
Chest to back, hands linked in front of Verso's stomach. Clive encircles Verso in his arms, taking a moment to nose along his nape and to breathe him in. ]
You are warmer.
[ Proof that a piece of Clive flickers in him, still. Verso, his Verso, unique and singular and like nothing and no one else. Clive is convinced of it. ]
[Several Expeditions have sought solace in this room over the years; combined with how the roof and the walls keep the weather out, it's about as close to comfortable as any place can be on the Continent. There's some old barracks beds off to the side, a fireplace with space for a cooking pot and a dwindling stack of firewood, a perpetually lit lantern, and various books and games that the soldiers stationed here may have played, once, that Verso remembers collecting from elsewhere in the fortress.
Not that any of that really matters. The room could be nothing besides crumbling walls and a dusty floor and Verso would still feel like a privileged man for having Clive here with him in more ways than he'd known possible.
The warmth inside of Verso hasn't faded, it's true; neither has the buzzing inside of his own chroma, a sensation that he feels all the more when Clive closes his arms around him and Verso leans a bit of his weight back against him as he hums, content.]
Mm, but I could still be warmer.
[After a moment, he lifts one hand to the side of Clive's face, maneuvering him into a light-laced kiss, letting his chroma emanate from all the places where their bodies touch, just a soft tickle for now, just a hint at what might come should Clive match his energy. The kiss breaks like a tease: too soon for it to get anywhere, slow enough to create a suggestion of more that Verso almost but doesn't quite follow through on.]
[ They can do something practical with the firewood and the books and the supplies later: right now, all Clive sees are flat surfaces that he can lay Verso on, which is not the most gentlemanly thing for him to be contemplating, but. Well. All this talk and demonstration of how their essences sing when they touch has made him go a little out of his mind with want.
The teasing doesn't help. It's white-silver all the way down right now, in his eyes and in his mouth and in his heart. Color without color, a reflection of the rest of the visible spectrum, unyielding in its refusal to be stained. It suits Verso, Clive thinks, and he almost whines in the back of his throat when their brief kiss breaks and he's cut off from the warm taste of him. ]
Yes, [ he whispers. ] And let me keep more of you in me, in turn.
[ Again, love-drunk, except this time he says the stupid thing instead of keeping it in the relative privacy of his head. He parts Verso's hair to kiss a bare patch of neck, smooth and unblemished despite the memory of having bitten into the same spot when Ifrit'd run rampant that one night.
He shudders at the memory of it, but it doesn't deter him from walking Verso over to the nearest bed and falling onto it with playful gracelessness. If he's careful, he thinks he could pull from his furnace and let his chroma wrap around the both of them without them both burning to death― he'd done it once before, when he was winding down from his tantrum and let Verso hold him even when he was more Ifrit than Clive. ]
Will you trust me with this?
[ Because it's not exactly the safest or sanest thing, what Clive is doing here. Wanting to have, but also wanting to give the full breadth of something that even he's still figuring out. Verso wouldn't be blamed for saying no, and Clive will still warm him anyway― just, you know, in a safer and saner way. ]
[Clive keeping more of Verso in him could mean a great many things, and Verso's mind flips through them all with rapacious interest as Clive's lips and breath and warmth against his neck cause a different kind of tingle to layer over the electricity of his chroma, and he curses under his breath.
But then Clive guides him to the bed and his heart bounds ahead of his body; they fall and Verso laughs again, rolling over onto his side so that he can get a better look at Clive. As always, his hair is doing what it wants, so Verso reaches up to brush it aside, only to get distracted by the soft curve of his cheeks and the jut of his jaw, and he ends up stroking his fingers along them instead. Fuck, he's beautiful. Chiselled and rugged and battle scarred, yet with such kind and sad and gentle eyes that draw Verso in with their truths. Hopelessly helplessly, he gets caught up in them, too, as Clive requests his trust anew.
It's an important question, yet Verso doesn't give it a moment's consideration. He doesn't need to; even after what happened with Ifrit, even with the memory of how his back shattered on contact when he was slammed against the ground, and how Ifrit's flames ate away at his palm, and how Clive's beast-driven teeth sank into his neck, Verso's faith in Clive is absolute.
And so is the surety of his response.]
Yeah. Can't really think of anything I won't trust you with.
[Well. There are the the secrets he's still keeping, but that's less a matter of trust and more a consequence of his own struggles to reach out and burden people with things they can't change. Still, he doesn't know what, exactly, to expect, so his heart pounds all the more in his chest, and his breathing gets a little heavier, and his eyes grow wider, but there's no reluctance in any of that. He really does hold absolute faith in Clive.]
[ Yeah, Verso agrees without even the shadow of hesitation, and Clive―
―oh, it's definitely love that he feels. A jolt of it, startlingly powerful, threatening to pull him apart from the inside out. This beautiful man, made and unmade and currently in the making, struggling with masks and memories, trusts Clive with his safety and self. For all of the doubts they both share about their future, Verso says yes to Clive with the sort of certainty that breaks Clive's fucking heart and reassembles it in Verso's shape.
He loves Verso so much. If nothing else about this world is real, this feeling is.
So he repositions their bodies again: a familiar setup, with Verso on his back and Clive covering him like a blanket, elbows on either side of that lovely face, fingers in wind-swept hair. Like the time they first tried to shove themselves together, but with more focus; there's no method to this madness, but at least Clive has a better idea of what he is now, what he can be. ]
Breathe with me.
[ In, out. Clive kisses the rhythm into Verso's mouth for a few seconds, acclimating them both to the cadence. In, out. As he does, he calls on Ifrit, and bids that hungry creature to heed him, and to obey.
This time, there's no struggle. The hellfire in him answers with benign amusement, and pours forth from every inch of Clive's body with exploratory enthusiasm: it paints Clive red, crimson in his hair and crimson in his chest, veinlike streaks flowing from his heart all the way up to the scar on his face. Clive almost chokes on that first rush of heat, but he expels his next breath as steam through his teeth, onto Verso's lips and tongue.
Warm, without being scalding. He pools chroma over Verso, enveloping him and nesting him in Ifrit's seemingly bottomless energy. It's a wonder that the room doesn't catch on fire, but everything stays intact (for now).
(Good thing they didn't do this anywhere near Alicia. Clive might have become Public Enemy Number One if he had.) ]
[At the first brush of Clive's fingers in his hair, Verso closes his eyes, sinks into the bed, and yields to the man who keeps him going. It's chills that he feels at first, not warmth, as he steadies himself and they learn to breathe in tandem, and he shudders the first time that they match each other inhale for exhale.
When the chroma floods him, Verso bucks against Clive; he makes a noise that's part hitched breath, part whimper borne on a purr. He's been warm before – of course he's been warm before – but what he feels now transcends temperature and touch and all the senses he's ever experienced. Focusing on matching their breaths becomes a struggle he nearly fails to overcome, so self-destructively distracted by how good it feels that he has to call upon the most stubborn parts of himself to keep him going, to keep matching Clive breath for breath and kiss for kiss.
Firelight bleeds through his eyelids; stars rise to embrace it. Verso feels Clive's chroma fill him, and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer, closer, closer, there are still pieces of him that need to be baptised by the flames, there are things his heart can't communicate without throbbing its rhythms against Clive's own. At some point, Verso becomes so immersed in Clive's flames that he needs to release his light, so he reciprocates, touching and breathing and loving his fire-brightened light into all the parts of Clive that he can reach. He feels like he's going to implode here on the bed, like he might spontaneously combust only for fate to resurrect him and the process to repeat again and again, the two of them caught in a cycle of rebirth through the power of each other's chroma.]
Fuck, I...
[Love you, love you, love you. Verso doesn't understand how it's possible to feel this fucking close to someone, so close they're sharing the literal essences of their existences, yet still crave more and more and more. But he supposes that love can be such a greedy thing. It's just that he's always known this in painful contexts, and now, now he wants to stake his own white-knuckled claim on Clive's love.
