[ They're both far too restless to allow themselves more than a few hours of mindless indulgence, and the world is in too dire of a state to leave it unattended. Still, it's best to leave those complicated truths to be acted on when they have to, instead of now, when the most pressing matter at hand is how many times Clive can kiss Verso from now until they inevitably have to leave the water to avoid becoming human-shaped Shar Peis.
Under Verso's palm, Clive's pulse is a steady one-two. It flutters to the beat of glimmering chroma, always trying to match that beloved cadence. ]
Mm. [ Craning up to press warm lips to a steam-damp temple, letting his nose brush up against the silver wave that sweeps down and across one well-shaped brow. ] And I'll have my own to match.
[ Equal, in all things. His lovesick mind whispers a morbid hope that Verso will die before him, if only because Clive can't bear the thought of Verso living any more days in solitude.
Wisely, he keeps that to himself. The memory of Verso's exhaustion still lives fresh in his mind; Clive will have to unpack it, but not right now. Not here. Not while he wants to keep his mouth busy doing other things, like trailing a path down, down, from a perfect face to a perfect jaw, along the line of a strong pulsepoint, to the smooth line that connects neck to shoulder.
He almost slips underwater (oops), but manages to keep balance. His teeth inadvertently sink into skin during the process, and he apologizes by soothing the spot with lips and tongue. ]
Sometimes, I wake in the morning with your face near mine－ [ Another lovesick murmur, this time spoken into existence. ] ―and I can scarcely believe that I found someone like you.
[ For a myriad of reasons. Clive counts his blessings ardently, and Verso is at the top of the list. ]
[It's relaxing, too, how the light of Verso's chroma in the water and the power of it in his palm don't reassert the queasy loathing from earlier, when Clea had revealed what Verso had been unwittingly imbuing Clive with. How could he feel otherwise when Clive's heart moves to beat in tandem to the waves of Verso's light? What room remains for doubt? Here and now, none; Verso knows better than to think they'll ever truly normalise what happens in moments like these when they're outside of them, this absolute comfort with other bleeding into a comfort with self, but that's all the more reason to embrace it while it lasts, to let the dirt of self-loathing, too, soak into chroma-laced waters and waft away into the sandalwood-bergamot steam.
So, he moves with Clive's kisses, the shimmering light to his lapping flames, humming into a startled laugh, into an edge of bliss, at that unintentional bite. A wondrous imperfection. The words that spill from Clive's lips thereafter themselves invoke thoughts of imperfection, and Verso considers how Clive seems to appreciate the moments where he isn't well-coiffed and well-masked; when his hair is wet and scraggly, when his eyes are red with tears, when his face is lined with pillow creases and there's sleep in the corners of his eyes.
The thought is unexpectedly nice for someone so given towards perfectionism, and Verso responds at first with another kiss, intense and desperate for how he's not sure that he'll ever be able to communicate with words and touch and chroma combined all that Clive has done for him. Another consequence of lying so much, he supposes, is that he loses some of his contrast.
A forgotten need for breath breaks the kiss, and the words that follow come out thick and heady and soft, so fucking soft that he nearly doesn't recognise the sound of his own voice.]
I want to bring you so much more than joy.
[Peace and place and home and hearth, love and security, fortune separate from the kind embraced by the Dessendres, a wealth of all the things they've both been denied. Promises he'll make with the whole of his heart despite their distance and the endless obstacles that guard them.
For now, though, the hand on Clive's heart trails a bit lower, fingers tapping against muscle.]
And I want to kiss my name off your lips. May I touch you?
[ Perfect, by virtue of imperfections. Verso is no pretty portrait to be fit into a frame and hung for the purpose of being coveted― neither is he a series of masks to choose from for the sake of convenience. He's messy and complicated and challenging and utterly human: he smiles when he wants to cry, and cries when he wants to smile. These are the things that Clive adores about him, and, as impossible as it might be, the things that Clive wants Verso to be able to channel with impunity.
Big, lofty thoughts. Always somewhere in Clive's mindscape, but quieter when he's allowed the luxury of being stupidly in love. His head is a little fuzzy from all this heat, his bare skin a map of hypersensitivity from being steeped in his favorite color. Verso kisses him, and his heart flares crimson; their lips part, and the ends of Clive's crow-black bangs shimmer white.
Joy is so important. It's worth everything to Clive, to let Verso know that he's a constant source of happiness.
But touching is nice, too. Touching is very, very nice. ]
May you. [ With reciprocal softness, affection laced through every syllable. His breath mingles with the deep, rich scent of sandalwood curling around them; earthy, but sweet. ] I might start touching myself, if you deprive me.
[ A light tease (half-serious). Verso is free to have whatever part of Clive he wants, given that Clive is utterly and entirely his, in every way that matters; in the meantime, Clive takes it upon himself to do some exploration of his own, never content to receive without giving in return. His palms slide along Verso's thighs, massaging and kneading with unabashed appreciation, having always admired how these strong, toned legs carry Verso as he flits across battlefields like quicksilver. He might have fantasized about being between them once or twice (or several times).
(Unspoken: he's sure that the real Verso doesn't have this Verso's build.) ]
[Not that Verso would mind the show, it's simply that he is here to perform, not to observe; to draw forth just-right notes from Clive, to make him sing to the rhythms of his touches. Now, it's a slide, a gentle grinding of his ass against Clive's cock, an impish tease as he draws out the moment with another kiss – the slow, exploratory dance of his tongue previewing what he has in mind – before he pulls himself up and turns to lower himself so he's straddling Clive's thighs.
One finger lands at the junction of his upper thigh; it takes a meandering path upward, joined by another finger halfway through, culminating in a carousel of touch around one of his nipples.
Verso does struggle with telling people exactly what he wants; wanting things to begin with is complicated considering how much his existence takes away from everyone else. In this moment, though, he sheds all of those self-denying impulses and thinks about what he really desires, the outcome he'd most like to help bring to fruition.]
How's this, then?
[A quirked smile, a mischievous chuckle. He leans in to press his lips to Clive's, then to pepper more kisses down their own path of wanderlust to his ear.]
I want you to come all over me.
[Perhaps now would be an opportune time for emphasis; perhaps, he could lure out the first hints of music with a rock of his hips, a cock-on-cock grinding. But they have time. So much fucking time. And if Verso's immortality has taught him everything, it's how to be patient. So, he keeps his hips where they are, and instead opts to slowly trail his lips back over Clive's in a threat of a tease of a promise.]
Proper etiquette is that not a drop should touch the water.
[ Unhurried, this particular dance is languid and molasses-thick. Slow touches, slow friction, slow kisses. The water is a thin film that separates their bodies even when they're pressed close, adding to the dreamlike quality of their intimacy; Clive's eyes flutter closed as Verso rocks, displacing silver around them in soft waves while they layer touch on touch.
A bit overwhelming, really. The world blurs like gauze, but his chroma-covered body reacts to even the faintest brush of fingertips and lips against damp skin. His nipples are already peaked by the time Verso deigns to give attention to one, making heat coil and stir in the pit of his stomach.
Ah, is the ineloquent but honest music he makes. A single note, full of feeling. His palms slither up Verso's thighs, tracing them to his waist, where fingers press inwards and drum along the graceful line of the other man's silhouette. Keeping him, holding him, trying to match the patience.
The focus breaks, though, when Verso says that in his pretty, lilting voice. Somehow, despite all the filth that's come out of his own mouth during their previous sessions, hearing his lover present his desires in those terms makes Clive flush beet-red; he knows Verso can feel it as well as see it, with how closely their faces are pressed together. ]
I... [ Clearing his throat, obviously flustered by the mental images being conjured. ] ...Can try.
[ To the tune, essentially, of holy shit. A whisper, as his cock twitches and start to harden in interest between them, like an ill-tamed animal. Definitely not a good boy, and perhaps already getting ready to break etiquette, if pre-come counts for anything.
