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The future Head of the Writers Guild has a scar on his neck.
It’s a messy, ugly thing: it’s a symbol of hunger and desire, something wild and untamed. A bite mark. Currently, it peers above the cut of the clean white cotton of his shirt, drawing attention whenever he’s speaking.
Verso knows this, because he can’t stop staring at it.
The grand auditorium of one of Paris's old lecture halls yawns around them, while Verso hides in the back row. The tiered, curved benches are packed full of attentive audience members, all of them focused solely on the panel of speakers that sit at the front of the huge hall. The space itself is enormous; the walls are decorated with gold trim and artistic murals; it's less of a lecture hall and more of a declaration of institutional power. It should dwarf anyone who dares to try and talk within its walls.
And, yet, the speaker at the front makes the space look small.
It should be a dull, academic event. There's a long table at the front of the room, and a scattering of speakers along it, taking turns at a supposed debate about the Future Of The Arts in the shadow of the creative war. It should be dull - and yet there's a breathless sense of tension in the air, all because of one man.
Gustave Stoker.
They've somehow managed to lure the future Head of the Writers Guild out to play.
Hidden deep in the shadows at the back of the lecture hall, Verso struggles to stop his eyes from sinking into a desperate, midnight black. His pupils are blown - because Gustave Stoker is sitting restlessly behind the speaker's table, his bright, intelligent eyes flickering behind his gold-rimmed glasses. Gustave is listening to the other panel-members politely: a mixture of different artists are represented, from writing through music and all the way down to painting. It’s a discussion of some kind around bridging the gap between their factions.
Verso isn’t even sure what they're talking about, if he’s honest. He doesn’t think he’s heard a word - he’s been lost, trapped, staring at the mark he left behind on Gustave’s neck almost a year ago and wanting.
There are other scars. He knows that. He remembers that: he remembers the feral haze that Gustave's ink-tinged blood had thrown him into, his fangs sinking in again, and again, and again, over Gustave’s shoulders and collarbone and chest, an endless stream of hunger. If he could peel away that shirt, he wonders how much of himself he’s left behind.
He shuffles uncomfortably on the wooden bench. At the front, Gustave finally cuts in through a gap in the discussion, picking up the thread of the debate and running with it - and he sounds so serious, so in-control, more like the future Council leader and less like the bright-eyed monster that had infected Verso's mind in the Dessendre Manor last year.
Infected, that’s the only word for it. Since the moment that inky blood touched his tongue, Verso hasn’t been able to think of anything else - and the Writers are elusive creatures, holing themselves away for months at a time, hiding their clever fingers and sharp tongues while they work their words onto paper.
Verso has spent twelve months trying to track Gustave down. Twelve months of chasing leads. Twelve months of dead ends.
Twelve months where the closest he's managed to get to Gustave is a signed copy of one of his books, still holding the rare, precious scent of his hands on its pages. When Verso's alone, if he holds the book close, his pin-point senses can still pick up on just enough of Gustave's scent to sate the beast pacing inside.
But Gustave is smart. As a Writer, he's in demand - but his book signings are always during the daylight hours, when Verso can't get close. Even when they're publicised, their very hour seems to have a Keep Out sign stamped upon it to the likes of him. It feels deliberate in a way that makes every instinct he has roar.
Until now - this is a rare public appearance after dark. It's an evening event, on neutral ground, with a Painter on the panel. Fangs sharp, eyes dark, hunger rising, Verso is certain that he knows the sound of an invitation when he hears one.
"I wonder if Mr Stoker wants to come in on that point, actually," the panel moderator suggests, cutting through Verso's thoughts.
Gustave leans forward, his arms resting against the table. Even from the back of the hall, Verso can see the neat cut of his jawline, and the firm line of his shoulders as he considers the point. Verso is also aware of the way the rest of the room leans in too, hanging on every word.
"It's an interesting one," Gustave says, in a way that makes Verso wish he'd been paying proper attention to the discussion itself. "The tug-of-war between us all has been going on for centuries - and it's true that some Writers have… perfected different elements of the craft."
"You're being modest, Mr Stoker," one of the other panelists cut in. Verso bites back the urge to throw something at the idiot for interrupting. "If the rumours are true, you've done it yourself."
