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How is one supposed to celebrate what could be the final night of their lives? Back in Lumiere, it was easy. Those who Gommaged adorned themselves in flowers, gifted by those cursed to remain in their absence. And those embarking on the Expeditions; they played cards and drank, laughed and chatted the night away till the bells called them to board the ships. No one prepared you for what might come after, for the finality that awaited beyond the reaches of Lumiere. There was a certainty to the Gommage, a certainty to the unknown of the departing Expedition—there was no certainty of any kind past Renoir's guarded shores.
The Paintress: she was so close now. Her curled, almost weeping form, gigantic before the monolith—a short trip upon Esquie’s back across the sea. You’d come this far, that had to count for something. It just had to.
You sat along the secluded cove of the rocky beach, on a patch of sea-breeze burnt grass. Stone, eroded under the ever-present swell of salty waves, descended into the ocean that lapped by your feet just out of reach—just as the Paintress was across the way, mirroring your sorrow on her own lonely shore. But she had the monolith, you only had the tall, narrowing cliffs of this hidden cove you'd found solace in. It was a short trek from your campsite down a steep path of scrub and shale. When you first discovered it, you thought it to be a good spot to reflect upon your journey, but memories of strife shortly bothered your peace. The cliffs either side of you were similar to the tall pillars of black stone that nearly marked the grave of your beloved. But it wasn't the same, you reminded yourself. It was low to the ground, the rocks smoother. It was quiet—only the wash of rolling waves to methodically keep the time.
You lobbed a small rock from where you sat. How the waves distorted the horizon made it seem that it might just land by the Paintress' feet.
Nearly, you told yourself.
And nearly, you were at final push that would see your expedition to victory and Lumiere liberated from the storm of mournful petals—perhaps.
It was all a 'perhaps.' An if, but, maybe, slim chance. Your heart sunk. You would die there tomorrow on that far away, but so-close shore.
Perhaps.
You threw another stone. It didn't reach as far.
The eve before your impending confrontation hadn't been like the party back in Lumiere. It'd been lethargic, with any attempt to lighten the mood too optimistic to stomach. Despite having eaten the same rations and scavenged foods for months upon months, it all tasted bland that night. Your movements felt numb—conversation: numb. Everything was derived of its enjoyment, stolen of merriment. She had stolen it: the Paintress, and she was right there. And when the sun encroached upon the horizon, you would pierce the barrier and face her. The seven of you. You almost laughed to yourself. Expedition Thirty-Three might not have been overflowing with numbers, but you’d been a strong group—you were supposed to be at least. Now, only five of your original expedition remained to change the fate of Lumiere. You'd have more luck sailing back to spend your last months amongst those in which you held dear, in places that were familiar and lacking of the permanent stains of death. At least in Lumiere the Gommage was gentle, unlike out here where the gaunt faces of petrified men were cursed to remain, their chromas' eternally condemned.
The soft depressions of footfalls against the grass came from behind, slowing to a halt as you threw your last rock with all your unenthusiastic might.
Gustave observed where it landed before he selected his own fitting stone. He glared at where the barrier met the sea, promising himself that this time it would reach the Paintress. Gustave never threw rocks with his mechanical arm. He'd convinced himself that if he didn't, that he would never have to accept that a stone's throw with it would also fall short. For as long as that remained an unmeasured factor, there was always a chance of success. He tested the weight of the stone, let it settle into his metallic palm, then launched it over the open water.
You never saw the splash, for it went far enough that the waves concealed its distant impact. Yet even then, it did not reach the Paintress.
He was almost amused by his own effort, almost glad he couldn't see where it landed. That meant there was still a chance—a chance that he could be one with you again in Lumiere after it was all over, to continue this small family he'd found for himself. You could grow old together. That notion brought the slightest of smiles to his face.
"Tomorrow comes," he greeted you, briefly blindsided by that thought.
"Tomorrow comes,” you replied, quieter.