One hand relinquishes its grip, and travels up along Verso's chest, giving a reciprocal tweak to his sweetly-shaped peak before cradling a shapely jaw. His thumb works under Verso's chin, the way one would show affection to a particularly beloved cat. ]
[Oh, Verso definitely doesn't miss that reaction. Red is Clive's colour – and heat, his temperature – but in this context they find him wondering if he might have taken things a little too far. The hover of Verso's lips softens into a gentler kiss than the others, a signal that he doesn't mind if it's too much, for now, one that's meant to serve as corroboration when he puts it to words.]
If that appeals to you, too.
[An urge rises to follow it with some kind of if not statement, but Verso recognises that for what it is – a scrambling to compensate for something he doesn't even know is a problem. It doesn't feel like one when Clive starts landing more of his own touches, and the way he strokes Verso's chin helps reassert, oddly enough, Verso's faith that if he objects to something, even if only a little, he'll let him know.
Shifting a bit backwards in Clive's lap, he raises his hands to bracket his face, thumbs urging his chin higher as he leans in to nuzzle at his throat.]
There's always next time.
[Lips and tongue and teeth to skin. Nips and grazes and suction. Every time Verso works part of Clive's neck, he speaks up with an or the next time, or the next time, or the time after that, or the next time, each one growing progressively huskier than the last as he keeps lowering himself, stopping only once he's low enough to make a reasonable effort at looking Clive in the eyes again.]
[ A kneejerk reaction, cut off by gentle touches and soft, affection-stained words. He'd shake his head if not for where Verso tucks himself, lips and teeth to flush-warm skin; instead, he swallows thickly at those indulgent promises, his head swimming with the sheer power of next time.
It's too much, which means that it's just enough. Clive hasn't had many people to warm his bed over the course of his life, which means that someone so confident and beautiful telegraphing intent and interest can occasionally make his brain stutter－ there's no way, it unhelpfully supplies, while also spitting out green flag after green flag. There's nothing in Clive's head but an emphatic chorus of yes-es, and that, too, is overwhelming.
A sigh, low and heady, and he strokes under Verso's chin again. ]
...Want to. [ He finally finishes the sentence, thumbing over Verso's lower lip, stealing it inwards to trace along his teeth, sideways to the corner of his mouth. ] I want to see you marked by me.
[ A whispered confession; maybe a slight tremor of possessiveness, hesitant but there. Verso will always belong wholly to himself (as much as the terms of his existence will allow it, anyway), but Clive has his fleeting moments of mine, regardless. Never strong enough to be restrictive, but obvious enough to show a deep, deep (deep) (deep) well of wanting. ]
Will you let me? [ Dipping down to claim those perfect lips again, taking his time with the kiss until they're both panting from it, mouths connected by a thin trail of saliva. This is what hedonism must feel like. ] Do you want to be mine, mon étoile?
[Marked is an interesting choice of word; it's an enticing choice of word. Verso's mind naturally travels to the traces of red Clive's left behind, to the places where he himself let them blacken like the scar over his eye, his own choices tattooed onto skin he'd never have chosen to wear but that feels like his own underneath Clive's touches. All those little claims staked over the weeks, the eagerness and the freedom with which he'd received them, suddenly take on a different shape, one that feels increasingly vulnerable the more that Clive speaks.
Good vulnerable. The vulnerable of actually wanting to belong to someone, the vulnerable of an expression of possession that's freeing instead of restrictive.]
Merde...
[Out comes all that goodness in a curse, in a subsequent shaking of his head. Does he want to be Clive's? Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Filled with him and covered in him and wrapped up in his arms, in his touches, in a tangling of their limbs. It astounds Verso, really, how Clive can take his filth and distill it into something that's so much more affectionate. Or maybe it's the clarity he provides, the simplicity with which he sees into him with what feels like precious little effort. Probably, it's a combination of both, plus feelings he hasn't yet found the words for, new as they are to him.]
I've never wanted anything more than to be yours.
[Cliche, maybe, but Verso's a bit preoccupied with making a different kind of impression on Clive, so who gives a fuck, really? What can words say that could deliver his message as clearly as the worshipful way he works himself further down Clive's body, marking his own trail into his skin, little breadcrumbs left behind for him to follow once he's ready to make good on his first request and kiss Clive until he can taste the song of his name on his lips?
Later, though. Later. Now, it's time for him to rest one hand near the hard jut of Clive's cock and steady his thigh with the other; now, his lips draft a love story into the soft, sensitive skin of his thigh while his thumb teases its way across the forest of black hair, close but never close enough.
At some point he pauses to look up at Clive again, eager tongue poking out from the corner of his lips.]
So, you can trust I'll do everything I can to earn it.
[ A funny paradox: Clive melts into Verso's acceptance, but the hunger inside of him grows teeth. His touch remains gentle, careful, attentive― fingers combing through damp waves of black and silver, playing along the curve of an ear― but the glitter of focus in his ocean-blue eyes borders on sharp. Lupine.
It's a not-so-subtle shift. Given permission to be greedy and granted leave to be possessive, Clive leans into that usually-forbidden realm of mine, mine, mine: his Verso, his star, his love. The ravenous void of a man who has lived his entire life without allowing himself the liberty to want, and the (perhaps too-strong) devotion that comes as a consequence of it.
Monstrous, probably. Clive usually keeps it tamed, for obvious reasons. Frightened of giving Verso the wrong idea, terrified of scaring Verso off as a result. It mirrors his conflict with Ifrit: the desire to protect and safekeep and safeguard, contrasted against this new and impossible feeling of wanting and wanting and wanting.
Because fuck, he wants. His cock stands at full-mast already by the time Verso's perfect face nuzzles close to it, the contrast of its ache-red obscene against pale skin, paler eyes. It twitches at the almost-touch, shameless in its anticipation of more. ]
Merde, [ he near-laughs, as he shifts under Verso's weight. Restless, he parts his thighs and arches his back, putting more of himself on display. ] Your mouth really does get you in trouble.
[ A callback, a running joke. The filter between his brain to his mouth gives up functioning; Clive is stupid with need. ]
My Verso, [ he hums. Mine, his mind and chroma trill happily, though this means that the opposite is also true, that he's the one tightly wound around Verso's finger. ]
[That look in Clive's eyes – Verso can find words adequate to describe it, either, but he doesn't to label it to know he'll be pursuing it with the rapacity of someone well-starved and profoundly curious about how it might manifest outside of the way Clive looks at him and into all the other dimensions they have shared and will share.
Let future Verso learn the truths of those flames, though; let him learn in the moment what, exactly, lurks behind the gleam to his eyes. Present Verso is plenty enraptured by Clive's cock, as near to his mouth as it is to his hand, and oh, how many options avail themselves in this moment; oh, how spoilt Verso feels by choice.]
And now my mouth's about to get you in trouble.
[But it's the backs of his fingers that deliver the first touch, moving up and down, up and down, like they're stroking something incomparably precious. And they are, they are, they are – a fact he cements by kissing at the head of Clive's cock still more romantic than lewd, still maintaining the tease rather than giving into the temptation radiant in them both. Like this, he works that red-hard length as if he's making out with it, exploratory and needy and expressive, greedy, so greedy to learn the shape of it, the taste, the way it fits into his mouth just fucking so.
Eventually, he pulls away with a pop, lips gleaming with saliva and precum and twinkling traces of bathwater. He wraps his fingers around the base of Clive's cock and begins stroking him in earnest, albeit still at a too-slow pace, still biding his time as he lifts himself up to kiss at his ears, leaving a slight mess behind.]
Hey. [A breath of a whisper.] The sooner you tell me you're close, the more times I'll be able to let you know that you're a good boy.
[ Behind every Good Boy is also a Bad Boy; Clive has sharp claws and coal-black and obsidian horns just under his skin, and the most dangerous thing about it all is that Verso has validated this, too, about Clive. The more he allows Clive to play with the tenuous equilibrium he's maintaining with the inferno in his chest, the more said inferno will manifest where it thinks itself safe.
But that's a Bad Boy future for another day. Right now, Clive has no space to think about anything but the wet, warm feel of Verso's mouth, against him and over him, toying with the sensitive tip and drawing more precum from his already-drooling cock.
