[ 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. ]
Closing his eyes, and tightening his grip, Verso accepts each kiss of fire imbued into his spine with a moan and a reflexive jolt of his own hips as heat singes is its way all throughout him. Betrayed by his body, he can't help but growl into their next kiss, letting Clive know how exactly he feels about his take on the game by dominating his tongue and digging his fingers into his back so he can send stronger, more concentrated bursts of chroma out from his fingertips. For a foolish moment he loses sight of what he's supposed to be doing and allows his chroma to completely consume him, reducing him to ash and delirium as he endures the dual aches of fire and arousal to chase the kind of bliss capable of rewriting a man.
But no, no, he cannot demand patience and then fail to embody it in the very next moment; he cannot break until the two of them can shatter into shards together, each so deeply embedded in the other that they become one entity instinctively chasing a singular goal.
So down his hand goes again, one finger stealing the pre-come leaking from each of their cocks, then joining Clive's in burying itself inside of him. As soon as Verso feels Clive's muscles flex in response, he lets out a brattish laugh against Clive's lips and sends a trail of starlight shooting along his walls as he starts thrusting in tandem with Clive's fingers.
One tune can't be changed without the other, though, and Verso releases his hold on Clive's neck to take both their cocks in his other hand, stroking them slowly, absent chroma. It's torturous – it's wholly fucking torturous – but Verso justifies it by thinking about how they're in this together, all starlight and firelight, all illuminating heat, all need, need, beautiful, fantastical, wings-giving need.]
You call that burning?
[Oh, he knows he's tempting fate with that; he understands he's no further away from total collapse than Clive is. But there is something about how Clive falls to the brink only to fight his way back into full competitive spirit that excites Verso more than the thought of winning does, something about the implication it creates of how Clive wants to receive him that he finds completely irresistible.]
―Once he stops grinding down into the feeling of new fingers inside of him, that is. For a few moments, he's stupid with the need to fuck into and against the dual sensation of those hands in him, on him, and his world boils down to the spark of light that quite literally fills him from the not-quite-deepest part of him, making him get that much closer to hitting his peak with an arch of his back and a full-bodied groan.
Not yet, though. Patience. Even though he turns white-silver all over again for a held note of a long breath, consumed and subsumed, a canvas for Verso to paint whatever he wants on him. Clive stays like that, clenching around Verso's digits with stubborn need, turned all the fucking way on when he remembers those beautiful pianist fingers sliding over black and white keys.
He's being tuned by this man. Made to sing. The thought of it makes his heart do the stupidest things in his chest, thrilled and pleased and elated. And so Clive reciprocates, reaching deeper into his furnace for more heat, wanting to match Verso's intensity beat by agonizing beat. ]
Careful, Verso. [ His last warning before he folds forward, teeth along Verso's neck in a facsimile of that time on the beach. ] Keep breathing.
[ A hot tongue laves against sweaty skin; Clive admires the smooth column of that shapely neck, tracing it with lips and nose. It makes his mouth water, and he clamps his teeth over it, flooding fire into Verso's pulse as he bites and sucks marks directly over his jugular.
Will immortality make the bruises fade by morning? Clive hopes not, as he litters Verso with lovebites infused with his chroma. His hips rock on Verso's fingers, shoving down each time his teeth sinks. Claiming, claiming. ]
[There is a difference, Verso quickly discovers, between the feeling of someone else's chroma moving through skin and muscle and the complete and utter surrender that follows its entry into the fucking bloodstream. Perfect, beautiful, enrapturing tension works its way through him. His head falls to Clive's shoulder. His hand stills around their cocks and he can swear, he can fucking swear that he can feel Clive's chroma pumping pleasure into him from the inside. The only saving grace keeping him from coming on the spot is that he is overtaken by so many distracting sensations that none of them can reach their peak, like the whole of his body is being edged.