Gustave laughs in a way that sounds like a deflection - Verso wonders if anyone else in the room can pick up on the way that laugh sounds like a warning, or if Gustave still sounds harmless to them all: he's charming, he's so effortlessly charming, but there's something dangerous about him. It's something Verso can't wait to taste again.
"My research into Writing has focused on bridging the gap between narrative and reality, it's true," Gustave says. "I believe the veil between the worlds of stories and our real, solid world may once have been a lot thinner - it may once have been possible for previous Writers to turn fiction into… non-fiction…"
The panel erupts into ill-timed, scoffing chaos under Verso's glinting eyes. He's staring at Gustave, unable to pay attention to anyone else - and so he's the only one that notices Gustave sighing and pulling a pen from the inside of his waistcoat. While the other artists are arguing about the hubris of Writers, and are claiming that what Gustave is talking about is impossible, Gustave nonchalantly grabs one of the question cards from the moderator, with a smile so polite that she passes it over without question.
Gustave flips the card over and starts to write on the blank side - no, he starts to Write. The air in the lecture hall starts to feel think with ink: Verso can taste it, even at the back of the room. As they notice what he's doing, one by one the panel and the auditorium all descend into hushed, baited silence.
"Words have meaning," Gustave says as he finishes writing with a flourish of his pen. "They have power - both within our stories, and without. Look."
He flips over the card and holds it up to show the audience.
On the card in thick, definitive letters is a single word - but Verso doesn't have a chance to consciously read what it means before a white flash smashes through his vision, robbing him of his sight.
The lecture hall vanishes. His retinas burn. A flash like a firework rolls through the lecture hall, as powerful as the surge of a newfangled camera. When his vision returns, Verso blinks rapidly, echoing after-images painted behind his eyelids.
Finally, his vision focuses enough for him to see what was written in tall, firm letters on the card that Gustave is holding up.
L I G H T
Holding a little, mischievous smirk in the corner of his mouth, Gustave flips the card back over to hide the word from view. "A parlour trick, really. When you read strong enough Writing, it tricks the brain into thinking that what's on the page is real. It's a lot like canvas-jumping that way," he says with a gracious nod towards the young Artist on the panel - who, it has to be said, doesn't look as if he agrees one bit. "I believe that Writers in the past used to be able to do things like that on a much grander scale than we can do today. And…"
Gustave continues talking as the room hangs on his every word: Gustave's attempts to pass the burden of attention to the other panelists rarely works as they seem determined to pass it right back to him. The rarity of having one of the city's grand Writers openly discussing his craft is enough to leave the room buzzing - and Verso is no exception, swept along by the display.
No, it's so much more than the display. It's the casual competence, isn't it? It's the easy surety with which Gustave talks on his favoured subject, the excited way that his hands start to move and gesture once he starts really getting into a question. Verso has been starved of the sight of this man since Gustave Stoker slipped into a party at the Dessendre Manor nearly a year ago: now he can only drink in the sight of him, barely able to blink with the intensity of his thirst.
As the discussion rumbles onwards, Verso sits in the back of the auditorium, fangs aching, his dead heart filled with an ink-bound longing - he sits quietly, he listens, and he waits.
*
When the panel wraps up, Gustave stays with the other speakers at the front, politely answering questions - from the crowd, from the other practitioners, from the panel’s chair. He’s soft-spoken in the way of someone that’s used to being listened to: he doesn’t need to shout or bully his way into the room’s undivided attention. His own intellect secures it for him. When Gustave speaks, people listen. He carries it with an easy, unknowing grace, as if he’s never had to understand what it means to be ordinary.
Verso lingers at the back of the room as he waits for the needy crowd to filter away. He holds on until the other hangers-on have vanished into the periphery, and it’s only Gustave and a handful of other humans left.
That’s when Verso finally steps forward, slipping out of the shadows and back into the flickering light of the room.
He sees it, the exact moment that Gustave recognises his final guest.
It’s not much: it's hidden in the straightening of his shoulders, the strengthening of his spine. It’s the invisible signs of a man slipping from gentle academic to seasoned Writer; it’s like watching a soldier hastily putting their armour back on.