He is in trouble. Visually and aurally, on top of all of this tactility. There's something sacrilegious about how Verso's pretty mouth stretches around his erection, something even more unholy about the wet sound of him working around it; it makes Clive tremble to see it, hear it, and his breath stutters to the slow rhythm that Verso eventually starts with his hand, breaks at that last good boy. ]
―I should never have told you about that.
[ Too little, too late. The tone here is playful, though, thick with agonized arousal, as Clive tips his head and bites at Verso's jaw in (still-gentle) retaliation. Aware of how the slick sound between his legs echo in the cavernous space of the Dessendre's bathroom but letting it become louder anyway, hips rolling up with every downwards drag of that heated palm (it must be a fucking mess by now). ]
Are you so eager to have me on you? [ A taunt for a taunt, though his lover very much has the upper hand (ha). ] You'll look so beautiful, covered and claimed by me.
[ Again, with that wolflike sharpness. His teeth sink into Verso's shoulder again, this time with purpose: like a wolf biting the scruff of its mate's neck to keep them in place. (Ifrit snaps its jaws, pleased.) ]
[The first part of his answer comes easy, a husky admission that probably goes without saying, but that Verso feels the urge to speak aloud nonetheless. He is toeing the line of someplace vulnerable, delving headlong into a kind of trust he hasn't explored with a lover since before Expedition Zero's ill-fated foray onto the Continent. It feels good, really fucking good, to have those words spill so freely from between his lips; it feels amazing to say these things while Clive's teeth are sunk into his flesh and thoughts of looking beautiful draped in his come are bringing a new flutter to Verso's heart. And the continued reminder that he's about to be claimed by someone who loves him, genuinely loves him, oh, if that isn't everything to him.
He isn't quite ready to play that hand yet, so:]
But I still want to kiss my name off your lips, too.
[Teasingly, he slows his efforts, movements growing languid even as his own cock throbs in frustrated solidarity with Clive's. There's a point to this shift, but he delays its reveal, kissing a growl of his own into Clive's mouth, a rumbling, needy thing that taunts at whatever impulse lingers beneath Clive's surface. But soon enough, Verso's manoeuvring himself into a position where he can put his heart into stroking Clive dry, and he can – and does – press his lips back hard against his mouth like he's starved and in need of the sustenance of his tongue, and his chest is angled in such a way that Clive will eventually be able to watch as he drenches that well-scarred skin in his come.
It's not the most comfortable position in the world, no, but it's more than manageable, and it gives Verso the opportunity to rut against Clive's thigh, not so much seeking release as he is making clear how absolutely arousing he finds Clive's pleasure, how much mental emphasis needs to be placed on that initial well, yeah.]
[ It should be embarrassing how easily Verso brings him to his peak, but Clive has no space left in his head to mull over appearances: he knows he must look a mess, wild hair clinging to his face from sweat and condensation, knees splayed, hips bucking inelegantly to chase that eventual fall, fall, fall.
And oh, it feels so fucking good to give Verso what he wants. His name on Clive's kiss-flushed lips, Verso Verso Verso, slurring every time their mouths press together and their tongues meet. If Clive had any more clarity left in him, he would give a warning about being closer, then closer, and closest― but the tidal wave of his orgasm somehow manages to be a surprise to him as well, hot and heavy and intense, and he ruts against Verso's hand one last time before he breaks on the tail end of a shaky moan that skims closer to a whimper. Verso.
Hot, heady come stains the palm wrapped around his oversensitive cock; it trails over pianist fingers, paints over a toned chest. Clive watches it in a daze, sex-dull eyes cast down to watch how he streaks spend all over his lover, muddying his skin.
Sacrilege. It's gluttonous. Not just the impulse that follows the staining, but the follow-through of reaching out and spreading more of himself over the ridges of Verso's perfect stomach, indulging in this utterly selfish act, head swimming at the sight of come and sweat and silver.
He'll want to return the favor later; none of this matters if Verso doesn't find his own satisfaction. But for a moment, he's too fuckstruck to do anything but sway forward for more kisses to layer onto the ones they've already traded, less desperate but just as sweet (if not more so). ]
―Perfect, [ is what he finally manages to stitch together. ] God, you inspire such greed in me.
[Maybe Verso doesn't get to look upon those final moments as he pushes Clive over the precipice, but he gets to feel them, and he can't deny that the element of surprise and the freedom to be present in the act instead of laser focused on its completion make the experience of Clive's release, on his end, better than anything he'd had in mind.
So, he has a dumb smile on his face as he pulls himself up to give Clive an even clearer view of the marks he's left behind. There's nothing but warmth in his eyes, a delighted comfort, and he laughs lightly when his stomach twitches as Clive continues his claiming with that stroke of his hand. A gesture Verso soon matches, trailing his own come-wet hand across a clean patch of his chest, licking the remnants off his fingers, then dipping his hand in the water, cleaning it as best he can before reaching up to free the strands of Clive's hair from where sweat holds them to his brow.]
You get this... this light in your eyes when you're greedy. It's like blue flame and, fuck, all I want to do is discover how bright it can be.
[Which is a dangerous thing to speak aloud, perhaps, given the obsidian and smoke and char that lurk behind that light, but Verso carries himself with an easy kind of trust, absolute and confident in Clive's ability to tame and contain the worst of his flames.
And he knows it's not as simple as I trust you; he knows things are more fraught than that, even if Ifrit hasn't been a problem in a while. So he keeps his tone soft and warm, absent the richness, the huskiness, the rumble that might have taken over it were Clive an ordinary man, and he leans forwards to nuzzle their noses together in gentle acknowledgement.]
[ Soft and warm and so, so patient. Verso is an open palm that Clive doesn't deserve, because, because―
(―"how bright it can be", Verso says, and the hellfire creature happily rumbles for attention, lifting its head in Clive's still sex-fogged psyche. If it had its way, if it could take advantage of the worst of Clive's hunger, it would drag Verso to the edge of the tub and bend him over it without hesitation. Grip hips with clawed hands, ravenous eyes fluorescent-blue, and trace fire right up and along an arched spine to make knees buckle and yield. It would bid its semi-turned vessel to fuck, claim, consume―)
―that greed-stained look gets even sharper for a low sigh of a breath. Ifrit pushes against the boundaries of his post-orgasm haze, hissing mine mine mine.
Clive fends it away with a literal shake of his head, followed by a slow, reciprocal nuzzle of nose to jaw. An inhale, and he quells that dangerous instinct to allow blue eyes to pool gentle and affectionate. ]
Rile me at your own risk. [ As he leans back enough to take a look, again, at the mess he's made. They were never going to leave this tub without fooling around, but he still offers a half-laugh at how they're currently far dirtier than when they crawled in.
Not that Clive is complaining. Not a very good dog at all, how his hand beelines for Verso's still-hard cock and traces along its pretty underside with a careful index. ]
I want you far too much, and also love you far too much to test how deep that hunger goes.
[The look in Verso's own eyes shifts curious when he notices that blue flame has been extinguished. Not that he'll ever complain about the affectionate way Clive looks at him, and not that he'll ever believe the true nature of what lurks behind those eyes is any different from the gentleness they radiate now, but it still feels noteworthy. Like something they should address more directly one of these days on general terms rather than the kind they're inclined to focus on now.
Case in point: that stroke of Verso's cock, the way it makes it twitch and calls forth a softly strangled noise that barely rises past the back of his throat. Where Clive is thinking bad dog, Verso's one-track mind is still incapable of considering him to be any short of good, and the sound that follows – the one he makes purely of his own volition – is a deep, twitterpated purr.]
All right.
[His own fingers dance around Clive's naval, then trail up, up, up to take a lazy course around his heart before pressing down. This, Verso uses as leverage to pull himself up into another kiss, calm even as his body compels him to seek chaos, warm and twinkling as the bathwater.]
[ The growl in the back of Clive's mind abates. It's replaced by a different sort of brightness, the sort of joy that lights every inch of him as he realizes that he's given permission to love, instead of to injure.