It's what he asked for, it's exactly what he asked for; what he didn't ask for was for Clive's chroma transforming him into a whimpering moaning mess, barely managing to make the few spluttering curses that spill past his lips coherent, but living through it now informs him that he really wouldn't have it any other way. Let Clive know the effect he's having on him, let him learn how to decipher the language of his pleasure, let him win and win and win until the end of time if this is how it's going to feel to lose.
(Verso is too competitive for that. He will start plotting his revenge the moment he's no longer fuckstruck and vibrant with Clive's fire. But for now, Clive's victory is fully shared.)
With a growl, he thrusts his fingers hard into Clive one last time before withdrawing them entirely and shoving him back against the bed until he cooperates. One hand remains braced against Clive's shoulder; the other returns to its place around his own cock, holding it steady as he rubs its head against Clive's entrance.]
You stop, I stop.
[In other words: more, still. Just a little more.]
[ Did he win? It hardly matters― Clive feels his back hit the mattress, feels his entire center of gravity shift, and he's in Verso's orbit and in his sights, right where he needs to be. He falls, the way he's been falling this entire time: in love, in love.
Sparks fly. Clive spreads his legs and invites Verso closer, arcs to the heretofore unknown feeling of a lover pressing against him, and laughs about it. Buoyant, high on the feeling of being wanted by this man, this man, this impossible, improbable, incomparable man.
The sound shimmers; Clive shifts silver again, so full of it that he can't tell if he'll shatter from it or if it's the only thing keeping him together. One leg hooks over Verso's hip, and he laugh-sighs again at the feeling of that slick cockhead sliding against his rim.
There's nothing else to say. Just another twinkling sound in place of je t'aime, and the brightest smile Clive can muster. ]
Come here.
[ Softly, with searing affection. There's nothing platonic or chaste about their combined hunger and need, but the way Clive touches his palm against Verso's cheek is nothing short of adoring, fifty different confessions tucked into the way his thumb rolls just along the corner of one halo-grey eye.
(In love, in love. A creature made of paint, who would rather die here with Verso than live a flesh and blood life without him.) ]
[Another fusion; Clive's happiness takes Verso's starlight and turns it into a kind of music he's never heard before, one that feels like it's glowing in the air between them. The silver laced glow of Clive's radiance brings a glimmer to Verso's sweat damp-body, and he can almost feel himself twinkle as he closes his eyes to focus in on the never-again feeling of pushing into Clive for the first time.
And oh, what an amazing feeling it proves to be. Verso moans deep and rich, like a man so wealthy with love he longs for nothing else, voice rumbling into a growling purr as he nuzzles against Clive's palm, a beast unleashed and tamed in his own right. But that taming factors into how soon he stops, even as he feels the tentative embrace of Clive's walls as they respond to his intrusion. As much as Verso brims with the desire to wholly seat himself and let Clive feel the full force of the effect he has on him, he hasn't forgotten that this is the first time that he's been taken like this that means something. So, he moves his hand from his cock to Clive's hip, steadying them both as he rocks his own hips slowly, pressing in deeper with each gentle thrust, face contorted into an expression of pure, patient need.]
This is what I think about when I touch myself.
[Or it has been lately, sating himself on those nights when one of them needs to keep watch and they can't even push their bedrolls together and let their shared breath warm the air between them. Sometimes, he fantasises about Clive coming back for one reason or another – he forgot his canteen or his binoculars, or he needed a tint to keep him alert, or he heard Verso's self-strangled moans from afar and safety be fucking damned – and catching him in the act so they can see it through to fruition, but that remains an unspoken dream.
Well, that one part of it, anyway. Further and further Verso presses inside of Clive, still chasing comfort in lieu of the ever-building pleasure that promises a rich pay-off soon, soon, so very soon.]