Releasing his hold on Clive, he grasps onto his wrist instead, guiding him to place his palm over his heart.]
[ Synesthesia, again. Supernovas of color and light reflect and refract, scarlet on silver on scarlet on silver, like fingers on piano keys, ivory on charcoal on ivory. The process doesn't feel like painting― it feels like music, playing notes until the sound becomes a tune and the tune becomes a melody, meandering but not directionless, rising and falling in time to the rhythm of their chroma. Clive's ears ring with it, and his exhale becomes a hum, trying to find and carry the note that he's hearing.
They could burn away like this, wrapped in each other. Passing their hearts back and forth for inspection and safekeeping until exhaustion takes them. Clive has never felt so full, never felt so welcomed, never felt so complete. It's almost an unbelievable thing, that it took until the year he was meant to die to find the man who would make him feel so uncompromisingly alive; it's an irony of sorts, but he doesn't even fucking care.
And oh, the sound of Verso's heartbeat is so fucking beautiful. Just like the rest of him. Beloved, beloved, beloved. Clive soothes his palm over Verso's chest, worshiping the map of his body, the shape that contains all of this starlit music. ]
―And I was born for you, to hear your heart beat.
[ More precious than any painting. Clive could spend the rest of his life with his ear against Verso's chest, listening to the proof of him. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
Clive kisses fire into Verso's mouth again, lips and tongue almost numb from it. His heart breaks again, and pieces back together. Over and over, until he can't remember what it felt like before he met Verso, before he knew what it was like to really breathe. ]
I'm sorry I made you wait, [ he finally whispers. ]
[Though Verso can't claim to have been born – created – for any other reason than to salve Aline's grief, the moment that Clive expresses that he was born for him, his heart and soul ring out in unison. Yes, yes, this is his place in the world; tucked away into its unseen corners, uplifted and sheltered and fully encompassed within Clive's presence. He'd will his heart to beat all the more strongly, to make its message resonate all the more clearly, but it does that of its own volition, rising as high as it can as if to kiss at Clive's palm.]
It's okay. I'd say you've more than made up for it.
[A bit of a jest. There's nothing to apologise for, of course; he is here now and he his here in full and he is gracing Verso with warmth and pleasure and joy in measures that he's never experienced. In truth, had he known what awaited him on the other side of the decades of loneliness he's endured, he may well have consented to decades more, for the light of Clive's flames feels like such a strong beacon that Verso can't imagine losing his way knowing that it was what illuminated the paths ahead.
Sighing and laying heavier upon the bed, Verso takes in Clive's luminescence, the streaks of golden-orange in his hair, the glow of his scar, the trail of light that meanders down his neck and tucks itself away behind his shirt. Verso runs his knuckle along that light as far as it can go, then dips his fingers under the edge of Clive's collar, gliding them down until they settle in the V above the button.]
Show me the rest?
[His other hand joins the first, teasing at the button but not fully unseating it. They have time and space and freedom here to take their time and explore each other in ways that their circumstances and the newness of their connection had restricted before; they can redefine what it means to be the other's lover, feeling through the smaller moments, focusing on the details yet to be committed to memory, slowing time while they're afforded the luxury of knowing that it will submit to their command. And he plans to take advantage of that.]
[ Without the sharp, knife's-edge urgency to define his transformation this time around, the glow of Clive's flame is like embers on coal. It's further tempered by Verso's chroma, which coaxes the hellfire to be light-giving instead of life-taking; he pulses scarlet, with the occasional glimmer of silver trailing alongside heartbeat-red. Again, he feels full in a way that he never has― again, he feels like he finally occupies his body in a way that he was meant to.
So, when asked if Verso can see the rest: ]
It's yours.
[ This time, his turn to reply with conviction. Made wrong, Clive had said when he'd first found out about Ifrit; he rescinds that assessment now. Made incomplete, feels more correct. He's caused tragedy upon tragedy trying to find the man that would make him who he was supposed to be, but now that Clive has Verso so close, close enough to house a part of him inside his own soul―
―he's forever bound, for as long as Verso will have him.
But first, he'll oblige the request. Clive swings himself back upright for the process, knees parted and straddling Verso's hips, weight pressed and braced back on toes curled into thin mattress. The Expedition jacket peels off first (with its excess of buckles and belts), followed by the vest hugging his figure into place (the buttons constantly fighting for their lives in the process), then the thin, collared white shirt underneath. With his chest bared, he can also see for the first time how his chroma concentrates around his heart, then fans out to the rest of him; unlike the first time he semi-shifted into this shape, his hands are still intact, human instead of obsidian and clawed.
He shakes out his unruly hair, then runs his hand back over Verso's chest from his current vantage point. Sternum to navel, tracing fingertip-lines of red over Verso's clothes, then pressing his palm against it as if to let the energy permeate through and into his skin. ]
―Founder, you're sinful.
[ Laid out underneath him, relaxed and beautiful and covered in Clive's chroma. ]
[It is his and he claims it, running a finger along the V of Clive's abs while he takes in the sight of those lightlines radiating from his heart. Abstractly, it feels like looking in a mirror. Clive is much broader than him, of course, made from hard muscle like chiseled marble, but that light and the route it travels reflects across Verso's own body. This is the mirroring; it's how Clive's chroma moves through Verso, too, all honest flames and ambient warmth flowing from the core of his heart with the need and the urgency and the belongingness of the blood in his veins.
He laughs at what Clive says next, his response quick to follow.]
And you're salvation.
[Which of course serves to corroborate what Clive is saying. There are a great many levels where Verso has walked and would never wish for Clive to lower himself by joining him on, but he will drag him down, down, down to and along his body as often and for as long as he is able. To be real is to have needs; to be human is to act on them. And fuck if Verso doesn't feel both those things to blissful extents right now with the red light of Clive's fingertips lighting up his shirt. There's a vibration to the warmth of his touch when he palms his stomach, too, and Verso's muscles twitch just so beneath it in eager affirmation.
His hands are doing their own wandering, fingers chasing after firelight and leaving trails of starlight in their wake. His tongue slips out to wet his lips as he thinks of all the other places where he can leave little traces of himself, all the other ways that he can make Clive feel his chroma and how he might respond to them, all the things he wants Clive to salve in him and all those that he wants to salve in him in turn. The fire that soon lights up his eyes is his own, demonstrative of a heat that Clive inspires but that is built entirely upon Verso's own energy. And that energy, right now, is trouble.]
Ah... but I'm not really in the mood for repenting. So, either you make me or...
[One hand shifts to lightly flick his nipple while the other continues twinkling along his side.]
[ First hope, now salvation. Clive laughs about it, brows downturned in vague humility, head shaking as if to say that he can't possibly claim that. But it's playful, and Verso follows the high-brow statement with low-brow touches, so Clive will lean into it with his own brand of tentative coyness, a wolfish tip of his head following the full-bodied gasp at the feeling of that teasing flick. ]
―I'm not as good as you think I am.
[ Big horned hellmonster, remember? Ifrit trills happily in Clive's chest, flaring scarlet-hot from chest to palm, telegraphing that same unholy craving that he bit into Verso's neck all those days ago. I want you, I want to have you, I want to consume you. He lets Verso feel that, too, wanting to conceal nothing about himself now that Verso has him exactly where he wants him (now that Clive has Verso exactly where he wants him), and trails that desire down Verso's stomach and runs it over Verso's thighs, which Clive grips with his fingers for a handhold.
Definitely not an angel, the way Clive slides down Verso's hips and grinds his ass between those long legs. He's never done anything like this before, so the motion is all instinct; primal, uncalculated, and in time to the mental music he's still hearing from the joining of their chroma. Gentle and sweeping. ]
So teach me how to sin, troublemaker.