Still a novelty. When it became evident that Anabella had no space in her heart to care for Clive, Elwin had pulled his son aside to teach him how to hold a sword. "If you become strong enough to defeat the Paintress, that might shut your mother up," he'd said, and that was where Clive found purpose and meaning for years and years of his life: his capacity for violence, and the people he could protect by wielding it.
Love me is not a thing that anyone but Verso has ever said to him. Clive lets the simple truth of those words settle in and under his skin, and kisses his affirmation into Verso's welcoming mouth. Okay. Yes. I can do that.
The touch along Verso's cock lifts, only meandering for a moment to find more of his own come to smear over that need-flushed hardness. Marking there, too, while Clive's palm moves at the slow, careful cadence he usually starts with when he's touching himself to thoughts of Verso. A warming-up, a chance to find some silly fantasy to fixate on before he starts pumping in earnest. ]
I've never loved anyone before you.
[ Mostly to himself: an externalization of something he'd meant to keep to himself. It's probably a little pathetic, actually, that he's lived three decades without a meaningful relationship, given the nature of their ever-shortening lifespans and the encouragement to forge connections before their candle goes out.
Oh well. He nuzzles close again, cradling Verso with one arm while his hand busies itself with memorizing Verso's shape as he gives pleasure to it, feeling for every twitch and reaction that he can chase with more friction, with gentle thumbing and squeezing to coax Verso's own beautiful mess from him.
[With Clive's intentions solidified, Verso shifts into a more comfortable position tucked against him, easing into the feeling of being cradled. People have touched him gently before, but the energy was different, a surge through his body rather than a crackle in the air, and he'd felt almost unbearable heats as opposed to the urge to bask in literal and emotional and soul-affirming warmth. Through those encounters, the noises he made rang loud; his hips bucked with desperate urgency, completely indifferent to how good it feels to be loved.
Now, though, Verso closes his eyes and nuzzles into Clive's neck, letting the thundering of his heart and the staccato music of his breath convey his body's desires and praises. He lets the thought of being Clive's first in another way wash over him. If he hadn't told Verso what his life had been prior to joining the Expedition, he might have been surprised. Now, though, he's simply grateful that a man who'd had so much love denied him still has such a surplus to give to others.
To him. A thought which finds Verso contently humming against Clive's pulse, letting out the barest whimper of a breath as a surge of pleasure tingles its way all the way up to his scalp. It's not long after that before his cock starts to pulse and he loses his calmer intensity, body tensing and breath bearing more and more noise, strained and keening, breaking into a moan as his orgasm traps him in a place of mon feu, mon feu, mon feu, mon feu, and his own come spills forth and lands where it lands – he cares but he doesn't know, face buried as it is against Clive, breath coming out in pants against his skin.
Eventually, he regains enough of his senses to remember that he'd been spoken to.]
Mm, next time. And thanks. For trusting me to be your first.
[And heaven forbid he leave it at that, he tosses in a playful:]
For being so good with your hands, too. That one's gonna stay with me for a while.
[ It's a slight shame that Clive can't see the way Verso buckles under the wave of his orgasm, but the satisfaction of cradling him close and kissing affirmations into his hair eclipse it, far and away. It's Clive's turn to be painted this time around, palm and finger and the expanse of his thighs, and the collectively sticky mess they've become bothers him so little that he has the audacity to cuddle closer to Verso as he slowly floats back down to earth.
He cleans his hand off (they're going to have to drain the water and refill it if they ever want to get clean), and fusses Verso into their original, more comfortable position. Less strain on those poor knees. ]
A long while, I hope.
[ That greedy mine, still lingering along Clive's edges. A rare thing, but entrusted fully to Verso in this moment as his arms wind around a come-stained middle, fingers playing along what's left of the 'marks' he left.
His lips press against the crest of Verso's shoulder, and settle there for a bit. ]
―But tell me if it ever gets to feel like too much.
[Earnest, so earnest that the words flow out like breath, easy and natural, soft and necessary. His fingers finds those splashes of himself and paint whorls of starlight upon the Canvas of Clive's thigh, and he lets out the sigh of a dreamer, the sigh of a man finding the bravery to put those dreams to words.
The bravery he finds, but the words...]
I don't know how to explain it, just... Your love feels different, like...
[He gives up. Leaves those whorls unfinished on Clive's leg, moves his hand over Clive's heart and imbues it with chroma distilled from the feelings Verso can't qualify, he can only radiate outwards. Like fire. Like light. Hope strong enough that if he'd thought about it deeper, he might bring himself to tears. The ever-intensifying filtering out of a definition of love that's easily abused and quickly betrayed in favour of one that means what it's supposed to fucking mean, at least in his romantic heart, his fool's heart. A sense of being ordinary that can only be contextualised by how deeply he feels like an outsider.]
I don't know. [He repeats.] Right now? I can't get enough of it.
[A pause to let out a light laugh as he things about what he's just said in the context of what Clive's saying, and so he offers, half tongue-in-cheek:]
[ Starlight tangles over the outline of Verso's heart, and sinks inward. Like Benedikta's tempest and Cid's levin, but more fundamental; Verso's silver doesn't feel like an energy to be channeled, but one that forms him anew. Fortifying and inextricable, a new seventh sense. It makes Clive sigh in contentment, lists against the edge of the bathtub with his head lolling gently to the side.
If this is what Clive's love feels like to Verso, Clive never wants to stop giving it to him. This steady anchor, this strange and frightening warmth. He reaches back and brushes his own firelight up along the dip of Verso's navel, tracing up the clean line of his sternum to flutter along a collarbone. Flames lap at Verso's throat, harmless but asserting. Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime.
A huff, when the tables turn on him. ] Point taken. [ His mouth presses against a sweat-flushed temple. ] My greatest joy is when you want things for yourself.
[ And, in turn, he'll have to accept that Verso might think the same. Terrifying.
Reaching back to fumble with the faucet, Clive starts the water up again to at least make the barest attempt at cleaning; the lonely, forgotten soap demands their attention, and Clive is looking forward to fussing around with Verso's very well-styled coif. ]
Tell me something you like. Besides music and red wine and looking beautiful.
[Leaning properly against Clive's chest, now, Verso reaches to take the hand that's not busy with the faucet and begins to play with it, thumbing across his knuckles, exploring how the slight stickiness of both their hands changes the feeling. An upgrade from prodding at his own hands, letting the various aches distract him from the ones held by his heart, in more than just the one way.
It helps, too, to have this outlet of distracting motion as he contemplates Clive's question. There's the obvious, the easy you, but that feels dismissive right now, especially with how blatant he's just made its depths. Then there's soaring down the mountain on a pair of skis, wind in his hair and mind clear of everything besides the descent, which doesn't feel like the mood, either. Not when his heart still carries the vulnerability of his release and the rerunning of the water promises to soothe rather than to exhilarate.
So:] I write a lot of poetry.
[Is that too close to music? Newsflash: the artist likes art in most of its forms. Maybe context will help.]
Usually at night when everything is quiet and the sky is so clear you can see every star. It helps me clear my mind so I can sleep. Or I'll go swimming.
[A pause as he contemplates telling him about the times when he dives deep underwater, drowning and drowning and drowning, but pressing through to explore the parts of the Canvas that no one else has seen or will ever see, places where no Nevrons lurk and nothing has been fractured. That seems like it carries too much risk of worrying Clive, though – and selfishly, Verso worries in turn that said worry will affect his ability to enjoy the depths – so he hums and chooses a different course of elaboration.]
[ Poetry and water: dreamlike topics for a dreamlike bath warmed by chroma and intimacy. Clive smiles about it as he uses his free hand to imbue the porcelain around them with fresh flame, letting white tinge pink for a breath of a second before that heat filters outwards to the once-again filling water around them. Less silver now that the water level is rising; the scent of sandalwood takes a slight back seat to the warm spice of bergamot curled into the steam. ]
Swim captain, [ he repeats. (Verso would be a Pisces, actually.) ] A lyricist, a musician, and a star athlete.
[ To the affectionate tune of overachiever. He doesn't care if the original Verso did much the same in his out-of-Canvas past, because it doesn't matter. ]
It seems apt. You feel...