[ Verso pushes in, and Clive's eyes instinctively flick downwards to where they start to connect, blue-silver widened slightly in what could pass as awe. It feels nothing like the clumsy time this happened first (and last), nothing like the teeth-gritting, hand-clawed pain that made him tense like stone and wait, wait until it was just over; Verso feels like an unfurling, a remaking from the inside out, and Clive almost bids him to wait because it feels like so much, so fucking much.
But he doesn't, and the slow, careful claiming makes every bit of his fire turn starlight. Clive can't control it― his whole body lights to the feeling of Verso's chroma, wanting him and wanting him and wanting him, and greedily clings onto him, trying to pull him in and deeper, lamenting every time those hips pull back and away.
He doesn't know this. He's never felt this before. There are no defenses for it, and so all Clive can be is honest and unfiltered, his moans coming in short pants, eyes both dark and bright with molten arousal. His hand scrabbles for purchase along Verso's shoulderblades, gripping and petting, unable to choose between encouraging or demanding. ]
Merde, [ is a sweet gasp, almost like song. ] Fuck, Verso, please.
[ It's too much to think about Verso having fantasized to this; Clive wishes he'd known, so they could have consummated it sooner, tangled on bedrolls, Nevrons be damned. If being taken by Verso feels like this, Clive could let Verso have him whenever and wherever he pleases; he feels full, but needs to be fuller. ]
Deeper. Deep as you can be. Take me, claim me, I'm yours.
[ No more daydreaming. Back to me, Clive says with the motion of his hips, trying to rock down as much as he can. Reckless with it, a shimmering mess of starlit energy, trying to find the right rhythm to make them both incandescent. He can't stand those last inches of Verso that he doesn't have, and so he reaches down to touch where they meet, silver-lit fingers dancing along what he can still feel of Verso's cock. ]
[Verso opens his eyes and everything is light. Verso closes his eyes and it's the same. He and Clive could be miles apart or separated by worlds, and Verso suspects he'd be able to see Clive's brightness shining down on him with warmth and love and a mutuality that he hasn't felt since before he learned the truth of his existence. He suspects the sights and the sounds and the sensations of Clive coming apart beneath him will alight him with pleasure until the end of his days, too, the cursing and the begging and the bucking and writhing and the incoherent sounds in between flowing into a melody that Verso wants to orchestrate again and again and again, letting the immaculate beauty of his vulnerability break his heart into as many pieces as it needs to be shattered into in order to heal.
Such are the thoughts that swirl through his mind until he feels an unexpected jolt of everything wonderful about Clive, absolutely fucking everything, shoot itself straight through his cock.]
Oh, fuck, come on. [Light laughter spills from between his lips amid his own heady breathing as Clive's fingers continue to dance constellations of their combined light over what little of his shaft remains exposed.] You just can't help yourself, can you?
[Stupid question. He knows. Pausing for a moment to collect himself, he then shifts Clive's hips along with his own to encourage a better angle. The next thrusts are quicker, harder, deeper, until he's fully seated inside of him, hips pressed to hips and light swirling with light and heat feed heat feeding heat. He lets out a moan bigger then the others, and he moves his hand from Clive's hip and to his jaw as he leans down and claims his lips, too, his tongue lacking the patience and rhythm of his cock and simply taking and tasting as they both adjust to becoming one in this way, too.
His patience is quick to wear out, though, so he's quick to break the kiss and ask in a thick, heady tone:]
So, what'll it be, mon feu? Sin –
[He nearly pulls out before thrusting back in, hard and deep but neither to their full extents, still aware that this is new to Clive.]
– or salvation?
[The next few motions are softer, slower, driven by more of a rolling of his hips to meet Clive's than a slamming of them together. These, he maintains as he awaits his answer, peppering kisses along Clive's jaw as he does.]
[ It's diabolical, that Verso is asking him questions when the entirety of Clive's existence narrows down to where their bodies are making friction. There's not enough oxygen or brainpower left as Clive kisses and pants against Verso's mouth, breathing in for every one of Verso's exhales, filling his lungs, too, with that precious essence; he's busy trying to taste Verso's moans on his tongue and to not shatter completely when he's fucked into, so his initial response to sin or salvation is, unfortunately, an inelegant gasp that makes him sound like he's dying.