[ A little breathless, but all affectionate. A challenge and a pet name in one, troublemaker, as if Clive has done anything to deter that mischief. (His brother will claim, accurately, that Clive likes to spoil people more often than not.) ]
[Now doesn't feel like the time to prod at Clive's self-image, so Verso simply responds with a shrug, a little bit impish – the mood has found him and won't soon escape him – but mostly understanding. He doesn't believe he's as good as Clive thinks he is, either.
Besides, the whole of his existence relocates itself to his cock when Clive finds a way to grind against him, and the only thing that manages to spill from his mouth is the sputtering moan of a man caught off guard and chasing a too-fleeting sensation. Grudgingly, despite it being by his own suggestion, Verso draws his legs out from underneath Clive, lifting himself up and scooting himself backward to lean against the headboard and drape his arms over it. The gesture is casual. The posture is casual. The tone of his voice? Casual.]
Well, for starters, you need to be much less clothed.
[Hypocrites are going to hypocrite; after adjusting his jacket without making any move to start undoing it, he gestures to Clive's pants as if their continued existence on him is an affront to him personally.]
Then, you're gonna need to get yourself into a competitive mindset. You know, your partner, he's going to put you through the ringer trying to get you to break first, and you can't let that happen. No, you want to win. And the only way to do that is to get pushed down on the bed and taken by someone you just drove mad with need.
[Ever committed to the bit, Verso holds out his hands in a gesture of I don't make the rules, though that the crooked smile that follows emphasises otherwise. As far as he's concerned, the competition started at the word teach, and this is all a part of his own strategy. Draw out more. Feel more. Experience more. Find and then lose himself more.]
[ Clive, ever-patient and stalwart, shimmies backwards to Verso's upwards scoot, and sits with near-comical primness on his side of the bed, knees still parted and head still tipped in houndlike attention. A good listener by nature and nurture.
He settles there like a human-shaped lava lamp, glowing red-silver, his smile pulling at the corner of his lips. The more Verso talks, the more that smile slants towards amused bemusement, like he cannot believe the bullshit coming out of that beloved mouth.
Unfortunately for Clive, the bullshit is very charming. Theater for the sake of theater and not concealment, which. You know. Clive enjoys. Not the type of play that he'd go to with Uncle Byron, though.
On the tail end of a laugh: ] So the only way to win, [ just to make sure he's understanding this correctly, ] is to lose.
[ To the tune of "you are so fucking ridiculous". This, too, sounds a little like "I love you." (Anyway, it isn't really losing if Clive ultimately gets what he wants, which is Verso.) ]
I'm beginning to think that you might be a horrible teacher.
[ So Clive says, as he starts undoing the front of his pants. Slowly. Deliberately. The way he pushes them down the frankly absurd curve of his hips (what the fuck, Square Enix) matches Verso's dramatics; heeding the only part of the instruction that actually makes any sense, which is driving Verso mad with need. ]
[Verso almost feels bad when Clive starts listening to him so primly, but the laugh makes it worth it in the end. It also only encourages Mister Performance Artist over here to double down even harder.]
Or... [An exaggerated pointing of his finger.] The only way to lose is to win. See, it's all about perspective.
[Speaking of perspective, he's getting the idea that from where Clive stands, bottoming may be less than ideal. Not that Verso couldn't have guessed, given how much he seems to fancy maneuvering him onto his back, but the contrast he strikes between winning and losing is something Verso takes note of all the same. At least momentarily, anyway; Clive starts undressing and nothing else matters but discovering whether he's alight and shimming all over, enticing veins of chroma laid out like trails for him to follow. Verso waits with bated breath, starlight gleaming in his eyes and bringing the softest light to his fingertips as he thinks of leaving his chromatic signature all over Clive's strong, beautiful body, and then...
And then bated becomes baited, and Verso has to fight to present himself as being unperturbed and patient, as if he had actually thought ahead enough in his teasing to predict Clive's response. But that's fine, all of this is fine, he's still on his game, and he demonstrates that by faux-patiently tapping his fingers along the edge of the headboard as he tries to keep afloat of his own bullshit.]
I lose, [ for clarity's sake, ] because I have to wait for you to touch me.
[ Not because he has any macho hangups about bottoming, which he doesn't: as evidenced by everything he's doing now, shimmying out of his pants leg by leg, exposing strong thighs fortified by the same crimson streaks that race up his arms, his neck. He feels like he's teetering just along the side of being ridiculous, pretending to have the body type that benefits from this incremental striptease; the reality, in his opinion, is anything but. Too angular, too square, too strong. He's too grown and too infatuated to be self-conscious in front of the man he loves, but there is a vague wonder if this is more humorous than it is enticing.
Oh well. The pants strip off, and he lets it fall onto the ground next to the bed on top of the boots and socks he's also divested himself of. He's still flame and starlight, softly-glowing blue eyes made just a little dull from arousal, cock not quite at full-mast but getting there, already half-hard from all the chroma-sharing and anticipation.
Clive breathes through his nose, watching for any shifts in Verso's scrutiny, wondering how best to negotiate this. Eventually, he admits: ]
I've never done this before. [ He absolutely refuses to make this maudlin, so he interrupts himself by shifting into what he knows is a frankly obscene position with his thighs parted and his back arched, one hand behind him for balance, the other stealing between his legs to feel along his own rim. ] ―Not in any way that mattered.
[ Just the once, when he was still so numb and lost, 'Wyvern' instead of 'Clive'. After his mother threw him out of their house, burned a mark onto his face to impress upon the fact that he was no longer welcome, and left him to survive with a gaggle of men who needed an errand boy.
Again, he refuses to make this maudlin. He's meant to be seducing Verso, not inciting pity, and so he tries to push the tip of his middle finger inside himself to prove that yes, he wants Verso. Badly. Enough that he doesn't care that he's making a spectacle of his poorly-planned prep, which must be as unsexy as his stripping. ]
I want you to be my first, [ is a strained huff. His eyes shutter, and he reaches inside himself for more starlight; it helps him relax, to hold himself less stiffly. ]
[Oh. Oh, he sees what's happened now. Clive mentions touch and Verso laughs lightly, slightly sheepish over how he's created the impression that there wouldn't be abundant touching but holding his peace for now and keeping himself together as he's treated to a show. Maybe it's a little silly, but he's sufficiently captivated by the whole-body sight of Clive unleashed and Ifrit tamed, and so the answer to whether it's enticing is easily found in the way he looks at him, eyes rapt and lascivious, lips slightly parted as licks them wet, then quirks them into a lewd smile.
Maybe Clive is paint. Maybe he is chroma. Maybe he is someone else's creation, whether upon birth or upon the bestowal of Ifrit. Verso sees him as a man of his own existence, forged in internal and external flames, wearing them now in one of the most exquisite displays of whole-essence beauty he's ever witnessed. The fact that this man chose him feels nothing short of miraculous.
As he talks, Verso listens; as he reveals this part of himself, Verso reveals his own body, keeping his attention far more heavily focused on the Clive than on the act so he can take in everything he's sharing. Not in any way that mattered, he says, and while it's not an experience that Verso shares, the thought of it causes no less of a twinge in his heart, and his expression softens without losing the fire in his eyes. After all, extinguishing those flames is an impossible prospect when the sight of Clive's finger pressing inside of himself brings to mind the question of how good it will feel to fill him up and bottom out inside of him.
With his jacket, vest, and shirt off and discarded in one direction of the other, he rises from the bed to strip the rest of himself bare, then moves to take a seat in Clive's lap, wrapping his legs around him, cock gently bumping against cock. Like this, he runs his thumb along Clive's bottom lip with starlit fingertips.]
Then, I'll take you, and take you, and take you, until the only word you can speak is my name.