You were lost to hopeless thoughts of victory wherein each conjuration, your imagination became tainted by failure no matter how many times you willed it otherwise. Blood covered every face you knew—Gustave's too. That depiction of him turned thought into anguish, striking your heart as if it was Renoir's spear of light that had impaled you instead. Your shoulders heaved with a burdened sigh, banishing the painful memory with it.
Gustave's attention strayed from the Paintress to watch you. It felt almost wrong to look anywhere else at a time like this. But these were the moments in which he should be saying goodbye on the very possible chance that Expedition Thirty-Three fell beneath the Paintress come dawn. He'd said his final words to everyone else already, only you remained. So much of a constant in his life that he was unsure if conversation alone would be appropriate. There was still so much he wanted to say and do, and yet he couldn't find the words. It wasn't even his nerves causing him to fumble. No, the Paintress commanded the very air that evening, and she demanded melancholy and silence. She did not care for a lover's goodbye when she were to be the one to snuff out their lives.
"Nearly," Gustave said, echoing your earlier thought. He pointed to a distant island shrouded in a midnight haze to the left of the Paintress. “Had we been over there, we’d know for sure that our stones would reach."
When you only nodded in reply, you sensed his gaze upon your back, one of intrigue and concern.
Gustave lowered to the grass beside you. He watched the waves recede from the rocky shore, how motionless the Paintress’ hair was despite the slight breeze, to the once alien but now familiar sky of cosmos and chaos above. He put his arm around you and guided you into his embrace. Resting his chin atop your head, he exhaled calm and slow.
You wondered how he could be at peace at a time like this.
“We’ll beat her,” he said with quiet conviction. “She doesn’t stand a chance against us. Not with the Lumina Converter, not with Esquie, not with the others. Alright?"
"Alright."
There, you remained in his arms for quite some time, listening to his breaths like a harmony against the tide. You weren't sure when exactly you pushed up to kiss him, but when you did, the press of his lips against yours perpetuated as if time itself mourned what might be your final embrace. Allowing you a single prolonged moment to cherish, like a painter's brush pausing over a canvas to reflect upon its creation. And the most beautiful, sorrowful, creation it was.
The hand of affliction curled its fingers around your heart and squeezed. It caught in your throat, bringing forth a flush to your face and a faint sting to your eyes. You didn't want to say goodbye. Why did now have to be goodbye?
You broke away, resting your forehead against Gustave's instead. Dawn would still break and tomorrow would still come. You repeated that mantra again and again until you believed it. But as he came to hold your face between his hands, you leant into him, allowing him to share in your burden as you grieved for the living.
His shoulders rose and fell in time with his soothing breaths. He never considered you to be fragile, and yet held you with a certain gentleness that could not be found on any part of this broken continent except for in his company. Eventually, your breathing fell in time with his, encouraged by the way his thumbs rubbed slow paths across your cheeks. Gustave angled you to look up at him, matching your own lost and searching gaze. And as you stared into those distant yet somehow present eyes, you could't imagine what thoughts consumed him. But the way he held you made it seem that he knew your anguish as his own. You expected him to crack a smile any moment now—say something to alleviate this despairing tension. But he never did.
You covered his hands with your own, his name the breath of the wind.
"Gustave."
His breath fluctuated as if you'd roused him from deep thought.
"When tomorrow comes; when we face her—" For an unknown reason, you stopped, emotions strangling your words.
"I know," he said. "I'll be here. We'll end this—together. That I promise you."
The wind shifted at the opening of the cove, causing it to swirl and whistle between the rocky pillars. Gustave's windswept hair danced around him, the shorter ends of his fringe tickled your face. You gazed upon the man in which you shared your life with, and wondered how there was anything left of who he was. This expedition had changed you both, there was no denying that. Nightmares grazed upon your slumber, panic of near-death turned to numbness—another unavoidable exigency of surviving the continent's threat.