[ He sifts through the water with his fingertips, letting ripples draw mercurial designs on the surface. Looking for the right word, poetic as he isn't. Clive keeps a journal of his own, one that Verso might have seen him writing in at the dead of night: the accounts within are far more pragmatic than they are artistic, a way for him to remember himself as the days crawl by. ]
...Of the air, and the water. Fluid.
[ Finally, he settles on that. ]
The Academy in Lumière doesn't do competitive swimming anymore, unfortunately.
[Verso can't help but laugh at Clive's list, at the implication behind his tone. Maybe he had been something of an overachiever back before the Fracture; it's hard for him to see it that way when he still feels like a man incapable of living up to expectations, someone who's always been more lost than not, trying to find himself by reaching towards whatever he was good at and seeing how far it could take him.
Even now, he questions how much of his success owed to his surname, how much of it owed to his charm, how much was built on the lies he'd told for different reasons, way back then. It's probably little wonder that his imposter syndrome runs so deep that it's etched into damned near every experience he's ever had, but at least it means he's able to shed himself of it before it becomes something apparent.
Another expression of fluidity, the way these things dissipate into the air with the steam, the way they sink into the water.
That unfortunately is what piques his interest the most, anyway. Not for the first time, he wonders what kind of interests Clive might have had if he'd been granted the chance to come into his own under less dire circumstances. All he really knows is that he liked theatre. Favoured Cid's apartment and the Academy training grounds. Lived his life for others.]
No? [With a gentle hum, he dips Clive's hand under the water and works it clean insofar as he can without soap.] What would you have liked to do that you never had the chance to?
[ Clive wonders about the days before the Fracture. About Lumière and its relationship to the Continent, about what that life would have meant without the looming countdown of the Monolith to remind him of his mortality, about what 'Clive' might have been like in the ethereal but gentle delusion of the Paintress' ideal world.
It's hard to imagine. The dire nature of their current society is all he knows, and everything that he is now is a result of the thousands dead in the Forgotten Battlefield, and countless more scattered like detritus wherever they roam.
He turns his hand over in Verso's, letting him scrub gently at hard-earned calluses. ]
Truth be told, I don't know. [ A lame answer, but the truth. ] Father started teaching me how to fight before my sixth summer－ when Joshua was born－ and I haven't thought to do much else since then.
[ He'd spent hours outside behind their manor, swinging swords until his hands bled and running laps around the fractured city, squaring off against adults twice his age. He'd lived most of his life in that small box, fighting and fighting and fighting.
Clive lets his free palm cup clean water from the faucet, and trickles it over Verso's hair. ]
It was less that I hadn't been given the chance, and more that I didn't see a reason to pursue anything but the blade. Father seemed proud of my skills, and that felt... enough. [ A little laugh, wistful. ] Made me feel less like a mistake, at any rate.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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Under Verso's palm, Clive's pulse is a steady one-two. It flutters to the beat of glimmering chroma, always trying to match that beloved cadence. ]
Mm. [ Craning up to press warm lips to a steam-damp temple, letting his nose brush up against the silver wave that sweeps down and across one well-shaped brow. ] And I'll have my own to match.
[ Equal, in all things. His lovesick mind whispers a morbid hope that Verso will die before him, if only because Clive can't bear the thought of Verso living any more days in solitude.
Wisely, he keeps that to himself. The memory of Verso's exhaustion still lives fresh in his mind; Clive will have to unpack it, but not right now. Not here. Not while he wants to keep his mouth busy doing other things, like trailing a path down, down, from a perfect face to a perfect jaw, along the line of a strong pulsepoint, to the smooth line that connects neck to shoulder.
He almost slips underwater (oops), but manages to keep balance. His teeth inadvertently sink into skin during the process, and he apologizes by soothing the spot with lips and tongue. ]
Sometimes, I wake in the morning with your face near mine－ [ Another lovesick murmur, this time spoken into existence. ] ―and I can scarcely believe that I found someone like you.
[ For a myriad of reasons. Clive counts his blessings ardently, and Verso is at the top of the list. ]
You bring me so much joy.
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So, he moves with Clive's kisses, the shimmering light to his lapping flames, humming into a startled laugh, into an edge of bliss, at that unintentional bite. A wondrous imperfection. The words that spill from Clive's lips thereafter themselves invoke thoughts of imperfection, and Verso considers how Clive seems to appreciate the moments where he isn't well-coiffed and well-masked; when his hair is wet and scraggly, when his eyes are red with tears, when his face is lined with pillow creases and there's sleep in the corners of his eyes.
The thought is unexpectedly nice for someone so given towards perfectionism, and Verso responds at first with another kiss, intense and desperate for how he's not sure that he'll ever be able to communicate with words and touch and chroma combined all that Clive has done for him. Another consequence of lying so much, he supposes, is that he loses some of his contrast.
A forgotten need for breath breaks the kiss, and the words that follow come out thick and heady and soft, so fucking soft that he nearly doesn't recognise the sound of his own voice.]
I want to bring you so much more than joy.
[Peace and place and home and hearth, love and security, fortune separate from the kind embraced by the Dessendres, a wealth of all the things they've both been denied. Promises he'll make with the whole of his heart despite their distance and the endless obstacles that guard them.
For now, though, the hand on Clive's heart trails a bit lower, fingers tapping against muscle.]
And I want to kiss my name off your lips. May I touch you?
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Big, lofty thoughts. Always somewhere in Clive's mindscape, but quieter when he's allowed the luxury of being stupidly in love. His head is a little fuzzy from all this heat, his bare skin a map of hypersensitivity from being steeped in his favorite color. Verso kisses him, and his heart flares crimson; their lips part, and the ends of Clive's crow-black bangs shimmer white.
Joy is so important. It's worth everything to Clive, to let Verso know that he's a constant source of happiness.
But touching is nice, too. Touching is very, very nice. ]
May you. [ With reciprocal softness, affection laced through every syllable. His breath mingles with the deep, rich scent of sandalwood curling around them; earthy, but sweet. ] I might start touching myself, if you deprive me.
[ A light tease (half-serious). Verso is free to have whatever part of Clive he wants, given that Clive is utterly and entirely his, in every way that matters; in the meantime, Clive takes it upon himself to do some exploration of his own, never content to receive without giving in return. His palms slide along Verso's thighs, massaging and kneading with unabashed appreciation, having always admired how these strong, toned legs carry Verso as he flits across battlefields like quicksilver. He might have fantasized about being between them once or twice (or several times).
(Unspoken: he's sure that the real Verso doesn't have this Verso's build.) ]
I like when you tell me what you want, you know.
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[Not that Verso would mind the show, it's simply that he is here to perform, not to observe; to draw forth just-right notes from Clive, to make him sing to the rhythms of his touches. Now, it's a slide, a gentle grinding of his ass against Clive's cock, an impish tease as he draws out the moment with another kiss – the slow, exploratory dance of his tongue previewing what he has in mind – before he pulls himself up and turns to lower himself so he's straddling Clive's thighs.
One finger lands at the junction of his upper thigh; it takes a meandering path upward, joined by another finger halfway through, culminating in a carousel of touch around one of his nipples.
Verso does struggle with telling people exactly what he wants; wanting things to begin with is complicated considering how much his existence takes away from everyone else. In this moment, though, he sheds all of those self-denying impulses and thinks about what he really desires, the outcome he'd most like to help bring to fruition.]
How's this, then?
[A quirked smile, a mischievous chuckle. He leans in to press his lips to Clive's, then to pepper more kisses down their own path of wanderlust to his ear.]
I want you to come all over me.
[Perhaps now would be an opportune time for emphasis; perhaps, he could lure out the first hints of music with a rock of his hips, a cock-on-cock grinding. But they have time. So much fucking time. And if Verso's immortality has taught him everything, it's how to be patient. So, he keeps his hips where they are, and instead opts to slowly trail his lips back over Clive's in a threat of a tease of a promise.]
Proper etiquette is that not a drop should touch the water.