The others in the room notice that there's something strange going on - there’s a concerned touch of a hand on Gustave’s upper arm, and a quietly murmured query about if he’s alright.
Shaking his head without taking his eyes off of Verso, Gustave sends them away.
For whatever reason, he doesn’t seem to think of Verso as a threat. Verso doesn’t know if he’s right about that.
The door to the lecture hall closes behind the others with a gentle, quiet click. Stepping cautiously behind the panel's table once they're finally alone, Gustave grabs his leather satchel and starts to pack away his things. He just barely keeps an eye on Verso over the top of his glasses as his hands diligently organise his notes and put them away.
Verso stands, stares, and waits. His dead heart clenches with the realisation that everything he's been hunting for the last year is right in front of him. Finally.
“You know,” Gustave says contemplatively, “I really thought you’d be quicker about tracking me down.”
There are a lot of things that Verso had imagined as their first words after their interrupted encounter at the Manor. What he hadn’t envisioned is a confused, fractured, “... What?”
“Tracking me down,” Gustave repeats, this time going slower for him. “I thought it would only take a couple of months.”
Verso blinks.
“Maybe three or four, tops,” Gustave adds. He finishes putting his papers away in his bag, a set of scrawled notes that look like his preparation for the panel discussion. When he straightens up, he rubs at the scar on his neck as if it’s irritating him - but Verso’s fairly sure it’s simply to draw Verso's attention where it’s needed. Certainly, he can’t look away from that mark any more. “I was starting to think I’d have to go looking for you again. Actually-”
“Are there others?” Verso asks, which is definitely not what he came here to ask, but is apparently all he can think about. Gustave quirks an eyebrow at him. “Scars. Are there other scars?”
With a gentle smile, Gustave puts his satchel down on the table. He then wanders around to reach Verso’s side of it, purposefully giving up the slightest shield that slim piece of furniture had offered. He holds up his hand as he’s walking. “A little one here,” he says, though his hand moves so quickly Verso barely gets a chance to look at it. He can only remember the rich taste in his mouth when he’d bitten just below the heel of Gustave’s thumb, the first very taste. “And a couple of others I can't show off so easily.”
Gustave reaches Verso, close - too close - and meets his gaze with a smile, looking so very smug - or perhaps it's merely confidence backed up by competence, the easy assurance of someone who thinks they have the situation entirely under control. Verso remembers this, now: he remembers the scent of him, decadent and earthy with threads of ink running through it; he remembers feeling in free-fall in Gustave’s presence, the reins of control feeling like an illusion in his hands.
Holding eye contact with Verso, Gustave steps backwards and hops up to sit on the edge of the table. He starts to roll up his white shirt sleeves to his elbows, and glances at the clock on the wall on the far side of the room. “I actually don’t have a lot of time,” he confesses. “Another appointment.”
“What?” Verso really, truly doesn’t mean to sound as confused as he does.
“Sorry,” Gustave says with an apologetic wince and a shrug. “I really did think you’d find me earlier than this.
What is going on right now? Verso thinks, lost, but he can’t help taking a step closer to where Gustave is perched on the desk - and, putain, there isn’t a single part of Gustave that seems remotely scared of the situation he’s in, alone in a lecture hall with a monster that could eat him alive. A monster that wants to.
Gustave heaves a sigh in the face of Verso’s silence. “So,” he continues, “If we’re going to do this, we’ll have to be quick.”
“‘This’?” Verso repeats.
Gustave’s fingers move deftly on the buttons of his own waistcoat, shedding the dusted-gold material and throwing it to the side. He pauses and looks at Verso with a slightly confused quirk of his head. “This,” he says, gesturing between them. “I’m presuming you’re here to bite me. Right?”
For the first time since he caught sight of Verso, Gustave seems to be slightly off-balance. He hesitates where it looks like he’s about to start undoing the top buttons of his shirt - though Verso really wishes he wouldn’t stop - and he frowns.
“Sorry, am I misinterpreting things here?” Gustave says. “You tracked me down to drink from me again? Didn’t you?”