Ah isn't an answer, but it's the one that Verso will have to be satisfied with for a bit. Clive's arms have flown up to encircle Verso's neck, fingers in dark hair, hugging and tugging. If there was any part of him that could have been embarrassed about all of his hard-earned strength and much-endured training being useless in the face of all this pleasure, well.
That shame is dust. Ah, he tries again, head tilted back, neck exposed, eyelids fluttering. He has no idea where he ends, and where Verso begins.
Finally: ] Troublemaker, [ is how he expresses his ire, the how dare you make me choose. It's unserious, though, and Clive bucks back onto Verso's cock, grinding into that slower motion, shaking his head. He can't, he can't choose, but if he had to－ ]
I told you to teach me, [ he says, legs hooking around Verso's waist to keep him close. ] Sin, god, fuck.
[ The real answer is "whatever you want", but Clive blearily thinks that Verso won't settle for that; he has never let Clive hide behind deference, and god, fuck, merde, Clive loves him so much for it. Clive is out of his mind with infatuation, and he succumbs to it with flashes of white-red pooling around his heart. He might never find equilibrium again. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
―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.) ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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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Closing his eyes, and tightening his grip, Verso accepts each kiss of fire imbued into his spine with a moan and a reflexive jolt of his own hips as heat singes is its way all throughout him. Betrayed by his body, he can't help but growl into their next kiss, letting Clive know how exactly he feels about his take on the game by dominating his tongue and digging his fingers into his back so he can send stronger, more concentrated bursts of chroma out from his fingertips. For a foolish moment he loses sight of what he's supposed to be doing and allows his chroma to completely consume him, reducing him to ash and delirium as he endures the dual aches of fire and arousal to chase the kind of bliss capable of rewriting a man.
But no, no, he cannot demand patience and then fail to embody it in the very next moment; he cannot break until the two of them can shatter into shards together, each so deeply embedded in the other that they become one entity instinctively chasing a singular goal.
So down his hand goes again, one finger stealing the pre-come leaking from each of their cocks, then joining Clive's in burying itself inside of him. As soon as Verso feels Clive's muscles flex in response, he lets out a brattish laugh against Clive's lips and sends a trail of starlight shooting along his walls as he starts thrusting in tandem with Clive's fingers.
One tune can't be changed without the other, though, and Verso releases his hold on Clive's neck to take both their cocks in his other hand, stroking them slowly, absent chroma. It's torturous – it's wholly fucking torturous – but Verso justifies it by thinking about how they're in this together, all starlight and firelight, all illuminating heat, all need, need, beautiful, fantastical, wings-giving need.]
You call that burning?
[Oh, he knows he's tempting fate with that; he understands he's no further away from total collapse than Clive is. But there is something about how Clive falls to the brink only to fight his way back into full competitive spirit that excites Verso more than the thought of winning does, something about the implication it creates of how Clive wants to receive him that he finds completely irresistible.]
Come on. You can do better than that.
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―Once he stops grinding down into the feeling of new fingers inside of him, that is. For a few moments, he's stupid with the need to fuck into and against the dual sensation of those hands in him, on him, and his world boils down to the spark of light that quite literally fills him from the not-quite-deepest part of him, making him get that much closer to hitting his peak with an arch of his back and a full-bodied groan.
Not yet, though. Patience. Even though he turns white-silver all over again for a held note of a long breath, consumed and subsumed, a canvas for Verso to paint whatever he wants on him. Clive stays like that, clenching around Verso's digits with stubborn need, turned all the fucking way on when he remembers those beautiful pianist fingers sliding over black and white keys.