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A bit overwhelming, really. The world blurs like gauze, but his chroma-covered body reacts to even the faintest brush of fingertips and lips against damp skin. His nipples are already peaked by the time Verso deigns to give attention to one, making heat coil and stir in the pit of his stomach.
Ah, is the ineloquent but honest music he makes. A single note, full of feeling. His palms slither up Verso's thighs, tracing them to his waist, where fingers press inwards and drum along the graceful line of the other man's silhouette. Keeping him, holding him, trying to match the patience.
The focus breaks, though, when Verso says that in his pretty, lilting voice. Somehow, despite all the filth that's come out of his own mouth during their previous sessions, hearing his lover present his desires in those terms makes Clive flush beet-red; he knows Verso can feel it as well as see it, with how closely their faces are pressed together. ]
I... [ Clearing his throat, obviously flustered by the mental images being conjured. ] ...Can try.
[ To the tune, essentially, of holy shit. A whisper, as his cock twitches and start to harden in interest between them, like an ill-tamed animal. Definitely not a good boy, and perhaps already getting ready to break etiquette, if pre-come counts for anything.
One hand relinquishes its grip, and travels up along Verso's chest, giving a reciprocal tweak to his sweetly-shaped peak before cradling a shapely jaw. His thumb works under Verso's chin, the way one would show affection to a particularly beloved cat. ]
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If that appeals to you, too.
[An urge rises to follow it with some kind of if not statement, but Verso recognises that for what it is – a scrambling to compensate for something he doesn't even know is a problem. It doesn't feel like one when Clive starts landing more of his own touches, and the way he strokes Verso's chin helps reassert, oddly enough, Verso's faith that if he objects to something, even if only a little, he'll let him know.
Shifting a bit backwards in Clive's lap, he raises his hands to bracket his face, thumbs urging his chin higher as he leans in to nuzzle at his throat.]
There's always next time.
[Lips and tongue and teeth to skin. Nips and grazes and suction. Every time Verso works part of Clive's neck, he speaks up with an or the next time, or the next time, or the time after that, or the next time, each one growing progressively huskier than the last as he keeps lowering himself, stopping only once he's low enough to make a reasonable effort at looking Clive in the eyes again.]
Just watching you come brings me joy.
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[ A kneejerk reaction, cut off by gentle touches and soft, affection-stained words. He'd shake his head if not for where Verso tucks himself, lips and teeth to flush-warm skin; instead, he swallows thickly at those indulgent promises, his head swimming with the sheer power of next time.
It's too much, which means that it's just enough. Clive hasn't had many people to warm his bed over the course of his life, which means that someone so confident and beautiful telegraphing intent and interest can occasionally make his brain stutter－ there's no way, it unhelpfully supplies, while also spitting out green flag after green flag. There's nothing in Clive's head but an emphatic chorus of yes-es, and that, too, is overwhelming.
A sigh, low and heady, and he strokes under Verso's chin again. ]
...Want to. [ He finally finishes the sentence, thumbing over Verso's lower lip, stealing it inwards to trace along his teeth, sideways to the corner of his mouth. ] I want to see you marked by me.
[ A whispered confession; maybe a slight tremor of possessiveness, hesitant but there. Verso will always belong wholly to himself (as much as the terms of his existence will allow it, anyway), but Clive has his fleeting moments of mine, regardless. Never strong enough to be restrictive, but obvious enough to show a deep, deep (deep) (deep) well of wanting. ]
Will you let me? [ Dipping down to claim those perfect lips again, taking his time with the kiss until they're both panting from it, mouths connected by a thin trail of saliva. This is what hedonism must feel like. ] Do you want to be mine, mon étoile?
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Good vulnerable. The vulnerable of actually wanting to belong to someone, the vulnerable of an expression of possession that's freeing instead of restrictive.]
Merde...
[Out comes all that goodness in a curse, in a subsequent shaking of his head. Does he want to be Clive's? Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Filled with him and covered in him and wrapped up in his arms, in his touches, in a tangling of their limbs. It astounds Verso, really, how Clive can take his filth and distill it into something that's so much more affectionate. Or maybe it's the clarity he provides, the simplicity with which he sees into him with what feels like precious little effort. Probably, it's a combination of both, plus feelings he hasn't yet found the words for, new as they are to him.]
I've never wanted anything more than to be yours.
[Cliche, maybe, but Verso's a bit preoccupied with making a different kind of impression on Clive, so who gives a fuck, really? What can words say that could deliver his message as clearly as the worshipful way he works himself further down Clive's body, marking his own trail into his skin, little breadcrumbs left behind for him to follow once he's ready to make good on his first request and kiss Clive until he can taste the song of his name on his lips?
Later, though. Later. Now, it's time for him to rest one hand near the hard jut of Clive's cock and steady his thigh with the other; now, his lips draft a love story into the soft, sensitive skin of his thigh while his thumb teases its way across the forest of black hair, close but never close enough.
At some point he pauses to look up at Clive again, eager tongue poking out from the corner of his lips.]
So, you can trust I'll do everything I can to earn it.
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It's a not-so-subtle shift. Given permission to be greedy and granted leave to be possessive, Clive leans into that usually-forbidden realm of mine, mine, mine: his Verso, his star, his love. The ravenous void of a man who has lived his entire life without allowing himself the liberty to want, and the (perhaps too-strong) devotion that comes as a consequence of it.
Monstrous, probably. Clive usually keeps it tamed, for obvious reasons. Frightened of giving Verso the wrong idea, terrified of scaring Verso off as a result. It mirrors his conflict with Ifrit: the desire to protect and safekeep and safeguard, contrasted against this new and impossible feeling of wanting and wanting and wanting.
Because fuck, he wants. His cock stands at full-mast already by the time Verso's perfect face nuzzles close to it, the contrast of its ache-red obscene against pale skin, paler eyes. It twitches at the almost-touch, shameless in its anticipation of more. ]
Merde, [ he near-laughs, as he shifts under Verso's weight. Restless, he parts his thighs and arches his back, putting more of himself on display. ] Your mouth really does get you in trouble.
[ A callback, a running joke. The filter between his brain to his mouth gives up functioning; Clive is stupid with need. ]
My Verso, [ he hums. Mine, his mind and chroma trill happily, though this means that the opposite is also true, that he's the one tightly wound around Verso's finger. ]
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Let future Verso learn the truths of those flames, though; let him learn in the moment what, exactly, lurks behind the gleam to his eyes. Present Verso is plenty enraptured by Clive's cock, as near to his mouth as it is to his hand, and oh, how many options avail themselves in this moment; oh, how spoilt Verso feels by choice.]
And now my mouth's about to get you in trouble.
[But it's the backs of his fingers that deliver the first touch, moving up and down, up and down, like they're stroking something incomparably precious. And they are, they are, they are – a fact he cements by kissing at the head of Clive's cock still more romantic than lewd, still maintaining the tease rather than giving into the temptation radiant in them both. Like this, he works that red-hard length as if he's making out with it, exploratory and needy and expressive, greedy, so greedy to learn the shape of it, the taste, the way it fits into his mouth just fucking so.
Eventually, he pulls away with a pop, lips gleaming with saliva and precum and twinkling traces of bathwater. He wraps his fingers around the base of Clive's cock and begins stroking him in earnest, albeit still at a too-slow pace, still biding his time as he lifts himself up to kiss at his ears, leaving a slight mess behind.]
Hey. [A breath of a whisper.] The sooner you tell me you're close, the more times I'll be able to let you know that you're a good boy.
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But that's a Bad Boy future for another day. Right now, Clive has no space to think about anything but the wet, warm feel of Verso's mouth, against him and over him, toying with the sensitive tip and drawing more precum from his already-drooling cock.
He is in trouble. Visually and aurally, on top of all of this tactility. There's something sacrilegious about how Verso's pretty mouth stretches around his erection, something even more unholy about the wet sound of him working around it; it makes Clive tremble to see it, hear it, and his breath stutters to the slow rhythm that Verso eventually starts with his hand, breaks at that last good boy. ]
―I should never have told you about that.