Verso wants to leave him hanging, he really does; he wants to drown himself in the simple confusion emanating from his dear, celebrated Writer, just for the brief taste of what it must feel like to get the upper hand.
But he doesn't have the self-control to maintain the illusion for long, even the pretence of a lie failing him this once.
It’s impossible to resist stepping between the invitation of Gustave’s thighs while Gustave sits on the edge of the table - and it’s definitely impossible to avoid the temptation to yank Gustave forward, flush against him, then rest his hands on that ridiculously lean waist. Gustave's body is firm and impossibly warm, burning like a furnace where Verso presses as close as he dares to get.
“I could snap you in two,” he reminds Gustave, since someone needs to remind him that he’s supposed to be afraid of the Dessendres. “Or I could drain you dry and leave you here to suffer.”
Behind his glasses, some of that mirth is coming back into Gustave’s eyes. “You could,” Gustave agrees thoughtfully. He tilts his head to the side, scar on display, the flagrant mark of Verso's claim left behind on him permanently. “But we both know you’re not going to do that.”
The ink that Gustave left behind in Verso’s veins a year ago seems to sing; the taste of it, that black liquid soaking through his body, all of it means that the thought of true violence between them is as fictional as the silly stories Gustave likes to publish in his books.
Verso sinks his fingers into the wild waves of Gustave’s hair and yanks hard, holding him in place - desperate for something, for anything, to remind Gustave that he’s dealing with a monster, not just a Painter for him to taunt.
“I’ll leave another scar,” he warns Gustave. “One for the collection.”
“I’ve been waiting,” Gustave says, breathless already. “Please. I’ve been waiting a long time.”
It was supposed to be a threat; it sounds like Gustave's taken it as a promise.
Verso's impossible irritation filters out in a frustrated sigh, and while he holds Gustave’s hair firmly in one hand he lets the other reach out for his neck. His fingertips trail over the messy scar he left behind last time, his mark on this wild creature’s body.
He's been thinking of this for months; for almost an entire damn year, nothing has ran through his mind as much as the taste of this man's blood, or the lean, firm feeling of Gustave's body pressed against his own.
And now it's here. Now it's real.
He yanks Gustave's head to the side, a little harsher than he needs to be, anything to hear the little hitch of surprise that comes out of Gustave's unsuspecting lips - it's followed by a breathy, filthy laugh, and then Gustave's hands clutch hold of his waist, drawing him closer to the inviting spread of Gustave's thighs. He's warm. He's so warm, so alive, so tempting.
Verso leans in until he can brush his nose against the old scar he left behind a year ago. It's so well-healed, but he would swear it still responds to him. A shiver runs through Gustave's body, like even through all that bright-eyed confidence some part of him still knows that he let himself be marked - and that means something, doesn't it, even for a Writer like Gustave Stoker.
Verso brushes his lips against the bite mark, parts his lips, and follows the kiss with his tongue. His fangs sharpen to needle-points without conscious thought, descending for something they've been waiting for for a year. Soaking in the blessed heat of Gustave's skin, the scent of him is enough to leave Verso light-headed.
Finally, his fangs scrape over the scar, ready to sink in again, ready to make another claim and take in the taste he's been longing for, and-
"Can you bite a little higher this time?" Gustave interrupts.
Black-eyed and fuzzy-brained, Verso blinks to try to force his instincts back into check. "What?" he asks, mumbling the question against Gustave's skin. His voice sounds as blurry as his thoughts.
"The bite," Gustave clarifies, nice and slow for him. "A little higher. Please." Verso doesn't respond, still buried against the wine-rich scent of Gustave's neck. "For a second scar - I want it to be distinct."
Verso grits his teeth, and then grabs for Gustave's hands where they're pressed against his hips. He moves them, a little blur of vampire-speed, a little display of vampire-strength, until Gustave's hands are pressed behind his back, wrists together, flesh-to-metal. Verso's free hand, not entangled in his hair, clamps down over his wrists, pressing them firmly against the small of Gustave's back - and the sound that Gustave makes, a breathless, surprised groan, helps satisfy the predator still stalking back-and-forth in Verso's mind.