Sometimes, one could forget their purpose when all seemed fraught. But you had the rest of your team. You had Gustave. They kept your head straight, reminded you why you fought if the ever-looming Paintress waned her effect on you. And in return, you did the same for them. If Lune lost herself to work, you and the others reminded her to breathe. When Sciel picked at the skin on her fingers as you sailed upon Esquie, you reassured her. When the excruciating realities of being a teenager in a world full of death consumed Maelle, Gustave held her close whilst you offered wisdom. She'd turn her ear to you both as the elders of your society. There was a time where thirty was young. Then there was Verso. He was a strange one, better left to brood by himself as if he was afraid to get close to anyone else, say except Monoco.
However, it was Gustave who truly held your expedition together. He could be oblivious at times—sweet and bumbling on occasion. But Gustave was the sort of man that when he was grinning and kidding, you couldn't help but feel something was wrong. For he cared so greatly about others, that he often neglected to care for himself. As long as he eased the minds of those around him, he would feel better too—that's what he told himself at least. It was a half-lie with its faults to some extent. Faults in which you ensured were not uncared for.
This moment, you realised, was one of these faults. A moment in which Gustave didn't know what to say nor do, only finding comfort by savouring your company. Rarely, did someone ask if he was alright—you would not be one of those people. But as your locked gazes sustained, your original question remained as a silent exchange. Of course he wasn't alright—neither of you were. But for what could be your final night, you had each other. After almost losing him, that was more than you could have hoped for.
You released a crestfallen sigh, and combed your hand through Gustave's hair. It was thick yet light, in need of a trim.
Gustave closed his eyes, lost to the sensation of your fingertips gently massaging his scalp. This is what he would have missed should you not have embarked upon this expedition with him. He could not fathom what it would be like to be without your company—to have left you on Lumiere's harbour. He would be forced to imagine moments like these; to take himself alone with you in his thoughts in whatever sparing privacy he could manage. How lonely that would be.
His eyes seemed softer when he opened them again—his expression, sober.
The nighttime breeze abated, and it was hard to tell if it was the wind receding from the cove that pulled the air from your lungs, or if it was the closeness you shared with Gustave.
"If we need more time to consider things, the Paintress can wait. We have time," you told him.
In a moment of forlorn consideration, he pressed his lips to one of your hands and held it there. "You know that we don't. You and I, we don't get time—not like Maelle does."
"We won't survive tomorrow, Gustave."
"They're just dreams. I have them too."
"But what if we lose?"
"We won't. We won't," he reassured you, quietly.
You dropped your gaze in dismay, unable to escape the sense of impending doom. Normally, you wouldn't let it run rampant like this, but on this night you were incapable of it. Your breath caught in your throat, causing your next words to be a broken whisper.
"I'm afraid, Gustave."
He encircled you in his protective embrace again, his scent of light sweat and metal all-encompassing.
His answer was timid, ashamed even. "So am I."
Oh, how you were tired—exhausted from the fear you vowed to suppress. You were an expeditioner; your demise was fated from your birth. Surviving was a miracle, something of which you'd been lacking in recently. Yet despite knowing your fate, now that you faced it with Gustave, you wished for nothing but more time. Perhaps Lune's approach to it had been the best path. If you weren't so distracted, so attached, maybe this goodbye might have been easier. But that would have made for a lonely life, a life bereft of Gustave's affection. You couldn't imagine that would be so fulfilling. Perhaps you would have accepted death like Sciel did, greeted it without fear nor tears. But you had too much to live for, too many people you wished to spend decades with. If only there was more time.
You gave a gentle push against his chest to look up at him. Whatever strife you felt, Gustave reflected. There was nothing he could say to make it better this time, no smile that could alleviate your hopelessness. He had spoken truly—he too was afraid, silently begging for more time. Time, that even if you never fought the Paintress, ended with your Gommage. But to retreat would be shameful. The people of Lumiere would accept your return, but many who were scorned by previous expeditions would wave their flags of superiority in large, righteous arcs that proved to their ill minds that the expeditions were useless. You would not allow it to be so, and yet, you yearned for your bed, occupied and warm from Gustave's sleeping form. The pale morning light streaming between the curtains—the unexpected creaks of the floorboards warming as the sun graced Lumiere, still catching you off guard with their whines after so much time. But here you would stay. You would not allow Thirty-Three to return in dishonour—yet, that warmth. It was all so contradictory, all so complicated.
