Work Text:
Airs à faire fuir (d'une manière très particulière)
The wind howled through Frozen Hearts, a hungry beast searching for prey among the jagged peaks. Verso hauled himself over another outcropping, boots scraping against ice-slicked stone, and paused to catch his breath. Ahead of him, Monoco moved with frustrating ease, wooden joints clicking softly against the rock face, his staff extended like a counterbalance. They'd been climbing for hours, clearing the well-trodden, winding path through the mountains of nevrons that had infested the slopes near their makeshift home—a derailed train carriage wedged between two cliffs, upturned so that the sliding door faced the sky. A ramshackle home, but sound enough to shelter them from the worst of the mountain's wrath.
"Keep up," Monoco called back without turning his mask, the barest hint of teasing in his voice. "I've seen François scale mountains faster than you today."
Verso scowled, more at himself than at Monoco. The gestral had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the trek, save for the occasional barb when Verso lagged too far behind. In his brooding, he couldn’t help but blame Monoco. Each time he realized he was doing this, he reminded himself that Monoco was responding to his own melancholy, and that just made him feel worse. But he couldn’t stop doing it. The silence left Verso with too much time alone with his thoughts, and lately, those thoughts had begun to twist in directions he couldn't control.
Thoughts of how the sunlight caught the fur at Monoco's shoulders, or the fluid way his wooden body bent and flexed against the mountainside. The precise, economical movements of his hands as he grasped the stone. The gentle sway of his staff as he walked, wooden fingers shifting their grip against it…
“Putain,” Verso muttered, hauling himself up another few feet. Monolith Year 78, and here he was, watching his best friend climb a mountain with the ravenous attention of a teenage boy. Twenty-some years since he'd been touched by anyone but himself, and his body had chosen the most inconvenient possible target for its sudden, insistent cravings. Except for the fact that Monoco was, in fact, the most convenient target.
"Something amiss?" Monoco paused on a narrow ledge, mask tilting back toward him.
"Nothing. Slipped." Verso reached the ledge and stood beside the gestral, careful to keep a respectable distance between them. His pulse hammered in his throat, a combination of exertion and the particular kind of shame that came from wanting something he couldn't have.
Monoco's mask angled toward the sprawling view, the distant peaks hazed blue against the sky. "Three pelerin to the north, near that jagged outcrop. We can circle around."
“Going soft, mon vieux? We could use the chroma,” Verso shrugged, eager for any distraction from the heat pooling in his abdomen. “Let’s meet them head on.”
“Ever so diplomatic.” Monoco adjusted his grip on his staff. Verso swallowed. “After you, then. Show me how it's done."
The familiar pattern of combat was a welcome relief. Verso summoned his blade and approached the nevrons with their frosty, curved blades and the eerie icy glow of their faceless figures. The first two fell easily. The third proved more agile, swooping along the rock face before launching itself at his unprotected flank.
Before it could connect, Monoco's staff flashed in the sunlight, striking the creature with enough force to shatter its crystalline body against the mountainside.
"You're welcome," the gestral said, brushing imaginary dust from his wooden forearm.
Verso rolled his eyes. "I had it under control."
"Of course you did. Just like last week when that cultist nearly took your head off."
"That was different," Verso insisted, though his lips quirked despite himself. "I was distracted."
"By what? The overwhelming beauty of my combat technique?"
Verso turned away quickly, busying himself with collecting the last of the chroma. The truth was that he had been watching Monoco that day, admiring the way his body moved through combat stances with unearthly grace, the way his body settled back into itself after morphing from a gault’s less graceful form. Just as he'd been watching him climb today, and tend the fire yesterday, and polish his nevron legs the day before that.
It wasn't even just physical. It was Monoco's quick wit, his mordant humor, his unshakable loyalty despite everything they'd been through. There was something that kept him up late at night about the way Monoco could verbally berate him, never making him say out loud what was best left unspoken, while being ever-present nonetheless. But the physical want had become impossible to ignore—the urge to touch the fur at his neck, to trace the lines where wooden panels met, to feel those articulated fingers against his skin.
He grimaced.
Twenty-three years since anyone had touched him that way. And the last had been Julie, with her clever smile and cruel hands, pleasure and pain so interwoven in his memories that even now Verso couldn't fully separate them in his mind. Was that why his thoughts had turned so dark? Because somewhere deep down, he'd come to associate desire with danger, intimacy with pain?
"You're being strange today," Monoco observed as they continued their climb. The path narrowed, forcing them to move single file, Monoco still leading. "More than usual, I mean."
"Just tired," Verso lied. "These nevrons have been running us ragged."
"Hmm." The noncommittal sound made it clear Monoco didn't believe him, but the gestral didn't press. Another silence fell between them, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow beneath their feet.