Caught. Pinned. Trapped in place where he's perched on the edge of the desk with Verso in between his thighs.
"Okay," Gustave answers. He finally sounds breathless. A little bit lost. A little bit needy. "Okay. Point made. Yeah, bite wherever you like."
Verso means to answer with words, but what comes out is a ridiculous growl, a rasp from the back of his throat - but, damn it, the part of him that wants to believe he's calling the shots here feels satisfied with just the press of Gustave's wrists beneath his palm.
He breathes in deeply against Gustave's neck again. His mouth waters. He can sense Gustave's pulse thudding through his veins, pounding and desperate. And, for all his posturing, Verso shifts his attention up. If Gustave wants another scar left behind, a second public brand on his neck, Verso won't resist indulging him.
He closes his eyes. He breathes in. And then his fangs sink deep.
The bite pierces Gustave's skin, and the blood floods into Verso's mouth all at once, a rich bloom of heat and power and the metallic tang of iron - and, there it is, that beautiful, blossoming ink. He didn't understand it a year ago: entangled in a private chamber in the Dessendre Manor, needily gulping down anything Gustave would give him, Verso hadn't understood that he was tasting the power to create and destroy worlds in every mouthful.
He understands now. Beneath his fangs, he has the future Head of the Writers Council: brilliant, creative, infuriating, and devastatingly smart. There's some part of him, the Dessendre, that only thinks of the Painters and their war; that part of him wants to believe that a good bite could be enough to win this petty encounter, that all it will take is one more scar for Gustave Stoker to relent and submit - but as the blood and ink soaks Verso's mouth, it's clearer than ever what a dream that had been.
The blood is even richer than he remembers, even more than his ink-soaked dreams of their snatched moment at the Dessendre ball. It fills Verso's veins with whispers of the tales Gustave has spun and every word he's carefully put to paper: Gustave's blood tastes of the worlds he's created.
Someone is whining. Whimpering. As the blood floods Verso's mouth, there's a thin, needy moan, and Verso tells himself that it's coming from Gustave. His hand clenches where he's still pinning Gustave's wrists flat against his back, and he's rewarded with the wet hitch of Gustave's breath as the Writer writhes against him.
He drowns himself in the blood, swallowing deep and feeling it spill down his chin, before he finally breaks away from Gustave's neck - because he needs to see, and he needs Gustave to look.
From behind his glasses, Gustave's gaze is hazy. He's gasping for air, with a faint blush in his cheeks, a rosy contrast to his otherwise drained complexion. His waves of hair are still clutched tightly in one of Verso's hands, and when Verso gives him a small shake, just to prove that he can, all he gets is a foggy grin.
As Verso looks at Gustave, he can feel himself being studied in return: the black of his eyes, the sharp tips of his fangs, the precious blood spilled messily and greedily down his chin and onto his shirt. He's a mess. He's a monster.
And it only makes Gustave groan.
Unexpectedly, Gustave surges forward, straining where his arms are held behind his back by Verso's vampiric strength. With a determined smirk, Gustave's lips press against Verso's mouth - it's less of a kiss and more of a statement when Gustave's mouth smashes into his own, kissing and devouring him all at once. Verso's mouth must taste of Gustave's blood, but the Writer only moans into it, his clever tongue dancing past Verso's fangs unscathed.
Verso feels like he's burning up. He presses closer beneath Gustave's thighs, feeling the molten heat between them and the hard, desperate proof of their desire; it brings him back to the night of the party, the chaise lounge, the way that Gustave had felt beneath him in those brief, foolish moments where Verso had thought he was the predator instead of the prey.
He yanks Gustave closer, a firm, undeniable push using his hand still restraining Gustave's wrists at the small of his back. Shuffled forward on the desk, Gustave breaks their kiss with a hard nip at Verso's lower lip, almost enough to break the skin - it's a little stab of pain that makes Verso clench his hand around Gustave's wrists like a warning. He'll be leaving bruises on Gustave's flesh-and-bone wrist, he knows. He wants to leave bruises.
Gustave's glasses have been knocked askew, but that doesn't seem to bother him as he meets Verso's eyes, both of them so close they're breathing the same air.