Gustave's mind was as preoccupied as yours, filled with a melancholic ballad of regret. He willed himself to speak but was incapable of it once again. What use were words on a night like this? Finally, he forced the faintest and saddest of smiles onto his face. But it was a smile nonetheless—Gustave's smile.
In a motion so delicate and slow, charged with a craving of unbound tenderness, he brought his face to yours, lips scarcely brushing against your own in a moment of suspended intention. There you remained, the air heavy between you, breaths intermingling in a moment of reflection and consideration until neither of you could suffer the slight contact no more. The waves rolled and bubbled against the black stone shore, the grass flittered in the easygoing sea-breeze. There were not even insects or critters to witness this still and unmoving kiss.
His mechanical hand found your face, the clink of his joints a divine hymn as his fingers traced to your chin. Lightly, he clasped it and drew you closer. The kiss became desperate, hotter, dependant on the other. It was peace of mind, the soothing voice to calm your lament. He was your other half, your fervour and determination, your anchor in the darkest of seas. Your Gustave.
His mouth was eager and inviting, welcoming your easy movements against his. The years had not dulled this simple act of passion, if anything, only made it more meaningful. It could be in the form of a goodnight's peck, or as a demanding and consuming force that commanded you to the deepest wells of lust. Both measured equally in your desire.
You were forced to crane your neck upwards when he leant into you harder. The bristles of his moustache grazed your top lip, scratched against the tip of your nose in a way that pleasantly tickled. Your nostrils flared—your heart raced. You felt his mechanical arm slide around you, gently squeezing your waist as he did so. In thoughtless response, your lips parted in a silent gasp, leaving your mouth open for him. His breath was hot—aroused. Kisses hungry, heavy, and open-mouthed. You tasted the faint metallic indulgence of his tongue as it met yours in the briefest of acknowledgements before it withdrew, lest his desire burn stronger than what he could possibly contain.
You barely registered how his weight toppled you slowly to the dense but soft grass below, his other hand cradling the back of your head as he hovered above you.
You kissed for the count of five draws of the tide before his lips left yours. You released a soft cry of protest. You were parched for him, needed him like the sustenance in your water-skin. Did he not realise your need for him?
But then his mouth was against your neck, tenderly exploring any piece of exposed skin not covered by your uniform, and even then you felt his desperation pushing back the collar of your clothes to taste more of you. The hot stains he left stung as the seaside air made contact, only making you want him to trail back over to warm you again.
He pressed his hips flush against yours, forcing your legs further apart. You could feel it—the subtle but firm arc in his pants. He nudged it against you as a promise, then rolled deep into you so that his hardening arousal made you know your own. You were wet for him already, achingly so.
You moved your hands across his back, fisting his cloak before tangling the other in his hair.
Oh, how you needed him. How he needed you.
And he would take—take as he pleased.
The way he pressed against you—it ruined whatever piece of cloth contained your warmth for him, slicked your folds in anticipation.
Gustave found your lips again with a new fervour, an all-consuming need to have you around him, to lose himself within you. This was a man who knew not what selfishness was, and yet yearned for it all the same. You were the air he needed to breathe, and he savoured the exchanges of your quickening breaths as you both refused to part from the other.
Tonight might've been your last—would be, probably. Thirty-two years of goodbyes and Gommages, and yet nothing prepared him to say goodbye to you. Oh, how hopeless your love had made him. How desperate it made him.
Overcome by a jolt of pleasure that made his control slip, Gustave dragged himself down your unexposed cunt, groaning at the friction he found between your legs—how the fabric of his breeches caught on his hardening cock. It was not lust that drove him on this final night, but an amalgamation of things that could have been. Milestones he would never reach, a tribute to a life he would never get to experience. To call you his wife, to teach his own children the ways of his work, to know an age past thirty like those that were still around in his earliest memories. Was it so wrong to want those things—to long for them with the short time he had left?