[ Too little, too late. The tone here is playful, though, thick with agonized arousal, as Clive tips his head and bites at Verso's jaw in (still-gentle) retaliation. Aware of how the slick sound between his legs echo in the cavernous space of the Dessendre's bathroom but letting it become louder anyway, hips rolling up with every downwards drag of that heated palm (it must be a fucking mess by now). ]
Are you so eager to have me on you? [ A taunt for a taunt, though his lover very much has the upper hand (ha). ] You'll look so beautiful, covered and claimed by me.
[ Again, with that wolflike sharpness. His teeth sink into Verso's shoulder again, this time with purpose: like a wolf biting the scruff of its mate's neck to keep them in place. (Ifrit snaps its jaws, pleased.) ]
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[The first part of his answer comes easy, a husky admission that probably goes without saying, but that Verso feels the urge to speak aloud nonetheless. He is toeing the line of someplace vulnerable, delving headlong into a kind of trust he hasn't explored with a lover since before Expedition Zero's ill-fated foray onto the Continent. It feels good, really fucking good, to have those words spill so freely from between his lips; it feels amazing to say these things while Clive's teeth are sunk into his flesh and thoughts of looking beautiful draped in his come are bringing a new flutter to Verso's heart. And the continued reminder that he's about to be claimed by someone who loves him, genuinely loves him, oh, if that isn't everything to him.
He isn't quite ready to play that hand yet, so:]
But I still want to kiss my name off your lips, too.
[Teasingly, he slows his efforts, movements growing languid even as his own cock throbs in frustrated solidarity with Clive's. There's a point to this shift, but he delays its reveal, kissing a growl of his own into Clive's mouth, a rumbling, needy thing that taunts at whatever impulse lingers beneath Clive's surface. But soon enough, Verso's manoeuvring himself into a position where he can put his heart into stroking Clive dry, and he can – and does – press his lips back hard against his mouth like he's starved and in need of the sustenance of his tongue, and his chest is angled in such a way that Clive will eventually be able to watch as he drenches that well-scarred skin in his come.
It's not the most comfortable position in the world, no, but it's more than manageable, and it gives Verso the opportunity to rut against Clive's thigh, not so much seeking release as he is making clear how absolutely arousing he finds Clive's pleasure, how much mental emphasis needs to be placed on that initial well, yeah.]
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And oh, it feels so fucking good to give Verso what he wants. His name on Clive's kiss-flushed lips, Verso Verso Verso, slurring every time their mouths press together and their tongues meet. If Clive had any more clarity left in him, he would give a warning about being closer, then closer, and closest― but the tidal wave of his orgasm somehow manages to be a surprise to him as well, hot and heavy and intense, and he ruts against Verso's hand one last time before he breaks on the tail end of a shaky moan that skims closer to a whimper. Verso.
Hot, heady come stains the palm wrapped around his oversensitive cock; it trails over pianist fingers, paints over a toned chest. Clive watches it in a daze, sex-dull eyes cast down to watch how he streaks spend all over his lover, muddying his skin.
Sacrilege. It's gluttonous. Not just the impulse that follows the staining, but the follow-through of reaching out and spreading more of himself over the ridges of Verso's perfect stomach, indulging in this utterly selfish act, head swimming at the sight of come and sweat and silver.
He'll want to return the favor later; none of this matters if Verso doesn't find his own satisfaction. But for a moment, he's too fuckstruck to do anything but sway forward for more kisses to layer onto the ones they've already traded, less desperate but just as sweet (if not more so). ]
―Perfect, [ is what he finally manages to stitch together. ] God, you inspire such greed in me.
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So, he has a dumb smile on his face as he pulls himself up to give Clive an even clearer view of the marks he's left behind. There's nothing but warmth in his eyes, a delighted comfort, and he laughs lightly when his stomach twitches as Clive continues his claiming with that stroke of his hand. A gesture Verso soon matches, trailing his own come-wet hand across a clean patch of his chest, licking the remnants off his fingers, then dipping his hand in the water, cleaning it as best he can before reaching up to free the strands of Clive's hair from where sweat holds them to his brow.]
You get this... this light in your eyes when you're greedy. It's like blue flame and, fuck, all I want to do is discover how bright it can be.
[Which is a dangerous thing to speak aloud, perhaps, given the obsidian and smoke and char that lurk behind that light, but Verso carries himself with an easy kind of trust, absolute and confident in Clive's ability to tame and contain the worst of his flames.
And he knows it's not as simple as I trust you; he knows things are more fraught than that, even if Ifrit hasn't been a problem in a while. So he keeps his tone soft and warm, absent the richness, the huskiness, the rumble that might have taken over it were Clive an ordinary man, and he leans forwards to nuzzle their noses together in gentle acknowledgement.]
Being yours to claim? That's my selfish desire.
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(―"how bright it can be", Verso says, and the hellfire creature happily rumbles for attention, lifting its head in Clive's still sex-fogged psyche. If it had its way, if it could take advantage of the worst of Clive's hunger, it would drag Verso to the edge of the tub and bend him over it without hesitation. Grip hips with clawed hands, ravenous eyes fluorescent-blue, and trace fire right up and along an arched spine to make knees buckle and yield. It would bid its semi-turned vessel to fuck, claim, consume―)
―that greed-stained look gets even sharper for a low sigh of a breath. Ifrit pushes against the boundaries of his post-orgasm haze, hissing mine mine mine.
Clive fends it away with a literal shake of his head, followed by a slow, reciprocal nuzzle of nose to jaw. An inhale, and he quells that dangerous instinct to allow blue eyes to pool gentle and affectionate. ]
Rile me at your own risk. [ As he leans back enough to take a look, again, at the mess he's made. They were never going to leave this tub without fooling around, but he still offers a half-laugh at how they're currently far dirtier than when they crawled in.
Not that Clive is complaining. Not a very good dog at all, how his hand beelines for Verso's still-hard cock and traces along its pretty underside with a careful index. ]
I want you far too much, and also love you far too much to test how deep that hunger goes.
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Case in point: that stroke of Verso's cock, the way it makes it twitch and calls forth a softly strangled noise that barely rises past the back of his throat. Where Clive is thinking bad dog, Verso's one-track mind is still incapable of considering him to be any short of good, and the sound that follows – the one he makes purely of his own volition – is a deep, twitterpated purr.]
All right.
[His own fingers dance around Clive's naval, then trail up, up, up to take a lazy course around his heart before pressing down. This, Verso uses as leverage to pull himself up into another kiss, calm even as his body compels him to seek chaos, warm and twinkling as the bathwater.]
Then love me, you big softie.
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Still a novelty. When it became evident that Anabella had no space in her heart to care for Clive, Elwin had pulled his son aside to teach him how to hold a sword. "If you become strong enough to defeat the Paintress, that might shut your mother up," he'd said, and that was where Clive found purpose and meaning for years and years of his life: his capacity for violence, and the people he could protect by wielding it.
Love me is not a thing that anyone but Verso has ever said to him. Clive lets the simple truth of those words settle in and under his skin, and kisses his affirmation into Verso's welcoming mouth. Okay. Yes. I can do that.
The touch along Verso's cock lifts, only meandering for a moment to find more of his own come to smear over that need-flushed hardness. Marking there, too, while Clive's palm moves at the slow, careful cadence he usually starts with when he's touching himself to thoughts of Verso. A warming-up, a chance to find some silly fantasy to fixate on before he starts pumping in earnest. ]
I've never loved anyone before you.
[ Mostly to himself: an externalization of something he'd meant to keep to himself. It's probably a little pathetic, actually, that he's lived three decades without a meaningful relationship, given the nature of their ever-shortening lifespans and the encouragement to forge connections before their candle goes out.
Oh well. He nuzzles close again, cradling Verso with one arm while his hand busies itself with memorizing Verso's shape as he gives pleasure to it, feeling for every twitch and reaction that he can chase with more friction, with gentle thumbing and squeezing to coax Verso's own beautiful mess from him.
Brain-to-mouth filter still shot, he offers: ]
Let me taste you, next time.