Verso wants to kiss him again. He wants to kill him. He wants to own him, and there's a growl trapped in his throat at the bitter knowledge that that might not even be possible - not this man, not this Writer.
Gustave's thighs bracket his hips, drawing him closer until the contact between their clothed cocks is undeniable and Verso is the one left biting back a groan of his own. Bracing himself against the very hand restraining his wrists, Gustave rocks his hips, not breaking eye contact as he grinds against Verso like that is a completely normal thing to do with a dangerous vampire trying to drink one's blood.
Maintaining eye contact while he slowly grinds against Verso, Gustave's breath shivers as he exhales. He tilts his head to the side as much as he can while Verso's hand is still clutching his hair. Annoyed with himself, Verso's dark gaze dips down to the fresh bite mark on Gustave's neck.
"I'm still bleeding," Gustave breathes - and he's not wrong, he's not, but that doesn't stop Verso from wanting to shake him. It doesn't stop him from wanting to pin Gustave to the desk and drink until some of that fire is a part of him, flowing through his veins.
"You're supposed to be scared of me," Verso says, exasperated, fond, confused, incredibly turned on.
Rocking against him, his cheeks perfectly flushed, Gustave nods. "Who says I'm not?" he asks.
And Verso can hear the rabbit-fast beating of Gustave's heart. He can taste Gustave's ink-strong blood on his tongue. He can pick up on the proud, determined way that Gustave raises his chin and refuses to back down.
Gustave Stoker is afraid.
And he wants this anyway.
Verso lowers his mouth to the slowly-dripping wound on Gustave's neck. He doesn't bite this time; he flattens his tongue against the skin and licks, chasing a rolling tear-drop of blood to tidy him up. His hand in Gustave's hair loosens and releases, just so that he can reach down to Gustave's hip and yank, pulling them together, feeling the way that Gustave grunts in surprise-shock-pleasure as Verso grinds them together.
The gears shift. It's a gathering of energy, a ticking of the clock, a build towards the finish line, as Gustave moves from lazily rocking his hips to something far more frantic. Through the frustrating layers of their clothes, they grind together, cock against cock, while Verso licks the blood from Gustave's neck and imagines cornering him at home next time, imagines pinning him to his bed next time, imagines nothing between them next time.
The blood stops dripping from the bite, but Verso keeps his face buried there anyway, nuzzling in deep, breathing in the overwhelming scent of Gustave's skin, his blood, his hair. He grinds against Gustave and drinks in the open-mouthed, needy grunts that start to punch their way from Gustave's lips, completely undone, so unravelled. He's so sweet once he's like this, once he's mindless, once he's needy.
Verso releases Gustave's wrists so he can grab him by the hips with both hands, maneuvering Gustave easily: with vampire-strength, it's no longer Gustave grinding against Verso as much as it's Verso grinding Gustave against himself, lifting him up and manoeuvring Gustave's body like a lightweight toy against him, chasing his own pleasure and the helpless little sounds that slip out of his Writer's mouth.
"Fuck, that's it. Yes," Gustave pants, his newly-freed arms wrapping around Verso's shoulders and holding him close. "So good. You're so good."
Verso growls against Gustave's neck, he can't help himself - and he can't help it when the words unravel him, when he pulls Gustave's crotch tight against him one last time and spills helplessly inside his own trousers.
Panting, he fumbles between them, his nerves still singing, his own spend soaking through his pants - he covers the bulge of Gustave's clothed cock with his hand and rolls his palm against him, loving the ruined groan that he gets in response. "We're doing this again. Soon. I'm not waiting another year," he growls against Gustave's neck. "I'll track you down. Next time I drink from you, I'm going to be inside you."
He throws it out into the world, a silent plea to make it true: isn't that what Writers do? Turn dreams into facts?
Pressed against him, Gustave nods, all of his previous composure a distant footnote. Gustave leans forward against Verso, the pair of them entwined like two lovers in a soft hug, as if Verso isn't stained with Gustave's blood and his own relief and as if Gustave's hips aren't frantically moving against the insistent press of Verso's hand.
Please, beats between them, please, please, please.