[His voice is improbably soft given the message it carries, but then that's part of it, too. He wants Clive, desperately, but he needs him in whole, not as a quick fuck, not with the way their chroma moves between them in ways they've yet to experience in full. So, he continues.]
Touch is the whole point, mon feu.
[To demonstrate, he snakes his other hand between them to dance a path of stars along Clive's half-hard cock, featherlight and teasing.]
[ A misinterpretation of the assignment: Clive thought he'd have to go without until Verso deemed him worthy of being claimed. Which would've been a fun little test in and of itself, though he would always prefer Verso being a participant rather than the audience, and especially for what he deems, ostensibly, his first time allowing anyone to claim him fully.
So he's happy to be mistaken. Very mistaken, as weight displaces on the mattress and Clive is seeing starlight not from a distance, now, and up close― so close, in fact, that Verso climbs onto his knees and gives Clive his weight and his promise, lets Clive taste his essence along his lip.
His eyes snap open again, and for a gasp of a second, Clive goes entirely silver. Crimson flames defer to the intensity of Verso's chroma, opening up all of Clive to allow Verso's energy access to every pathway, every meandering inch of his wanting body. It's intense in a way that stiffens Clive all the way, makes his cock drool shamelessly once touched; the expanse of his body feels like one open nerve, eager and humming for Verso's attention. ]
Oh, fuck, [ he whines, when he remembers to breathe. Scarlet makes its way back to the fore, but only barely― all Clive can see, as he pushes past his own discomfort to bury his middle deeper inside himself, bucking and grinding against Verso's cock in the process, is Verso's haloed hair, his halo eyes. A fucking angel. Sinner and saint, Clive's everything. ] All of it― mon étoile, give me all of it. Fill me with you, just you.
[ His Verso. Not a facsimile, not a replication, not anything but this feeling of warm, unyielding starlight, resisting stain and blemish. If Clive was made to consume him, let him consume him on his own terms: let it be about love and not violence, of being together instead of tearing apart.
Another moan, as Clive laves his tongue along the finger still pressed against his mouth. Hunger makes Ifrit roil again in this happy push-and-pull, lapping along Verso's edges with teasing, playful heat.
Some couples worry about breaking the bed in their coupling; Clive momentarily has a real concern that they might take the fucking fortress down.
Might be fun. He sighs again, warm and provocative, and relinquishes Verso's thumb to claim his mouth, wanting more, more, more of that silver. The please he murmurs is less begging and more goading this time around, a bit more in line with the so-called competitive spirit he's supposed to be channeling. ]
[To see Clive coloured with flames is a wondrous sight on its own, one Verso knows he'll never be able to look away from, no matter how overwhelming that brightness may be at times, no matter how much its beauty breaks his heart in the same way that music often does. But for that gold and orange and red to shift to silver – for Verso to look at Clive and see the way that he lights him up, in turn – is everything. It's absolutely fucking everything. Even as the effect fades, the memory claims permanence in Verso's heart and mind and soul.
So does the feeling of the friction between their chroma-laced cocks as he groans in blissful agony. So does the taste of Clive's pre-come; Verso swirls his thumb along his cockhead to capture it then brings it to his mouth, staring Clive straight in the eyes as he slowly, methodically licks himself clean.]
Merde. I could suck you dry.
[But not right now. Touch by touch and breath by breath and deep kiss by deep kiss, it becomes devastatingly difficult for Verso to maintain his side of his game, but he is more than stubborn enough to keep trying, and self-denial is second nature to him, anyway, so after a point he shifts his position to make it harder for Clive to grind against him, pressing one hand against the back of his neck to hold him into an unrelenting kiss, resting the other against the small of his back, sending bursts of starlight from both palms, powering and powering and powering them until they become supernovae.
That please doesn't go ignored – his whole fucking body responds to its delivery into his mouth, nerves shuddering and cock hardening – but instead of meeting that plea with an escalation, he draws some of his chroma back inside of himself and shifts to kissing Clive like there is no urgency between them at all.]
Please be patient.
[His tone is as mischievously teasing as its ever been, and he huffs a laugh against Clive's mouth before his teeth claim his lower lip, the bite long and hard enough to be felt. Possessive, so fucking possessive that he nearly surprises himself, but fuck if he wasn't serious that Clive is his freedom; fuck if he's ever felt more like himself than he does right now, enjoying himself through enjoying his lover, both of their chroma colliding to make him feel grateful that the twisted natures of their existences have at least granted them the boon of these unspeakable pleasures.]
I want you at your breaking point. I need to feel it like it's mine.
[ A hand to the small of his back, and Verso's mouth over his. Clive thinks he could come just from this, his flushed cock completely untouched, flooded with light and being rewired from the inside out. He's dizzy with it, breathless and restless, forgoing the process of spreading himself to concentrate solely on the unrelenting, unforgiving, perfect bursts of pure silver that spread up his spine, go straight to his cock, take root in his heart.
He's close, shaking, and then－
－it's gone, retracted, leaving Clive smoldering in his own embers again, gasping for breath. And fuck, it's so unfair, it's so fucking unfair to the point of it being near-cruel, and Clive's next whine is almost a growl, low and throaty and desperate. ]
Verso.
[ He tilts his balance forward, the arm used to brace himself now curling around Verso's shoulders to reorient, back arched, chest to chest. It should be impossible for someone to feel so good everywhere, to set his nerves alight wherever they touch; maybe it so happens now that Clive can't attune to anyone else ever again, so completely taken by Verso and the color of him, bathed in reflective white.
He wouldn't care, if that were the case. He bucks against Verso's knee, trying to find any part of him to make friction with, resuming his efforts to pry himself open so that he can fucking take Verso already, Verso and his perfect chroma and his perfect cock. Two fingers this time, rash and impulsive, the wet sounds from between his legs an obscene undercurrent to the music they're making. ]
Fuck, fuck－ [ Patience is the last thing on Clive's mind, but he can try for Verso. He could do anything for Verso, he would give anything for Verso. Sweat-slick foreheads rub together, and Clive licks at kiss-swollen lips, coaxing more teeth, more tongue. ] ―I feel so empty without you.
[ Is he winning? Is he losing? Does it matter? Verso wants to see him break, and Clive wants to see Verso break. He wants the slant of those beautiful, coy lips to pull tight, and those warm eyes to turn hungry and sharp. He wants Verso to shove him down and take him, and so－
－he tries to want to win. Raking lines of fire along Verso's shoulderblades, tracing each stack of his spine with licks of flame. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
You feel like...
[ A breath, here, as he reaches for sparkling silver-white. It gets easier and easier to access every time he calls on it, and more and more familiar every time his consciousness brushes up against it. ]
...Starlight. [ With conviction, as he lets that warmth flood from from chest to fingertips. It makes him glow somewhat― just a little silver streaking his night-black hair, mimicking Verso and his stripes of white. ] Like guidance.
[ So, no, nothing interpretable or concrete. Nothing that Clive can pull apart for clues or information. Just a feeling, an essence, the intent that Verso had tried to slide into his heart that night, tired and desperate as they both were for some sort of connection. A reassurance, even, that Verso exists.
He tucks the feeling back into his chest for safekeeping, and breathes through his nose. ]
It feels good. [ Simply put. ] I doubt I could part with it.
[ "I doubt I could part with you". ]
no subject
Hey. No fair. You wear it better than I do.
[Laughter rings through his voice without gaining its own momentum. Fondness, too, but that's almost become a staple of how he speaks to Clive these days, with an almost ever-present hint of a purr chasing his rumbling tone. An impulse to kiss him rises and goes ignored; were they anywhere else Verso wouldn't have thought twice, but not here, never here where so many lie dead and displaced. So, he takes his hand instead, summoning a burst of chroma to pool between their palms, brimming with the warmth and softness of something shared. Another good feeling, Verso hopes; a reassertion opposed to the thought of parting. Being kept as a part of someone has long been a very complicated thing for him, given how it tends to end up with the other person throwing themselves into their own fires. With Clive, though...]