He's being tuned by this man. Made to sing. The thought of it makes his heart do the stupidest things in his chest, thrilled and pleased and elated. And so Clive reciprocates, reaching deeper into his furnace for more heat, wanting to match Verso's intensity beat by agonizing beat. ]
Careful, Verso. [ His last warning before he folds forward, teeth along Verso's neck in a facsimile of that time on the beach. ] Keep breathing.
[ A hot tongue laves against sweaty skin; Clive admires the smooth column of that shapely neck, tracing it with lips and nose. It makes his mouth water, and he clamps his teeth over it, flooding fire into Verso's pulse as he bites and sucks marks directly over his jugular.
Will immortality make the bruises fade by morning? Clive hopes not, as he litters Verso with lovebites infused with his chroma. His hips rock on Verso's fingers, shoving down each time his teeth sinks. Claiming, claiming. ]
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It's what he asked for, it's exactly what he asked for; what he didn't ask for was for Clive's chroma transforming him into a whimpering moaning mess, barely managing to make the few spluttering curses that spill past his lips coherent, but living through it now informs him that he really wouldn't have it any other way. Let Clive know the effect he's having on him, let him learn how to decipher the language of his pleasure, let him win and win and win until the end of time if this is how it's going to feel to lose.
(Verso is too competitive for that. He will start plotting his revenge the moment he's no longer fuckstruck and vibrant with Clive's fire. But for now, Clive's victory is fully shared.)
With a growl, he thrusts his fingers hard into Clive one last time before withdrawing them entirely and shoving him back against the bed until he cooperates. One hand remains braced against Clive's shoulder; the other returns to its place around his own cock, holding it steady as he rubs its head against Clive's entrance.]
You stop, I stop.
[In other words: more, still. Just a little more.]
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Sparks fly. Clive spreads his legs and invites Verso closer, arcs to the heretofore unknown feeling of a lover pressing against him, and laughs about it. Buoyant, high on the feeling of being wanted by this man, this man, this impossible, improbable, incomparable man.
The sound shimmers; Clive shifts silver again, so full of it that he can't tell if he'll shatter from it or if it's the only thing keeping him together. One leg hooks over Verso's hip, and he laugh-sighs again at the feeling of that slick cockhead sliding against his rim.
There's nothing else to say. Just another twinkling sound in place of je t'aime, and the brightest smile Clive can muster. ]
Come here.
[ Softly, with searing affection. There's nothing platonic or chaste about their combined hunger and need, but the way Clive touches his palm against Verso's cheek is nothing short of adoring, fifty different confessions tucked into the way his thumb rolls just along the corner of one halo-grey eye.
(In love, in love. A creature made of paint, who would rather die here with Verso than live a flesh and blood life without him.) ]
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And oh, what an amazing feeling it proves to be. Verso moans deep and rich, like a man so wealthy with love he longs for nothing else, voice rumbling into a growling purr as he nuzzles against Clive's palm, a beast unleashed and tamed in his own right. But that taming factors into how soon he stops, even as he feels the tentative embrace of Clive's walls as they respond to his intrusion. As much as Verso brims with the desire to wholly seat himself and let Clive feel the full force of the effect he has on him, he hasn't forgotten that this is the first time that he's been taken like this that means something. So, he moves his hand from his cock to Clive's hip, steadying them both as he rocks his own hips slowly, pressing in deeper with each gentle thrust, face contorted into an expression of pure, patient need.]
This is what I think about when I touch myself.
[Or it has been lately, sating himself on those nights when one of them needs to keep watch and they can't even push their bedrolls together and let their shared breath warm the air between them. Sometimes, he fantasises about Clive coming back for one reason or another – he forgot his canteen or his binoculars, or he needed a tint to keep him alert, or he heard Verso's self-strangled moans from afar and safety be fucking damned – and catching him in the act so they can see it through to fruition, but that remains an unspoken dream.
Well, that one part of it, anyway. Further and further Verso presses inside of Clive, still chasing comfort in lieu of the ever-building pleasure that promises a rich pay-off soon, soon, so very soon.]