As were his thoughts, his movements turned distracted, worried that he might just voice these wants. But it would be unfair to do so. If you lived past the Paintress, perhaps then would be an appropriate time. But Gustave wasn't always so wise with his timing. He'd blundered too many encounters to know that he shouldn't have entertained those thoughts for that long, because he knew that he'd struggle to keep them contained.
His lips parted from yours and brushed against your ear. The sigh he gave was almost one of one of pain.
"I can't help but wonder what could have been had we met earlier."
Your breath hitched at his soft admission.
He held you tighter, splaying his fingers across your upper back as he rolled further into you. Your legs ached, muscles around your thighs strained with how he ensured there was no distance remaining between you.
Gustave swallowed hard before he before he spoke again. "I wanted to grow old with you. Have a family of our own. I'm sorry we didn't get more time."
Your heart twisted, your breath and thoughts stolen from you. It was a twinge worse than atrophy to see Gustave this broken.
"Merde, I'm sorry. For everything."
"Oh, my love." You took his face in your hands, encouraging him to look at you. Hair fell over his face. Those brown eyes of his were suffering, withholding a pain you knew in your own heart. "It's alright. You needn't apologise." You rearranged some of his hair behind his ear, taking the time to gaze upon his stricken features. "Perhaps it wasn't meant to be. Maybe this is how it was supposed to happen."
"But I wanted so much more with you. I had plans for us." Words failed him, and so he leant his head further into your hands that he knew so well. Gentle, warm, loving—just for him. He went on, "But the expedition took precedence."
If you knew Gustave, you knew his plans. Yet simply knowing fell short in offering you any semblance of reassurance. So, you asked him nonetheless, "I think I'd like to hear those plans."
He shook his head reluctantly. "I don't think that's for the best, not now."
"Please," you begged with the softest of pleas. "Say we survived tomorrow, tell me of the life we'd have."
Unable to quench the battle within him, Gustave dropped his gaze from yours. He shut his eyes, heart aching. "You know I can't say it. That's not fair on neither you nor I." He shook his head again in an attempt to convince himself. "You already know the life we would have. I wouldn't hesitate—I promise you."
It was hard not to feel disappointed, overcome with an uncomfortable pang of guilt. But this was something you needed to know of in your lifetime—needed to hear that all your efforts would not have been for naught. And you knew that Gustave needed to hear it too—to acknowledge it for his own sake and sanity.
"If we are to die tomorrow, I wish to hear you say it," you said.
Oh, how he longed to say it. He'd wanted to for such a long time now, yet he just couldn't. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
You waited for him patiently, observing as he willed the courage to reveal his innermost, selfish want. He tilted his head, gaze softening. How could he not say it? Not if this was your last night together. He willed the courage, fought for it like how he fought through the pain of Renoir's spear.
Just say it, just say it, just say it, the thoughts came relentlessly.
"I would take you as my wife."
Emotions surged through you, swelling like the tide against the shore. Had he revealed this to you in any other circumstance, you would have probably crumbled with joy. But all you felt was calm, a sense of relief and finality. A damming yearn that caused an entire lifetime to flash across your mind, one you knew you would never have—not if you died tomorrow.
Your gentle smile was all Gustave needed to regret that he hadn't asked earlier. He'd known why he hadn't, and it was a selfish reason. Waiting, meant he had one more thing to persist for. One more hopeful ideal of a future he'd likely never get to see. He loved the idea of friendships lasting decades, and he loved the idea of spending that time with you even more. Why had he waited? Why had he wasted time?
Putain, he cursed himself. Putain.
"In the next life, perhaps," you offered as sorrowful comfort when the silence stretched on.
"No. This lifetime—this life. Tomorrow, when we defeat the Paintress, I promise you then. I don't want to die with regrets."
"Alright," you answered to placate his worries. But on the chance that he never got to ask, you wanted him to know your answer. No regrets, he'd declared. You grinned at him, almost too foolishly for the sobriety this night called for. "I would like that very much."