I like that. The thought of you keeping a part of me with you.
[Clive is his Clive and he is his Verso, and possessive though those impulses may be, they feel liberating more than anything, a celebration of a sense of belonging that once felt as fantastical as anything else in this world. But having his question answered only breeds more curiosity. Albeit a different kind, one Clive can't really answer: how it would feel if Clive's chroma were a part of Verso. And while Verso has never absorbed chroma in the way Clive's describing, he still has to ask:]
You think it could work both ways?
no subject
Good. It feels good, always. Even better, when Verso deigns to curl their fingers together and floods Clive with more of that starlight chroma, making Clive bend even more towards him, forehead to the furry lining around Verso's collar, where he nuzzles inwards for a few, long breaths.
No other color has felt like this. It sates that hungry, ravenous hole in his chest in the shape of Ifrit, who sits in his consciousness with its mouth open, still demanding to swallow Verso whole; Clive doesn't consider that he was painted to harmonize with the immortal shift of Verso and his family's chroma, because the truth of that doesn't resonate with him. He feels this way because he chooses to, and he feels this way because he wants Verso. With or without Ifrit, he will always want this beautiful man and the white-silver shimmer of his soul.
Finally, Clive sways back upwards. Relaxed, but poised. Pleased to know that Verso isn't horrified by the idea of Clive laying claim to part of him, and reciprocally curious about whether his power could work in reverse. ]
...Would you want to chance it? [ You know. Because he's not sure if the color of his own chroma will be pleasant at all, tinged by Ifrit as it is. Maybe it'll be corrosive for Verso, a virulent thing that eats away at all that precious silver. The thought of it pinches Clive's brows inward in a slight frown.
But he does try it. A little mote of fire, burning quietly on the palm of his hand. (Again, if he knew about how 'Verso' died, this might horrify him a lot more.) ]
no subject
It burns at first in the way that the real Verso had burned: sharp and searing, moving with a hunger that will never know sating. His grip on Clive's hand tightens and he hisses through his teeth, focusing on how these flames – even if starved for more – are not greedy. They touch his own chroma without lingering, simply delivering the abstractions of their truths, and Verso finds comfort in how they don't hide away from how honesty fucking hurts, sometimes.
Eventually, he stops burning. The brightness of the flames syncs up with the origins of starlight and they harmonise, leaving Verso's whole body tingling like a star field billions strong, each one with a determined flame at their hearts. Hearts that beat to the rhythms of love songs, playing in the pitch of hope.
At first, all he can let out is a breathy laugh and a simple:]
Merde.
[His palm is sweaty; he thinks he can feel more sweat beading along his hairline, too. His own heart beats to adrenaline's rhythm, and while he doesn't know whether his chroma will retain Clive's in the same way that Clive's has his own, the after effects make him certain that he wants it to last for as long as he has breath.]
I'd say that was worth the risk. Your fire, it... It makes my light feel brighter.
no subject
Breath catching, he opens his mouth to call Verso's name; closes it a moment later, as he tells himself to trust that Verso will be alright. That they were made for each other, and that they're both better for it.
Validation comes in the sound of that merde, in the way that Clive's hair also turns starlit again to match the patter of Verso's elevated heartbeat. It's both perfect and agonizing, and it fills Clive with the sort of need that belongs nowhere in this broken battlefield with its thousands of corpses looking on in muted horror.
A huffed breath, and he reaches to wipe some of the sweat off of Verso's temple, using his free hand to sweep at the soft wave of Verso's two-toned bangs. ]
If such a thing is possible. [ Brighter? When Verso is already the brightest thing in a five-hundred mile radius?
A love-drunk thing to think, certainly, but it's the first thing that comes to mind. Then: ] ...We should discuss this elsewhere, before you make me want to get on my knees.
[ Verso is very lovely when he's framed by Clive's flames. (This better not awaken something in Clive.) A mental note, here, to see how he can tame his own flames so that the process of containing it might be less of an ordeal for Verso if the mote he just passed on fades; Ifrit rumbles in his chest again, pleased and possessive. ]
no subject
What, you can't see it?
[Surely it's sparkling in his eyes; it must be blooming slightly pink across his cheeks, too, from the way the force of it all leaves him feeling flush and interconnected with Clive. It still feels like both the wrong and the right time to kiss him, but there's an appeal to holding back and letting it build inside of him while the still-crackling flames reassert that everything about Clive is hearth and home, right down to the literal core of his existence.
The original plan was to power through the Forgotten Battlefield and set up camp once they reached Monoco's Station. But because Monoco isn't expecting them – and because he might not even be home – when Clive brings up the notion of elsewhere, Verso decides that it can wait. These past few moments do beg discussion. And the rest of what he says, well, that makes its own pleas and creates its own warmth that Verso wants to wrap them both up in. So, with a nod ahead, he gestures to the ruined fortress just off to the side. Rough-hewn stone contrasts against ornate gold-and-black doorways with their sharp lines and geometric designs seeming wholly out of place. Most of the wall on the other side of the doors has collapsed in on itself, but the door furthest left backs onto something more solid. There's even the hint of lamplight peeking in from a faraway corner.]
We can set up camp in that building. There's a room we can use. Takes a bit of navigating to get to it, so it's safe from the Nevrons.
no subject
So. He nods, and they head off in the direction of the looming structure. They make short work of a Ramasseur in the way― bolstered by each other's chroma, the Nevron is almost an afterthought― and that quick shot of adrenaline only makes Clive's pulse quicken in his chest.
Up some broken steps, past fractured walkways. Clive tries to imagine what any of this was before strife rendered it all rubble, but everything he can think of is too melancholy for the moment; he sets it all aside in favor of Verso, still burning bright in yellow-gold sunlight, and finally, finally reaches for him once they find themselves in the safest patch available to them in this hell.
Chest to back, hands linked in front of Verso's stomach. Clive encircles Verso in his arms, taking a moment to nose along his nape and to breathe him in. ]
You are warmer.
[ Proof that a piece of Clive flickers in him, still. Verso, his Verso, unique and singular and like nothing and no one else. Clive is convinced of it. ]
no subject
Not that any of that really matters. The room could be nothing besides crumbling walls and a dusty floor and Verso would still feel like a privileged man for having Clive here with him in more ways than he'd known possible.
The warmth inside of Verso hasn't faded, it's true; neither has the buzzing inside of his own chroma, a sensation that he feels all the more when Clive closes his arms around him and Verso leans a bit of his weight back against him as he hums, content.]
Mm, but I could still be warmer.
[After a moment, he lifts one hand to the side of Clive's face, maneuvering him into a light-laced kiss, letting his chroma emanate from all the places where their bodies touch, just a soft tickle for now, just a hint at what might come should Clive match his energy. The kiss breaks like a tease: too soon for it to get anywhere, slow enough to create a suggestion of more that Verso almost but doesn't quite follow through on.]
Let me feel you everywhere.
no subject
The teasing doesn't help. It's white-silver all the way down right now, in his eyes and in his mouth and in his heart. Color without color, a reflection of the rest of the visible spectrum, unyielding in its refusal to be stained. It suits Verso, Clive thinks, and he almost whines in the back of his throat when their brief kiss breaks and he's cut off from the warm taste of him. ]
Yes, [ he whispers. ] And let me keep more of you in me, in turn.
[ Again, love-drunk, except this time he says the stupid thing instead of keeping it in the relative privacy of his head. He parts Verso's hair to kiss a bare patch of neck, smooth and unblemished despite the memory of having bitten into the same spot when Ifrit'd run rampant that one night.
