Chapter Text
The first time Verso approached Maelle at the camp's lakeside, she nearly skewered him with her rapier. Her round eyes glistened with unshed tears, and her quickened breaths quaked her form as she fought back sobs.
Verso raised his empty hands in surrender. “It’s just me, Maelle.”
All emotional shields dissipated alongside her blade. Luckily, Verso was quick enough to catch her when her knees buckled. They were not close enough for this level of trust, yet it all came naturally. Verso tucked her into his arm, brushing up and down the slope of her heaving back, and murmured into her hair, “It’s okay. You’re all right.”
“I thought I was used to death,” she whispered, hoarse with grief. “And then we come here, and—” Weak and broken sobs muffled into the fur of Verso’s collar.
Through the tightness of his throat, Verso rubbed her shoulders and cooed gentle nonsense. There were no words of comfort or reassurance for her in a world like this. It was cruel to those who understood and certainly to those who did not understand, like the strike of a parent’s hand.
From then on, Verso felt he had a sixth sense of Maelle’s moods. He knew them as innately as his habits and tendencies. It seemed Maelle had a sixth sense for Verso’s presence—or perhaps he was losing his touch and growing soft. Confiding with each other after sleepless nights became a habit of sorts.
One night, Verso was skittish and erratic, pacing endlessly after an exceptionally awful dream of fire melting his skin and laving at his bones. It wasn’t until Maelle sat with him, bumping her scrawny shoulder against his, that he could calm down. She pulled him in, hugging his head with her arms, and all he could think was Maelle, Maelle, Maelle.
This was a dangerous habit. Maelle was a dangerous habit. Affection toward anyone was strictly off-limits, yet one doe-eyed, primly-postured girl weaseled her way into his heart, as did Lune and Sciel. Monoco and Esquie’s insistence on allowing this did not help.
What helped least of all was Maelle’s resemblance to the sister he falsely remembered. Like a vivid hallucination, he dreamt of growing up with Alicia. Guiding her youth-soft hands through clumsy brushstrokes and detangling her hair as she sniveled and blubbered about Clea for the umpteenth time.
Every time, he woke with more fondness and protection in his touch for Maelle, and Maelle seemed adamant to seek him out most nights in camp.
It wasn’t until Sciel threw him a look that Verso wondered what Maelle was thinking when it came to him. Maelle curled into his arms one exceptionally chilly and devastating night, worming her way into his bedroll like a stubborn snake searching for warmth. Shame lit his face aflame, and his heart’s tempo increased, but he was most ashamed of himself for allowing and desiring this. A sick corner of himself yearned for this—for wandering hands and slotted knees. A fleeting thought he would never initiate.
A part of him hoped he misread the signs. He had his vain moments, after all, even if most were jokes. Under the Monolith’s golden glow, Maelle leaned into Verso’s space, not to press her head into his chest but to bump their noses together.
“Verso,” she breathed, her hands nervously clawing at the hem of his shirt.
It took everything within him to pull away. “I— We shouldn’t,” he whispered. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re—” Verso shut his mouth immediately, trapping the words from leaving his traitorous throat. “Because you’re young, and I am a very old man.”
“This is practically a suicide mission,” Maelle said with more humor than any sixteen-year-old should have. “Who is going to tell us no? The Paintress?”
You have no idea, he wanted to say. She would flay me on the spot, half a century’s worth of grief be damned.
Maelle’s voice lilted with her trademark teasing—prodding at him with everything at her disposal for his reaction. “And even Esquie says you’re vain.” Her laugh was a flutter of chimes. “I find it hard to believe you would seriously call yourself an old man, Mr. Dyes-His-Hair-Black.”
Verso scoffed, a retort already on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t exactly dye all of my hair.”
“Oh?” Maelle’s shit-eating grin and spark in her eyes spelled out mischief. “Your streaks of silver were intentional?”
“I’m all about the dramatics, don’t you know? I live for a little bit of flair.” Privately hurt, he asked, “What, does it look bad?”
Maelle curled into his chest, pressing her cheek against his painted heart. All too easily, their hands overlapped—rough, calloused hands with bitten nails curling around delicate, training-shaped hands. They fit perfectly, and he hated himself for it.
“Not at all,” she murmured. “I think it’s dashing.”
A glimmer of pride fluttered in his chest beneath the warmth of Maelle’s cheek. He nosed the crown of her head, finding more comfort in her presence than he should have allowed. Even after grueling days through their expedition, she still smelled like her. The sharp tang of polish for her blade, the herbs used to freshen up her clothes; he could practically smell the citrus bath oil that always clung to her skin and curled the ends of her hair.
It was on impulse that he pulled her snug against him, his arm tucked into the dip of her waist, and kissed the crown of her head. Beneath the gold glow of 33 , Verso basked in the familiarity and anonymity all in one.
This was not exactly Alicia, but it was her face; her fleeting voice, albeit with an inflection native to Lumiere. Her eyes pierced back at him like her rapier’s jab, as slate blue as his, but wide with wonder and youthful grief.