A pleased huff escaped him, a hint of joy he could not conceal. "I was hoping you would feel that way—not that I doubted your answer. Well, what your answer will be should we survive this—to which we will."
There was the Gustave you knew so well, still peaking through this moment of despair.
A slight nervousness settled between you two as the reality of your exchange took root. The Gommage forced many to rush relationships, it was not uncommon. Yet you hadn't exactly rushed into anything with Gustave either. In fact, many berated you for not reaching those milestones in the few years you'd had with him. Between preparing for the expedition and refining the Lumina Converter as well as ensuring his apprentices were skilled and ready, there simply wasn't time no matter how badly you both yearned for it. People like you and Gustave didn't get those luxuries. So you treasured the few short years you had together, made each other's love known to the highest heavens, held one another when the days were dreary and past friends turned to petals.
Gustave shifted above you, lapping at the beautiful yet tragic view of swindled potential you painted for him. Only the powers of the realm knew the true extent of his desire for you, how it burned within him and made him want to scream at the open sky, demanding why you couldn't have more time. Oh, the things he would do to earn himself a decade with you. This expedition had to succeed—he'd promised you so much.
He took your hand in his, pressing his lips against your flushed skin. His touch was like the embers of a fire, yet one that would never burn you no matter how hot it became. His kisses moved down your arm, unhurried, only stopping when your uniform prevented him from going further. He undressed you with his eyes, picturing how you squirmed and moaned beneath him when the nights grew late and needy. It made his hips rut into you against his will, fuelled by memories of you whispering his name in ways none other could. The drag and scratch of your nails on his bare skin, the way he knew he could spill into you without abandon. As if the pictos on his arm turned overcharged, a jolt leapt through him, originating in his core and finding its destination as an involuntary twitch of his once again, hardening cock. He grasped at your waist—squeezed and pushed your uniform aside. He worked the buckles, buttons—whatever else was keeping him from his most precious view of you.
A jarring and abrupt breath took you. Your back arched off the ground as his hands of cold metal and warmth dragged over your stomach, making you know the sting of the salty air in their wake. His fingertips reached your ribs, muddying the line between appreciation and depravity. He never reached your breasts however, more interested in watching how they turned stiff in the salt-ladened night air.
His hands dragged down to your hips, holding you against his erection. The Paintress be damned—he needed you. The groan that forced its way out of him was unfiltered and raw.
"Merde. Be one with me tonight."
Your response was automatic, soft and for his ears only. "I'm yours, Gustave."
He looked at you for a moment as if he perceived you in a way he never had before. "Yes. Yes, you are, my love. And I—yours."
He sat back on his haunches and shed his coat, admiring how you watched on with a thoughtless expression. The way your body tensed when he next cast his vest aside, leaving all but his shirt to your imagination. Without his coat to draw shadows upon his wanting form, Gustave's erection was now proudly on display. It tented his trousers, straining and eager. The discomfort it caused him written on his face, the way his breaths turned short and laboured.
Desperately wanting to rid him of his fabric constraints and feel his bare skin beneath your impatient hands, you pushed upright. You needed to feel him, needed to appreciate how he reacted to your touch. Your hand ventured towards him, tugging noncommittally at his shirt.
He observed you with intrigue, eager to know your love, lust, and perversion.
You palmed his crotch and squeezed his full and heavy balls. He grunted in pleasure, spreading his thighs wider to give himself to you. His eyelids fluttered shut when your hand dragged over his trapped length, drawing the fabric over his sensitive head. It became damp with anticipation, staining his trousers in the form of a growing, darkened patch. Even behind layers of clothing, you felt the wrath of salacious heat pooling between his legs, ready and desperate.
A moan clawed up his throat, helpless and yearning, quiet and forbidden. You loved to see him like this. It made your core tighten, your breath constrict. Sometimes, you felt like you could find release purely from the heated grunts he made for you beyond his control, the yearning sighs that slipped out without his recognition.