He shudders at the memory of it, but it doesn't deter him from walking Verso over to the nearest bed and falling onto it with playful gracelessness. If he's careful, he thinks he could pull from his furnace and let his chroma wrap around the both of them without them both burning to death― he'd done it once before, when he was winding down from his tantrum and let Verso hold him even when he was more Ifrit than Clive. ]
Will you trust me with this?
[ Because it's not exactly the safest or sanest thing, what Clive is doing here. Wanting to have, but also wanting to give the full breadth of something that even he's still figuring out. Verso wouldn't be blamed for saying no, and Clive will still warm him anyway― just, you know, in a safer and saner way. ]
no subject
But then Clive guides him to the bed and his heart bounds ahead of his body; they fall and Verso laughs again, rolling over onto his side so that he can get a better look at Clive. As always, his hair is doing what it wants, so Verso reaches up to brush it aside, only to get distracted by the soft curve of his cheeks and the jut of his jaw, and he ends up stroking his fingers along them instead. Fuck, he's beautiful. Chiselled and rugged and battle scarred, yet with such kind and sad and gentle eyes that draw Verso in with their truths. Hopelessly helplessly, he gets caught up in them, too, as Clive requests his trust anew.
It's an important question, yet Verso doesn't give it a moment's consideration. He doesn't need to; even after what happened with Ifrit, even with the memory of how his back shattered on contact when he was slammed against the ground, and how Ifrit's flames ate away at his palm, and how Clive's beast-driven teeth sank into his neck, Verso's faith in Clive is absolute.
And so is the surety of his response.]
Yeah. Can't really think of anything I won't trust you with.
[Well. There are the the secrets he's still keeping, but that's less a matter of trust and more a consequence of his own struggles to reach out and burden people with things they can't change. Still, he doesn't know what, exactly, to expect, so his heart pounds all the more in his chest, and his breathing gets a little heavier, and his eyes grow wider, but there's no reluctance in any of that. He really does hold absolute faith in Clive.]
no subject
―oh, it's definitely love that he feels. A jolt of it, startlingly powerful, threatening to pull him apart from the inside out. This beautiful man, made and unmade and currently in the making, struggling with masks and memories, trusts Clive with his safety and self. For all of the doubts they both share about their future, Verso says yes to Clive with the sort of certainty that breaks Clive's fucking heart and reassembles it in Verso's shape.
He loves Verso so much. If nothing else about this world is real, this feeling is.
So he repositions their bodies again: a familiar setup, with Verso on his back and Clive covering him like a blanket, elbows on either side of that lovely face, fingers in wind-swept hair. Like the time they first tried to shove themselves together, but with more focus; there's no method to this madness, but at least Clive has a better idea of what he is now, what he can be. ]
Breathe with me.
[ In, out. Clive kisses the rhythm into Verso's mouth for a few seconds, acclimating them both to the cadence. In, out. As he does, he calls on Ifrit, and bids that hungry creature to heed him, and to obey.
This time, there's no struggle. The hellfire in him answers with benign amusement, and pours forth from every inch of Clive's body with exploratory enthusiasm: it paints Clive red, crimson in his hair and crimson in his chest, veinlike streaks flowing from his heart all the way up to the scar on his face. Clive almost chokes on that first rush of heat, but he expels his next breath as steam through his teeth, onto Verso's lips and tongue.
Warm, without being scalding. He pools chroma over Verso, enveloping him and nesting him in Ifrit's seemingly bottomless energy. It's a wonder that the room doesn't catch on fire, but everything stays intact (for now).
(Good thing they didn't do this anywhere near Alicia. Clive might have become Public Enemy Number One if he had.) ]
no subject
When the chroma floods him, Verso bucks against Clive; he makes a noise that's part hitched breath, part whimper borne on a purr. He's been warm before – of course he's been warm before – but what he feels now transcends temperature and touch and all the senses he's ever experienced. Focusing on matching their breaths becomes a struggle he nearly fails to overcome, so self-destructively distracted by how good it feels that he has to call upon the most stubborn parts of himself to keep him going, to keep matching Clive breath for breath and kiss for kiss.
Firelight bleeds through his eyelids; stars rise to embrace it. Verso feels Clive's chroma fill him, and he wraps his arms around him, pulling him closer, closer, closer, there are still pieces of him that need to be baptised by the flames, there are things his heart can't communicate without throbbing its rhythms against Clive's own. At some point, Verso becomes so immersed in Clive's flames that he needs to release his light, so he reciprocates, touching and breathing and loving his fire-brightened light into all the parts of Clive that he can reach. He feels like he's going to implode here on the bed, like he might spontaneously combust only for fate to resurrect him and the process to repeat again and again, the two of them caught in a cycle of rebirth through the power of each other's chroma.]
Fuck, I...
[Love you, love you, love you. Verso doesn't understand how it's possible to feel this fucking close to someone, so close they're sharing the literal essences of their existences, yet still crave more and more and more. But he supposes that love can be such a greedy thing. It's just that he's always known this in painful contexts, and now, now he wants to stake his own white-knuckled claim on Clive's love.
Releasing his hold on Clive, he grasps onto his wrist instead, guiding him to place his palm over his heart.]
Mon coeur bat pour toi, et toi seul.
[And oh, how it beats.]
no subject
They could burn away like this, wrapped in each other. Passing their hearts back and forth for inspection and safekeeping until exhaustion takes them. Clive has never felt so full, never felt so welcomed, never felt so complete. It's almost an unbelievable thing, that it took until the year he was meant to die to find the man who would make him feel so uncompromisingly alive; it's an irony of sorts, but he doesn't even fucking care.
And oh, the sound of Verso's heartbeat is so fucking beautiful. Just like the rest of him. Beloved, beloved, beloved. Clive soothes his palm over Verso's chest, worshiping the map of his body, the shape that contains all of this starlit music. ]
―And I was born for you, to hear your heart beat.
[ More precious than any painting. Clive could spend the rest of his life with his ear against Verso's chest, listening to the proof of him. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
Clive kisses fire into Verso's mouth again, lips and tongue almost numb from it. His heart breaks again, and pieces back together. Over and over, until he can't remember what it felt like before he met Verso, before he knew what it was like to really breathe. ]
I'm sorry I made you wait, [ he finally whispers. ]
no subject
It's okay. I'd say you've more than made up for it.
[A bit of a jest. There's nothing to apologise for, of course; he is here now and he his here in full and he is gracing Verso with warmth and pleasure and joy in measures that he's never experienced. In truth, had he known what awaited him on the other side of the decades of loneliness he's endured, he may well have consented to decades more, for the light of Clive's flames feels like such a strong beacon that Verso can't imagine losing his way knowing that it was what illuminated the paths ahead.
Sighing and laying heavier upon the bed, Verso takes in Clive's luminescence, the streaks of golden-orange in his hair, the glow of his scar, the trail of light that meanders down his neck and tucks itself away behind his shirt. Verso runs his knuckle along that light as far as it can go, then dips his fingers under the edge of Clive's collar, gliding them down until they settle in the V above the button.]
Show me the rest?
[His other hand joins the first, teasing at the button but not fully unseating it. They have time and space and freedom here to take their time and explore each other in ways that their circumstances and the newness of their connection had restricted before; they can redefine what it means to be the other's lover, feeling through the smaller moments, focusing on the details yet to be committed to memory, slowing time while they're afforded the luxury of knowing that it will submit to their command. And he plans to take advantage of that.]
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So, when asked if Verso can see the rest: ]
It's yours.
[ This time, his turn to reply with conviction. Made wrong, Clive had said when he'd first found out about Ifrit; he rescinds that assessment now. Made incomplete, feels more correct. He's caused tragedy upon tragedy trying to find the man that would make him who he was supposed to be, but now that Clive has Verso so close, close enough to house a part of him inside his own soul―
―he's forever bound, for as long as Verso will have him.