Buried against Verso's neck, Gustave's lips press to his bare, pale skin; he groans against Verso's skin when Verso presses his hand just right - and then there's the scrape of Gustave's teeth against Verso's neck, blunt and human but still enough to make Verso jerk in shock. His hand clenches on Gustave's cock accidentally, too much, too painful, but it's enough to make Gustave groan against him like a mindless, possessed creature before he comes, making a mess of himself right there on the table.
Verso grinds his hand against Gustave's cock to pull him through every aftershock, just the wrong side of too much and too hard now that he knows how Gustave likes it. He keeps it up until Gustave's hand scrambles to wrap around his wrist with a gentle, pleading squeeze.
Gustave rests his forehead against Verso's shoulder as they wait in silence: their clothes are bloodied and stained, Gustave's hair is a wreck, his mouth is ravished, and there's a beautiful new bite-mark on his neck, waiting to scar. There's nothing Verso wants more in that moment than to scoop up his prey and take him back to the Manor - he wants to keep Gustave somewhere safe, watch him constantly, drink in every detail, and make sure he never, ever wants to leave.
But there is one constant in all Verso's long, desolate unlife: he rarely gets what he wants.
After a moment passes, Gustave raises his head from Verso's shoulder and takes a few heaving breaths. He adjusts his glasses on his nose and then huffs the air from his lungs in a careful, re-setting sigh.
"Well," Gustave murmurs. "I think I'm going to have to update my notes."
With his hands resting gently on Verso's hips, Gustave guides Verso away from the space between his thighs, buying himself enough room to hop down from the table with a faint grimace at the unpleasant stains down the front of both their trousers.
Verso watches Gustave transform back into his regular self, hiding away the base creature that had ground against him moments ago and rediscovering the Writer with ink in his veins.
Gustave starts to redo the buttons of his shirt, before looking down at the bloodstains and seemingly deciding that it's a lost cause. "We might be able to find some spare clothes around here somewhere…" he mutters to himself. "Or I'm going to have to go home and change." He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully in acknowledgement as he acknowledges option three. "Or I'm about to have a very awkward dinner with the rest of the Council."
Verso blinks. He then blinks again. Just to make sure it's working, he blinks a third time. But, no: Gustave is already fully back to normal, breezing and talking to himself as if he didn't just allow himself to feed a vampire. As if he didn't just grind against a Painter in a public lecture hall. As if said vampire isn't still in the same room with him, quietly contemplating taking him home for good.
"Gustave," Verso sighs. Gustave's blood is still staining his chin and his shirt. He's a mess. He wants to be a mess.
Gustave glances back towards him, as if surprised that his train of thought has been interrupted. The surprise fades to a genuine smile; it's an expression that's perfectly designed to set Verso off-balance all over again. It's something gentle. Something young. Something that doesn't remotely belong on the face of the future Head of the Writer's Guild.
"That was perfect," Gustave says. "Perfect. It was… feral."
He says it like it's a compliment, and his metal hand delicately dabs at the side of his neck again. The bleeding has mostly stopped already - all he gets is a delightful stain of red for his fingertips.
"I could have killed you," Verso reminds him, firmly.
Gustave merely glances at him dismissively over the top of his glasses. Come on now, that glance seems to say, Who do you think you're fooling?
Suddenly, Gustave ducks to look under the table, then checks behind the lectern - it takes Verso a moment to realise that he's still forlornly looking around to see if there's a change of clothing hidden anywhere in the room. Whatever he finds seems to disappoint him. Gustave picks up his waistcoat and puts it back on, though it does a terrible job at hiding any of the blood on his white shirt, and it doesn't do a thing about the discomfort in his pants, but then he pulls a fob-watch from his waistcoat pocket and checks the time.
Watching him in sharp-toothed wonder, Verso can practically see the calculations taking place in his mind. "I should be able to make it home and back in time," Gustave confirms to himself.
His mind is already gone. He grabs hold of his overcoat from behind the panel table, sliding it on and arranging the thick grey material over his chest and shoulders as best as he can to hide the mess that Verso has made of him from view, with a faint grimace. He still looks pale, and his hair is sticking up at impossible angles - and the bite marks on his neck look as messy and vulgar as it's possible to imagine.