Coming deep inside of you.
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But he doesn't, and the slow, careful claiming makes every bit of his fire turn starlight. Clive can't control it― his whole body lights to the feeling of Verso's chroma, wanting him and wanting him and wanting him, and greedily clings onto him, trying to pull him in and deeper, lamenting every time those hips pull back and away.
He doesn't know this. He's never felt this before. There are no defenses for it, and so all Clive can be is honest and unfiltered, his moans coming in short pants, eyes both dark and bright with molten arousal. His hand scrabbles for purchase along Verso's shoulderblades, gripping and petting, unable to choose between encouraging or demanding. ]
Merde, [ is a sweet gasp, almost like song. ] Fuck, Verso, please.
[ It's too much to think about Verso having fantasized to this; Clive wishes he'd known, so they could have consummated it sooner, tangled on bedrolls, Nevrons be damned. If being taken by Verso feels like this, Clive could let Verso have him whenever and wherever he pleases; he feels full, but needs to be fuller. ]
Deeper. Deep as you can be. Take me, claim me, I'm yours.
[ No more daydreaming. Back to me, Clive says with the motion of his hips, trying to rock down as much as he can. Reckless with it, a shimmering mess of starlit energy, trying to find the right rhythm to make them both incandescent. He can't stand those last inches of Verso that he doesn't have, and so he reaches down to touch where they meet, silver-lit fingers dancing along what he can still feel of Verso's cock. ]
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Such are the thoughts that swirl through his mind until he feels an unexpected jolt of everything wonderful about Clive, absolutely fucking everything, shoot itself straight through his cock.]
Oh, fuck, come on. [Light laughter spills from between his lips amid his own heady breathing as Clive's fingers continue to dance constellations of their combined light over what little of his shaft remains exposed.] You just can't help yourself, can you?
[Stupid question. He knows. Pausing for a moment to collect himself, he then shifts Clive's hips along with his own to encourage a better angle. The next thrusts are quicker, harder, deeper, until he's fully seated inside of him, hips pressed to hips and light swirling with light and heat feed heat feeding heat. He lets out a moan bigger then the others, and he moves his hand from Clive's hip and to his jaw as he leans down and claims his lips, too, his tongue lacking the patience and rhythm of his cock and simply taking and tasting as they both adjust to becoming one in this way, too.
His patience is quick to wear out, though, so he's quick to break the kiss and ask in a thick, heady tone:]
So, what'll it be, mon feu? Sin –
[He nearly pulls out before thrusting back in, hard and deep but neither to their full extents, still aware that this is new to Clive.]
– or salvation?
[The next few motions are softer, slower, driven by more of a rolling of his hips to meet Clive's than a slamming of them together. These, he maintains as he awaits his answer, peppering kisses along Clive's jaw as he does.]
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Ah isn't an answer, but it's the one that Verso will have to be satisfied with for a bit. Clive's arms have flown up to encircle Verso's neck, fingers in dark hair, hugging and tugging. If there was any part of him that could have been embarrassed about all of his hard-earned strength and much-endured training being useless in the face of all this pleasure, well.
That shame is dust. Ah, he tries again, head tilted back, neck exposed, eyelids fluttering. He has no idea where he ends, and where Verso begins.
Finally: ] Troublemaker, [ is how he expresses his ire, the how dare you make me choose. It's unserious, though, and Clive bucks back onto Verso's cock, grinding into that slower motion, shaking his head. He can't, he can't choose, but if he had to－ ]
I told you to teach me, [ he says, legs hooking around Verso's waist to keep him close. ] Sin, god, fuck.
[ The real answer is "whatever you want", but Clive blearily thinks that Verso won't settle for that; he has never let Clive hide behind deference, and god, fuck, merde, Clive loves him so much for it. Clive is out of his mind with infatuation, and he succumbs to it with flashes of white-red pooling around his heart. He might never find equilibrium again. ]
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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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