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Now, though, Verso closes his eyes and nuzzles into Clive's neck, letting the thundering of his heart and the staccato music of his breath convey his body's desires and praises. He lets the thought of being Clive's first in another way wash over him. If he hadn't told Verso what his life had been prior to joining the Expedition, he might have been surprised. Now, though, he's simply grateful that a man who'd had so much love denied him still has such a surplus to give to others.
To him. A thought which finds Verso contently humming against Clive's pulse, letting out the barest whimper of a breath as a surge of pleasure tingles its way all the way up to his scalp. It's not long after that before his cock starts to pulse and he loses his calmer intensity, body tensing and breath bearing more and more noise, strained and keening, breaking into a moan as his orgasm traps him in a place of mon feu, mon feu, mon feu, mon feu, and his own come spills forth and lands where it lands – he cares but he doesn't know, face buried as it is against Clive, breath coming out in pants against his skin.
Eventually, he regains enough of his senses to remember that he'd been spoken to.]
Mm, next time. And thanks. For trusting me to be your first.
[And heaven forbid he leave it at that, he tosses in a playful:]
For being so good with your hands, too. That one's gonna stay with me for a while.
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He cleans his hand off (they're going to have to drain the water and refill it if they ever want to get clean), and fusses Verso into their original, more comfortable position. Less strain on those poor knees. ]
A long while, I hope.
[ That greedy mine, still lingering along Clive's edges. A rare thing, but entrusted fully to Verso in this moment as his arms wind around a come-stained middle, fingers playing along what's left of the 'marks' he left.
His lips press against the crest of Verso's shoulder, and settle there for a bit. ]
―But tell me if it ever gets to feel like too much.
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[Earnest, so earnest that the words flow out like breath, easy and natural, soft and necessary. His fingers finds those splashes of himself and paint whorls of starlight upon the Canvas of Clive's thigh, and he lets out the sigh of a dreamer, the sigh of a man finding the bravery to put those dreams to words.
The bravery he finds, but the words...]
I don't know how to explain it, just... Your love feels different, like...
[He gives up. Leaves those whorls unfinished on Clive's leg, moves his hand over Clive's heart and imbues it with chroma distilled from the feelings Verso can't qualify, he can only radiate outwards. Like fire. Like light. Hope strong enough that if he'd thought about it deeper, he might bring himself to tears. The ever-intensifying filtering out of a definition of love that's easily abused and quickly betrayed in favour of one that means what it's supposed to fucking mean, at least in his romantic heart, his fool's heart. A sense of being ordinary that can only be contextualised by how deeply he feels like an outsider.]
I don't know. [He repeats.] Right now? I can't get enough of it.
[A pause to let out a light laugh as he things about what he's just said in the context of what Clive's saying, and so he offers, half tongue-in-cheek:]
You let me know if that gets to be too much.
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If this is what Clive's love feels like to Verso, Clive never wants to stop giving it to him. This steady anchor, this strange and frightening warmth. He reaches back and brushes his own firelight up along the dip of Verso's navel, tracing up the clean line of his sternum to flutter along a collarbone. Flames lap at Verso's throat, harmless but asserting. Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime.
A huff, when the tables turn on him. ] Point taken. [ His mouth presses against a sweat-flushed temple. ] My greatest joy is when you want things for yourself.
[ And, in turn, he'll have to accept that Verso might think the same. Terrifying.
Reaching back to fumble with the faucet, Clive starts the water up again to at least make the barest attempt at cleaning; the lonely, forgotten soap demands their attention, and Clive is looking forward to fussing around with Verso's very well-styled coif. ]
Tell me something you like. Besides music and red wine and looking beautiful.
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It helps, too, to have this outlet of distracting motion as he contemplates Clive's question. There's the obvious, the easy you, but that feels dismissive right now, especially with how blatant he's just made its depths. Then there's soaring down the mountain on a pair of skis, wind in his hair and mind clear of everything besides the descent, which doesn't feel like the mood, either. Not when his heart still carries the vulnerability of his release and the rerunning of the water promises to soothe rather than to exhilarate.
So:] I write a lot of poetry.
[Is that too close to music? Newsflash: the artist likes art in most of its forms. Maybe context will help.]
Usually at night when everything is quiet and the sky is so clear you can see every star. It helps me clear my mind so I can sleep. Or I'll go swimming.
[A pause as he contemplates telling him about the times when he dives deep underwater, drowning and drowning and drowning, but pressing through to explore the parts of the Canvas that no one else has seen or will ever see, places where no Nevrons lurk and nothing has been fractured. That seems like it carries too much risk of worrying Clive, though – and selfishly, Verso worries in turn that said worry will affect his ability to enjoy the depths – so he hums and chooses a different course of elaboration.]
Believe it or not, I used to be swim captain.
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Swim captain, [ he repeats. (Verso would be a Pisces, actually.) ] A lyricist, a musician, and a star athlete.
[ To the affectionate tune of overachiever. He doesn't care if the original Verso did much the same in his out-of-Canvas past, because it doesn't matter. ]
It seems apt. You feel...
[ He sifts through the water with his fingertips, letting ripples draw mercurial designs on the surface. Looking for the right word, poetic as he isn't. Clive keeps a journal of his own, one that Verso might have seen him writing in at the dead of night: the accounts within are far more pragmatic than they are artistic, a way for him to remember himself as the days crawl by. ]
...Of the air, and the water. Fluid.
[ Finally, he settles on that. ]
The Academy in Lumière doesn't do competitive swimming anymore, unfortunately.
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Even now, he questions how much of his success owed to his surname, how much of it owed to his charm, how much was built on the lies he'd told for different reasons, way back then. It's probably little wonder that his imposter syndrome runs so deep that it's etched into damned near every experience he's ever had, but at least it means he's able to shed himself of it before it becomes something apparent.
Another expression of fluidity, the way these things dissipate into the air with the steam, the way they sink into the water.
That unfortunately is what piques his interest the most, anyway. Not for the first time, he wonders what kind of interests Clive might have had if he'd been granted the chance to come into his own under less dire circumstances. All he really knows is that he liked theatre. Favoured Cid's apartment and the Academy training grounds. Lived his life for others.]
No? [With a gentle hum, he dips Clive's hand under the water and works it clean insofar as he can without soap.] What would you have liked to do that you never had the chance to?
crawls back to the starrs, wheezing and panting
It's hard to imagine. The dire nature of their current society is all he knows, and everything that he is now is a result of the thousands dead in the Forgotten Battlefield, and countless more scattered like detritus wherever they roam.
He turns his hand over in Verso's, letting him scrub gently at hard-earned calluses. ]
Truth be told, I don't know. [ A lame answer, but the truth. ] Father started teaching me how to fight before my sixth summer－ when Joshua was born－ and I haven't thought to do much else since then.
[ He'd spent hours outside behind their manor, swinging swords until his hands bled and running laps around the fractured city, squaring off against adults twice his age. He'd lived most of his life in that small box, fighting and fighting and fighting.
Clive lets his free palm cup clean water from the faucet, and trickles it over Verso's hair. ]
It was less that I hadn't been given the chance, and more that I didn't see a reason to pursue anything but the blade. Father seemed proud of my skills, and that felt... enough. [ A little laugh, wistful. ] Made me feel less like a mistake, at any rate.
hands you a sadman and a pillow
two of my favorite things 🥹
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how DARE you choose that song...........
says the person who linked me a piano arrangement of MY STAR!!!
that's the Verso Dies Ending song.....................
at least clive will know how jill felt
he'll ugly cry for 100 years and then die of dehydration
he needs a torgal to sop up at least some of those tears; they should adopt that fluffy pink nevron
clive wants VERSO!!! (but they do deserve emotional support fluffs)
clive can have verso's petals that's something
opens up microsoft word to write a 500000 word fic about clive crying over verso's petals
rabidly refreshes ao3 (no but we should do this somehow)
you've given me too much power and i've gone mad with it
rubs hands together with such gusto the friction sets the sadmen aflame (again) (sorry, ben starrs)
WHEN WILL VERSO BE FREE!!!!!!!!!!
probably some time after the heat death of the universe or the reaper invasion or w/e destroys earth
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