When it became all too much, he swore and bucked into you, a shudder spreading throughout him. You met him with mercy, choosing to venture upwards instead. You worked the buttons on his shirt, your eyes ablaze with satisfaction when the defined torso of a warrior and a man who worked with metal revealed unto you. His shirt hung open around him, his body a wealth of warmth and desire. You drank the sight in, and he let you.
Gustave couldn't help but return a sheepish grin, still to this day flattered by your helpless adoration of him. Stars above, how he loved you.
He noticed your gaze linger on his healed would, tracing the faded scar on his stomach. You had that look about you again—determination and ready to make hell of the man who put it there.
Gustave gathered his discarded coat, seeking fulfilment in your expression as you took in the way his muscles shifted and slipped over each other as he reached. He positioned the coat behind you. To fuck bare grass was not always so pleasant. Gustave leant over you, guiding you to lay back on his uniform. It was thick enough that the grass would not cause abrasions upon the skin that was reserved for him to ravish.
He hooked his arms beneath your thighs, positioning you so he could free you of your boots. One obstruction remained that kept him planting his desire inside you. He squeezed your thighs, massaging his thumbs through the material to circle patterns on the softer inner flesh—a canvas for him to navigate and paint to his will. He inched towards your yearning cunt painstakingly slow. He was savouring you, memorising it all. He knew there was a chance that only one of you might survive tomorrow, and if by some cruel fate it was him, he wanted those memories in the most vivid detail.
His thumbs pressed down, tracing the crease where your mound joined to your thighs. You slickness was damming as his gentle movements caused your folds to part, just audible against the repetitive waves. He was pleased with the sound, now, he wanted to taste it.
Finally, he unburdened you of your uniform entirely. You watched keenly as he settled between your thighs, trailing his needful mouth down your stomach. You gasped when his breath touched your arousal, sending a jolt akin to Lune's lighting pictos throughout your core. His mouth drew nearer and nearer until you almost wanted to fist his hair and fuck his face. But his tenderness was too consuming to even consider such depravity. His hair tickled your inner thigh, soon replaced by his lips. He sucked, gently. Teeth grazing against your sensitive flesh. And when your legs begun to tremble from anticipation and your soft gasps turned to moans, you felt warmth push between your folds.
You squirmed, back arching uncontrollably as Gustave dragged his tongue upwards. He lapped at you, groaning in satisfaction at your taste and how your arousal smeared his face—this was something he would miss.
Your nerves were on fire, your core knotted with every drawn out swipe of his tongue. The realm tonight would know that you were his. It did not matter to you if the cave walls echoed back his name with your voice, or if the Paintress herself grew uncomfortable with your pleas—you were his. Gustave's.
His mechanical hand came to rest on your stomach, fingertips light and cool against your overheated flesh. He explored your body lazily whilst he sucked and laboured at your sensitive nub. He squeezed your waist—hesitantly at first, then harder when you ground into his mouth as encouragement for more.
More, more. Oh, how you needed more.
Gustave responded with a low hum, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your cunt. You tasted so sweet, and he indulged unapologetically even if his beard was now swamped in your arousal. He'd only have his uniform to wipe it on. He wasn't sure if that excited him more than inconvenienced him.
Your next uncontrolled moan caught in your throat, forcing its way out as a disjointed sigh instead, for Gustave dipped his tongue inside your cunt, delving deeper and claiming your aching insides until your walls tightened around him and all thought was banished from your mind.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, utterly losing yourself to the way his head bobbed in accordance to your building pleasure. His mouth found your clitorus again, sealed around it and sucked whilst his tongue flicked in sharp, precise, damming strokes.
Your head rolled back against his coat, hips rising to angle better with his face. The base of your spine tingled as the heat between your legs built until it was unbearable. You wouldn't last much longer, certainly not under Gustave's attention. You could feel the roughness of his tongue, the wetness of his saliva mixing with your arousal. It was all too much. Your core knotted, heat flooding every inch of your being. His mechanical hand roamed your body, squeezing and demanding your release.