Gustave picks up his satchel and slings it over his shoulder. "It was wonderful seeing you again, Verso," he says. "Truly. Wonderful."
Verso hums in response, his hands resting in his pockets, his head tilted to the side. It sounds like Gustave is saying goodbye. "I haven't yet decided if I'm going to let you go," Verso warns him. He can still taste Gustave's blood in his mouth, rich with ink and power - it's unlike anything he's tasted before. Verso is a bloody mess, and his trousers are stained and damp with need, and the thought of letting Gustave walk out of here feels like an impossibility.
But Gustave smiles at him in surprise, and something almost like affection. "Oh, that's interesting," he says, almost to himself. "I need to remember that."
"Remember what?"
"The possessive, threatening thing - it's inspired by the blood, I assume? Provoked by it, even." Gustave sounds like he's speaking to himself, as if Verso is nothing but a convenient audience. "Fascinating. It's nice. I like it."
Nice.
Gustave's blood is still staining Verso's mouth and chin, it's drying on his throat and clothes, and Gustave thinks the whole thing is 'nice'.
"See?" Gustave says, his eyes bright. He backs away a couple of steps towards the door, satchel strap over one shoulder, while his other hand reaches deep into his waistcoat pocket. "The growling thing. The black eyes. Nice."
Verso hadn't even been aware of it, but he feels it now: a rhythmic humming from the centre of his chest, a deep growl. It's the sounds of a predator whose prey is skipping out of its grasp, a beast whose territory is being invaded from the inside out.
"Gustave…" he warns.
It's meant to be a threat. Why does it sound so pleading? Why can he never have what he wants?
"Nice," Gustave repeats a third time. He reaches the door. "It really was good to see you again, Verso. Next time? Catch me a little faster."
It's the only warning Verso gets.
Gustave steps back out of the door at the same time as he draws his pen from his pocket - the door slams shut behind him, and his ink slashes over the lock: with a single precious word, the door seals.
By the time Verso has sprinted to reach it, even with his impossible speed, the door is immovable: he rattles at the handle, but even with all the undead strength in his muscles it doesn't budge.
His hand smashes flat against the wood of the door. Nothing. Precious seconds waste away as he rushes past the empty benches to the door on the other side of the vast lecture hall - it leads him to a dark, winding corridor on the wrong side of the building.
His undead nature gives him tricks of his own: speed, strength, but none of it is good enough.
Verso arrives at the vast front doors of the building - and he can still smell the fading, intoxicating scent of Gustave's blood on the air, but it's already starting to dissipate into the general Parisian abyss around them. He throws open the doors, but nothing awaits him; the dark grey streets of Paris are anonymous and blank, and the crowds are already wiping away the only scent he wants to follow.
Retreating back into the corridors, he finds the door that Gustave departed through, still firmly locked in a way that no supernatural strength can budge. Verso kneels down. Looking at the door handle, Gustave's messy, rushed writing is sprawled over it. The neatness of his signature, cherished from the books Verso has collected, has been abandoned: it's the rapid rush of prey with a predator on its tail - but the power emanating from it is binding nonetheless.
Scrawled over the door handle in Gustave's black, demanding ink is the single rushed word:
T R A P
It's a simple word, given life by a powerful Writer and thrown into existence through sheer belief alone. Verso feels like an idiot, remembering the display Gustave had given the audience earlier that evening, a casual flex of power that Verso had never thought could be used on him.
Verso runs his fingertips over it fondly. In every letter, he feels a brush of the ink that he'd tasted in Gustave's veins. Despite himself, he bites back a sharp-toothed smile.
The chase continues; the hunt is on.
Verso stands in the hallway with his fingertips against the whisper of power that Gustave Stoker has left behind him: Verso's mouth and shirt are still stained crimson with the memory of how Gustave tastes.
There's nothing else for him to think about now. There's nothing but a challenge.
There is only one thing that will occupy his mind now for the coming months. It whispers through his thoughts, through his veins, through his soul, such as it is. One thing alone. Only the blood.
The future Head of the Writers Guild has two scars on his neck. The next time Verso sees him, he's going to make sure there are three.