But first, he'll oblige the request. Clive swings himself back upright for the process, knees parted and straddling Verso's hips, weight pressed and braced back on toes curled into thin mattress. The Expedition jacket peels off first (with its excess of buckles and belts), followed by the vest hugging his figure into place (the buttons constantly fighting for their lives in the process), then the thin, collared white shirt underneath. With his chest bared, he can also see for the first time how his chroma concentrates around his heart, then fans out to the rest of him; unlike the first time he semi-shifted into this shape, his hands are still intact, human instead of obsidian and clawed.
He shakes out his unruly hair, then runs his hand back over Verso's chest from his current vantage point. Sternum to navel, tracing fingertip-lines of red over Verso's clothes, then pressing his palm against it as if to let the energy permeate through and into his skin. ]
―Founder, you're sinful.
[ Laid out underneath him, relaxed and beautiful and covered in Clive's chroma. ]
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He laughs at what Clive says next, his response quick to follow.]
And you're salvation.
[Which of course serves to corroborate what Clive is saying. There are a great many levels where Verso has walked and would never wish for Clive to lower himself by joining him on, but he will drag him down, down, down to and along his body as often and for as long as he is able. To be real is to have needs; to be human is to act on them. And fuck if Verso doesn't feel both those things to blissful extents right now with the red light of Clive's fingertips lighting up his shirt. There's a vibration to the warmth of his touch when he palms his stomach, too, and Verso's muscles twitch just so beneath it in eager affirmation.
His hands are doing their own wandering, fingers chasing after firelight and leaving trails of starlight in their wake. His tongue slips out to wet his lips as he thinks of all the other places where he can leave little traces of himself, all the other ways that he can make Clive feel his chroma and how he might respond to them, all the things he wants Clive to salve in him and all those that he wants to salve in him in turn. The fire that soon lights up his eyes is his own, demonstrative of a heat that Clive inspires but that is built entirely upon Verso's own energy. And that energy, right now, is trouble.]
Ah... but I'm not really in the mood for repenting. So, either you make me or...
[One hand shifts to lightly flick his nipple while the other continues twinkling along his side.]
I show you how right you are.
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―I'm not as good as you think I am.
[ Big horned hellmonster, remember? Ifrit trills happily in Clive's chest, flaring scarlet-hot from chest to palm, telegraphing that same unholy craving that he bit into Verso's neck all those days ago. I want you, I want to have you, I want to consume you. He lets Verso feel that, too, wanting to conceal nothing about himself now that Verso has him exactly where he wants him (now that Clive has Verso exactly where he wants him), and trails that desire down Verso's stomach and runs it over Verso's thighs, which Clive grips with his fingers for a handhold.
Definitely not an angel, the way Clive slides down Verso's hips and grinds his ass between those long legs. He's never done anything like this before, so the motion is all instinct; primal, uncalculated, and in time to the mental music he's still hearing from the joining of their chroma. Gentle and sweeping. ]
So teach me how to sin, troublemaker.
[ A little breathless, but all affectionate. A challenge and a pet name in one, troublemaker, as if Clive has done anything to deter that mischief. (His brother will claim, accurately, that Clive likes to spoil people more often than not.) ]
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Besides, the whole of his existence relocates itself to his cock when Clive finds a way to grind against him, and the only thing that manages to spill from his mouth is the sputtering moan of a man caught off guard and chasing a too-fleeting sensation. Grudgingly, despite it being by his own suggestion, Verso draws his legs out from underneath Clive, lifting himself up and scooting himself backward to lean against the headboard and drape his arms over it. The gesture is casual. The posture is casual. The tone of his voice? Casual.]
Well, for starters, you need to be much less clothed.
[Hypocrites are going to hypocrite; after adjusting his jacket without making any move to start undoing it, he gestures to Clive's pants as if their continued existence on him is an affront to him personally.]
Then, you're gonna need to get yourself into a competitive mindset. You know, your partner, he's going to put you through the ringer trying to get you to break first, and you can't let that happen. No, you want to win. And the only way to do that is to get pushed down on the bed and taken by someone you just drove mad with need.
[Ever committed to the bit, Verso holds out his hands in a gesture of I don't make the rules, though that the crooked smile that follows emphasises otherwise. As far as he's concerned, the competition started at the word teach, and this is all a part of his own strategy. Draw out more. Feel more. Experience more. Find and then lose himself more.]
Think you can keep up?
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He settles there like a human-shaped lava lamp, glowing red-silver, his smile pulling at the corner of his lips. The more Verso talks, the more that smile slants towards amused bemusement, like he cannot believe the bullshit coming out of that beloved mouth.
Unfortunately for Clive, the bullshit is very charming. Theater for the sake of theater and not concealment, which. You know. Clive enjoys. Not the type of play that he'd go to with Uncle Byron, though.
On the tail end of a laugh: ] So the only way to win, [ just to make sure he's understanding this correctly, ] is to lose.
[ To the tune of "you are so fucking ridiculous". This, too, sounds a little like "I love you." (Anyway, it isn't really losing if Clive ultimately gets what he wants, which is Verso.) ]
I'm beginning to think that you might be a horrible teacher.
[ So Clive says, as he starts undoing the front of his pants. Slowly. Deliberately. The way he pushes them down the frankly absurd curve of his hips (what the fuck, Square Enix) matches Verso's dramatics; heeding the only part of the instruction that actually makes any sense, which is driving Verso mad with need. ]
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Or... [An exaggerated pointing of his finger.] The only way to lose is to win. See, it's all about perspective.
[Speaking of perspective, he's getting the idea that from where Clive stands, bottoming may be less than ideal. Not that Verso couldn't have guessed, given how much he seems to fancy maneuvering him onto his back, but the contrast he strikes between winning and losing is something Verso takes note of all the same. At least momentarily, anyway; Clive starts undressing and nothing else matters but discovering whether he's alight and shimming all over, enticing veins of chroma laid out like trails for him to follow. Verso waits with bated breath, starlight gleaming in his eyes and bringing the softest light to his fingertips as he thinks of leaving his chromatic signature all over Clive's strong, beautiful body, and then...
And then bated becomes baited, and Verso has to fight to present himself as being unperturbed and patient, as if he had actually thought ahead enough in his teasing to predict Clive's response. But that's fine, all of this is fine, he's still on his game, and he demonstrates that by faux-patiently tapping his fingers along the edge of the headboard as he tries to keep afloat of his own bullshit.]
What, you think you can do better?
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[ Not because he has any macho hangups about bottoming, which he doesn't: as evidenced by everything he's doing now, shimmying out of his pants leg by leg, exposing strong thighs fortified by the same crimson streaks that race up his arms, his neck. He feels like he's teetering just along the side of being ridiculous, pretending to have the body type that benefits from this incremental striptease; the reality, in his opinion, is anything but. Too angular, too square, too strong. He's too grown and too infatuated to be self-conscious in front of the man he loves, but there is a vague wonder if this is more humorous than it is enticing.
Oh well. The pants strip off, and he lets it fall onto the ground next to the bed on top of the boots and socks he's also divested himself of. He's still flame and starlight, softly-glowing blue eyes made just a little dull from arousal, cock not quite at full-mast but getting there, already half-hard from all the chroma-sharing and anticipation.
Clive breathes through his nose, watching for any shifts in Verso's scrutiny, wondering how best to negotiate this. Eventually, he admits: ]
I've never done this before. [ He absolutely refuses to make this maudlin, so he interrupts himself by shifting into what he knows is a frankly obscene position with his thighs parted and his back arched, one hand behind him for balance, the other stealing between his legs to feel along his own rim. ] ―Not in any way that mattered.
[ Just the once, when he was still so numb and lost, 'Wyvern' instead of 'Clive'. After his mother threw him out of their house, burned a mark onto his face to impress upon the fact that he was no longer welcome, and left him to survive with a gaggle of men who needed an errand boy.