You went rigid when it hit you. Mind flooding with waves of unrelenting ecstasy, drowning your woes about tomorrow until all you could think about was Gustave's mouth against your cunt and his mechanical hand upon your skin—his metal touch the conductor of titillation. Your thighs tightened as he guided you through your high, nerves alight and tingling with every sensation. The stars above grew in numbers as your dotted vision collided with the vista you came to. You rutted into him slower now, prolonging your return to the realm of clarity. Your chest heaved, sweat dotting your flushed skin. You let his hair slip between your fingers, withdrawing your arms to rest them spent above your head.
Gustave rose, panting and lips shining with your arousal. He seemed quite pleased with himself, yet that deep, wanting look in his gaze became fiercer than ever. His cock ached and yearned so badly that he fumbled with his pants, his usual precision abandoned, slowly succumbing to the primal urge to be hilted deep within you. He slipped from his trousers, pulling his breeches with them. Hastily, he wiped his face with his discarded shirt—not that it helped much. When at long last, his swollen cock touched the open air, he let out a long sigh of relief.
The pale moonlight bathed his body as he crawled above you, nudging your thighs apart with his knee to press his hips flush to yours. You could feel him—all of him—his entire length pressed up against you, coating itself in your slickness. He couldn't wait any longer, not with this image he had of you.
Your name slipped from him in a suppressed groan as your folds parted for him with ease. His cock dragged along your cunt, hilting himself inside you without resistance.
Warm. That's all he could think of—all he was capable of comprehending as he started to move.
You'd been so ready for him that you hadn't realised he was already inside you. But then he'd pushed deeper and your core ignited. You felt the stretch of him spreading you out, the way he glided into you until he filled you whole.
"Gustave~"
He caught his name on your lips with a kiss, hands entangling with your own above your head as he slowly thrust into you. His throat clamped up—he would lose himself like this after tasting you like he had, how he'd delivered you to undeniable pleasure. He wanted to do it all over again—be between your legs again, have you ride him again, have him fuck you over the stuck desk and rail you till you saw the making of the realm.
Time, he reminded himself, he needed more time.
He hung his head over your shoulder, weak and unbound. His breath was intoxicating in your ear, his own noises of pleasure barely audible.
The words that came out next were uncontrollable. He'd said them countless times, and he would say them again as he fucked you slowly atop his coat, in this rocky cove with the tide as his witness.
"I love you."
You made a broken noise in response, your fingers squeezing around his hands. Your heart soared but crashed all at once—you did not want this to be the last time you said it. Your breath shuddered.
"I love you, too."
Gustave groaned lightly as he sunk into you, his languid pace faltering at your words.
Yes. Yes, he did love you—beyond what he thought his heart could possibly share.
You wrapped your legs around him, needing to be even closer. His chest pressed down against you, his hands held your own, his cock made you whole. The heat built between you as you surrendered to him, allowed him to take you gently once last time under a sky of stars and chaos.
One last time—perhaps.
He kept his pace steady and drawn out no matter how difficult it was to keep himself composed, savouring the clench of your walls and the heat of being buried inside you.
It burned with the fury of a hundred braziers, struck him with the strength of his hammer against his anvil, jolted him like the overcharge of his arm. Gustave came with a quiet sob, putting all his weight on you as release wrecked him whole. He spilled into you, pushing even further inside so none of his seed would be wasted on this final night. Your walls spasmed around him, clamped and yearned for him and he could feel it all, knew it well like his inventions.
Already, he wanted to fill you again and again, and his hips rocked gentle in accordance, fucking his release into you with the slowest of movements until he couldn't take the sensation and the thought of it no more.
He'd wanted more of you, he'd said. He'd wanted more.
Finally, his fingers didn't squeeze so tight, so desperately.
He kept flush against you, and even if he wanted to move, you would not allow him to. You both lost yourselves to your shared warmth, how his seed remained within you as a homage to the things that could have been.
He'd wanted more.
More, more and more.
If only there was more time. Perhaps, this would not be your last goodbye.
Perhaps.