She was not Alicia, yet she was.
Maelle’s knee—half the width of Verso’s calf—planted between his thighs. Her hands pressed into his shoulders, and he could feel a tremor under his skin. Something begging to crawl out, to take and be taken, and to expose.
“Sweetheart,” —the nickname was new, but it slipped from his lips effortlessly— “you barely know me. Wouldn’t Sciel or Lune…?”
“But I want you,” she insisted, pouting. Her gaze was half-lidded as she watched Verso’s mouth. Fingers caressed the fur of his coat. He knew the fur was still crunchy with blood and chroma, yet she touched him like she could fix him. Like she could paint over what he lacked, purify what had never been cleaned, and change him from the inside out.
Verso’s stomach churned. Maelle’s fingers were in his hair, dragging through the tresses.
“You’ll dirty yourself,” he said.
“I’m already soaked in Nevron juices and dust, Verso.”
“No, I mean—”
“And don’t give me that look,” she scoffed as she pushed back his hair from his face, scowling up at him from beneath her furrowed brows. Verso felt properly chastised and teased. “You look like a guilty puppy, staring up at me like this.”
“I refuse to believe I look like that,” Verso lied. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I am not! I swear it.”
Joking with Maelle came as easily as touching her. Despite himself, he craved her bright laughter and the rounds of her cheeks pinching with rare, smiling laughter. She was safety and comfort, like returning home after months of travel and harsh environments.
Kissing Maelle was a rush of warmth and relief, much to Verso’s disappointment. He hoped his painted heart and soul would cringe and revolt. Instead, his hands slid up Maelle’s back, cradling her against him as she crushed her lips to his. He nipped her bottom lip, guiding her overeager kisses into something slower, sensual.
Allow me to lead, he hoped to convey. And Maelle allowed it full-heartedly, humming with pleasure as she slotted his thigh between hers. When he flicked his tongue in her mouth, always one to tease, Maelle shivered against him.
At some point, her hair came undone under Verso’s wandering hands. Auburn hair curtained her expression from the Monolith—a secret between her and Verso. She kissed with more confidence and skill, taking pages from his book. Of all his kisses with women, this was the first time he craved a complete dissonance with her character.
Maelle kissed down the corner of Verso’s jaw, grinding desperately against his thigh, and Verso took the chance to tie her hair back up. The line between Alicia and Maelle came back into focus, unraveling some tension knotted in his chest. With his fingers in her hair, Maelle’s back arched, writhing against his thigh with suppressed pleasure.
“You’re close?” Verso asked, as whisper-soft as the brush of their expedition clothes.
“I—I think so.”
The violent churning returned. “I got you. Let’s stay like this.” His hands guided her hips in a slower rhythm, his leg moving in tandem against her core. Beyond the friction, he could feel her pulse pound against his thigh, moistening with her excitement. “Just like that, sweetheart.”
“Verso—”
Maelle shuddered. Her fingers dug into Verso’s shoulder and clamped in his hair, pulling enough to prick at his scalp wonderfully. Verso ignored the painful pressure in his pants in favor of her little noises, writhing and stifling moans with her forehead against his shoulder as she rode his thigh.
”That’s it.”
Maelle’s climax was a shock to the system—a great gasp trailed by endless shivers. She curled into Vero’s arms, smelling of sweat, citrus, and polish as she whimpered and panted in his ear, and Verso gripped her tight in return. She was wet and warm against him, her core pulsating against his cock.
“Good girl.”
Every inch of Verso whined to grind up against her; the thought alone made him twitch. Instead, he readjusted her in his arms, sliding one arm under her knees and kissing her nose. She cradled his jawline to pull him in for a kiss, and he melted with a barely stifled moan.
Maelle wriggled, emanating heat in her freckled face until she practically matched the redness of her hair by the time she pulled away, lips glistening. “You’re embarrassing, old man.”
“After all that, you still go for the jugular, I see.”
She kissed the underside of his jaw, nosing his stubble as if in silent apology. “I’m sure I can make it up to you?”
Verso’s stomach churned once more—hard enough to make him queasy. “Perhaps another night. I’m enjoying this right now.”
Though Maelle pouted, she sank into his arms bonelessly. “Next time, then.”
“Yeah. Next time,” Verso promised around the tightness in his throat. He shouldn’t agree, but he was already fantasizing of her heat, her taste, and the squeeze of her thighs. Beneath Maelle, he twitched with want, but the desire for her scent and warmth won over. Sex could wait. The touch of another being, however, was another beast entirely.
Once he carried Maelle to her bedroll, brushing back her bangs for a quick forehead kiss, he crept out of camp again. Curled into himself with his hand on his weeping cock, he’d never been harder in his miserable, painted life. It ached to brush against—neglected for weeks on end. He seethed, desperately failing not to imagine an inexperienced but eager mouth wrapped around him and swallowing him down. He imagined piercing, slate blue eyes and auburn hair, and pitifully spilled into his shaking hands.
If he could die, Verso had no doubt he would wind up in Hell for everything he had done.