Again, he refuses to make this maudlin. He's meant to be seducing Verso, not inciting pity, and so he tries to push the tip of his middle finger inside himself to prove that yes, he wants Verso. Badly. Enough that he doesn't care that he's making a spectacle of his poorly-planned prep, which must be as unsexy as his stripping. ]
I want you to be my first, [ is a strained huff. His eyes shutter, and he reaches inside himself for more starlight; it helps him relax, to hold himself less stiffly. ]
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Maybe Clive is paint. Maybe he is chroma. Maybe he is someone else's creation, whether upon birth or upon the bestowal of Ifrit. Verso sees him as a man of his own existence, forged in internal and external flames, wearing them now in one of the most exquisite displays of whole-essence beauty he's ever witnessed. The fact that this man chose him feels nothing short of miraculous.
As he talks, Verso listens; as he reveals this part of himself, Verso reveals his own body, keeping his attention far more heavily focused on the Clive than on the act so he can take in everything he's sharing. Not in any way that mattered, he says, and while it's not an experience that Verso shares, the thought of it causes no less of a twinge in his heart, and his expression softens without losing the fire in his eyes. After all, extinguishing those flames is an impossible prospect when the sight of Clive's finger pressing inside of himself brings to mind the question of how good it will feel to fill him up and bottom out inside of him.
With his jacket, vest, and shirt off and discarded in one direction of the other, he rises from the bed to strip the rest of himself bare, then moves to take a seat in Clive's lap, wrapping his legs around him, cock gently bumping against cock. Like this, he runs his thumb along Clive's bottom lip with starlit fingertips.]
Then, I'll take you, and take you, and take you, until the only word you can speak is my name.
[His voice is improbably soft given the message it carries, but then that's part of it, too. He wants Clive, desperately, but he needs him in whole, not as a quick fuck, not with the way their chroma moves between them in ways they've yet to experience in full. So, he continues.]
Touch is the whole point, mon feu.
[To demonstrate, he snakes his other hand between them to dance a path of stars along Clive's half-hard cock, featherlight and teasing.]
There are so many ways I want to fill you.
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So he's happy to be mistaken. Very mistaken, as weight displaces on the mattress and Clive is seeing starlight not from a distance, now, and up close― so close, in fact, that Verso climbs onto his knees and gives Clive his weight and his promise, lets Clive taste his essence along his lip.
His eyes snap open again, and for a gasp of a second, Clive goes entirely silver. Crimson flames defer to the intensity of Verso's chroma, opening up all of Clive to allow Verso's energy access to every pathway, every meandering inch of his wanting body. It's intense in a way that stiffens Clive all the way, makes his cock drool shamelessly once touched; the expanse of his body feels like one open nerve, eager and humming for Verso's attention. ]
Oh, fuck, [ he whines, when he remembers to breathe. Scarlet makes its way back to the fore, but only barely― all Clive can see, as he pushes past his own discomfort to bury his middle deeper inside himself, bucking and grinding against Verso's cock in the process, is Verso's haloed hair, his halo eyes. A fucking angel. Sinner and saint, Clive's everything. ] All of it― mon étoile, give me all of it. Fill me with you, just you.
[ His Verso. Not a facsimile, not a replication, not anything but this feeling of warm, unyielding starlight, resisting stain and blemish. If Clive was made to consume him, let him consume him on his own terms: let it be about love and not violence, of being together instead of tearing apart.
Another moan, as Clive laves his tongue along the finger still pressed against his mouth. Hunger makes Ifrit roil again in this happy push-and-pull, lapping along Verso's edges with teasing, playful heat.
Some couples worry about breaking the bed in their coupling; Clive momentarily has a real concern that they might take the fucking fortress down.
Might be fun. He sighs again, warm and provocative, and relinquishes Verso's thumb to claim his mouth, wanting more, more, more of that silver. The please he murmurs is less begging and more goading this time around, a bit more in line with the so-called competitive spirit he's supposed to be channeling. ]
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So does the feeling of the friction between their chroma-laced cocks as he groans in blissful agony. So does the taste of Clive's pre-come; Verso swirls his thumb along his cockhead to capture it then brings it to his mouth, staring Clive straight in the eyes as he slowly, methodically licks himself clean.]
Merde. I could suck you dry.
[But not right now. Touch by touch and breath by breath and deep kiss by deep kiss, it becomes devastatingly difficult for Verso to maintain his side of his game, but he is more than stubborn enough to keep trying, and self-denial is second nature to him, anyway, so after a point he shifts his position to make it harder for Clive to grind against him, pressing one hand against the back of his neck to hold him into an unrelenting kiss, resting the other against the small of his back, sending bursts of starlight from both palms, powering and powering and powering them until they become supernovae.
That please doesn't go ignored – his whole fucking body responds to its delivery into his mouth, nerves shuddering and cock hardening – but instead of meeting that plea with an escalation, he draws some of his chroma back inside of himself and shifts to kissing Clive like there is no urgency between them at all.]
Please be patient.
[His tone is as mischievously teasing as its ever been, and he huffs a laugh against Clive's mouth before his teeth claim his lower lip, the bite long and hard enough to be felt. Possessive, so fucking possessive that he nearly surprises himself, but fuck if he wasn't serious that Clive is his freedom; fuck if he's ever felt more like himself than he does right now, enjoying himself through enjoying his lover, both of their chroma colliding to make him feel grateful that the twisted natures of their existences have at least granted them the boon of these unspeakable pleasures.]
I want you at your breaking point. I need to feel it like it's mine.
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He's close, shaking, and then－
－it's gone, retracted, leaving Clive smoldering in his own embers again, gasping for breath. And fuck, it's so unfair, it's so fucking unfair to the point of it being near-cruel, and Clive's next whine is almost a growl, low and throaty and desperate. ]
Verso.
[ He tilts his balance forward, the arm used to brace himself now curling around Verso's shoulders to reorient, back arched, chest to chest. It should be impossible for someone to feel so good everywhere, to set his nerves alight wherever they touch; maybe it so happens now that Clive can't attune to anyone else ever again, so completely taken by Verso and the color of him, bathed in reflective white.
He wouldn't care, if that were the case. He bucks against Verso's knee, trying to find any part of him to make friction with, resuming his efforts to pry himself open so that he can fucking take Verso already, Verso and his perfect chroma and his perfect cock. Two fingers this time, rash and impulsive, the wet sounds from between his legs an obscene undercurrent to the music they're making. ]
Fuck, fuck－ [ Patience is the last thing on Clive's mind, but he can try for Verso. He could do anything for Verso, he would give anything for Verso. Sweat-slick foreheads rub together, and Clive licks at kiss-swollen lips, coaxing more teeth, more tongue. ] ―I feel so empty without you.
[ Is he winning? Is he losing? Does it matter? Verso wants to see him break, and Clive wants to see Verso break. He wants the slant of those beautiful, coy lips to pull tight, and those warm eyes to turn hungry and sharp. He wants Verso to shove him down and take him, and so－
－he tries to want to win. Raking lines of fire along Verso's shoulderblades, tracing each stack of his spine with licks of flame. ]
Burn for me, my star.
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i hate that i wrote you an essay about clive's AU life. IM SORRY
but i love that you wrote me an essay about clive's au life so we have achieved balance
shoves clive in a locker... im coming for verso next
can clive fit into a locker
...ok fair point
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so what i'm hearing is clive won't be seranading verso with the ben starr version of until next life
local expeditioner gets dumped by local immortal man after attempting to sing (poorly)
or!!! local immortal man gets dumped by local expeditioner after 168-hour singing lesson marathon
ben starrs separate citing creative differences (i will never let this happen)
it would be a crime they both deserve a ben starr
THEY DO!!! i'm neither sane nor normal about them
how dare these sad men tbh (please continue daring, sad men)
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