Verso watched the back of Monoco's head, the bristles ruffling in the breeze, and felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He needed to say something, to clear the air between them. Even if Monoco laughed in his face, it had to be better than this constant, aching distraction. He'd faced death a hundred times; surely he could face a little humiliation.
"Monoco," he started, his voice catching on the name.
The gestral stopped and turned, mask canted slightly in question. "Yes?"
But the words died in Verso's throat. What could he possibly say? Well, mon vieux, I’ve been staring at your hands for weeks, imagining them on my body. I haven't been touched in twenty-three years and I think I might actually go mad if you don't put those wooden fingers inside me.
"I—" he began again, but a sudden roar cut him off.
Above them, a massive shape burst from the snow-covered slope—a stalact, larger than any Verso had seen before, its body carved from translucent ice that gleamed in the sunlight. It bounded toward Verso, each footfall sending tremors through the mountainside.
"Move!" Monoco called, one wooden arm pushing Verso away as he lunged forward, chroma shimmering in transition, and stalact met stalact in an earth-shattering, icy crash.
The mountain shuddered, and then, with a sound like the world breaking, the snow beneath their feet gave way. An avalanche cascaded down the slope in a thundering wave of white.
Verso reached for Monoco, fingers stretching toward wooden ones, but the distance between them seemed to expand impossibly. Snow filled his vision, his mouth, his lungs. The world spun, and he was tumbling, falling, buried beneath the merciless weight of the mountain's fury.
His last conscious thought, before darkness claimed him, was that he'd been an idiot to waste so much time being afraid.
The fire cast flickering shadows against the rusted walls of the train car, their makeshift home now their prison. Verso sat cross-legged near the flames, hands extended toward the meager warmth, watching embers rise toward the crack in the sliding door they’d left open for ventilation. Across from him, Monoco methodically stripped bark from branches they'd salvaged, feeding the fire piece by piece. Nearly a day had passed since the avalanche had sealed them in, the mountain's cold fury blocking all passable trails down into the valley. They'd survived worse, Verso supposed, though the irony wasn't lost on him—trapped by snow in the very shelter they'd fought so hard to defend from nevrons.
"That last one," Monoco said, breaking the comfortable silence between them, "before the avalanche. The montaigne-sized stalact. You should have seen your face as it came for you. Standing there with your tail between your legs.”
Verso snorted. "Better than your performance with the danseuses this morning. All that spinning and flourishing—what were you trying to do, dance them to death?"
"It worked, did it not?” Monoco tilted his mask, the firelight catching on its edges. “I triumphed by besting them at their own game. Not all of us need to hack and slash our way through life like a spasming contorsionniste.”
"Says the old brush who caused an avalanche by trying to beat a stalact at its own game.”
A pleased chuckle escaped from behind Monoco's mask. "That was rather inspired, was it not?”
Verso smiled up at him. They fell back into comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire and the occasional creak of settling snow outside the only sounds. Verso's teeth chattered suddenly, a violent shiver running through him despite his proximity to the flames. The temperature had dropped sharply with nightfall, and the thin blanket around his shoulders did little to keep out the mountain's brutal chill.
"Cold, Verso?" Monoco's voice held the gentle mockery of a decades-old friendship. "And here I thought humans were supposed to be warm-blooded."
"F-fuck off," Verso managed through chattering teeth.
"Such hostility." Monoco sighed dramatically, the sound whistling through the howl of the wind. "And after I saved you from being buried alive."
"I was d-doing just fine."
"Of course you were. That's why I found you upside down with your head buried in snow and your legs kicking in the air."
“Need I remind you ag-gain of who caused the avalanche?” Verso shot him a baleful look, which only seemed to amuse the gestral more. With an exaggerated sigh, Monoco rose to his feet in a series of graceful movements and circled the fire, settling beside Verso with unexpected closeness.
"Come here, you miserable creature," he said, extending an arm. "Before you freeze to death and I have to deal with your guilt-tripping and manslaughter accusations when you come to.”
Before Verso could protest, Monoco wrapped a wooden arm around his shoulders, pulling him against his side. The gestral's body was neither warm nor cold, but the fur that covered parts of his frame trapped heat between them, creating a pocket of warmth that Verso found himself instinctively pressing into.
"Better?" Monoco asked, his voice softer now, vibrating through the wooden panels of his chest where Verso's head rested.
"Marginally," Verso admitted, though in truth, the relief was immediate and profound.
He tried to focus on the practicalities—they were trapped, it was cold, sharing body heat made sense—but his treacherous mind immediately veered in other directions. The firm pressure of Monoco's arm across his back. The texture of fur against his cheek. The subtle scent of wood oil that the gestral used to keep his joints from freezing in the mountain cold.
Unbidden, his imagination conjured images that sent heat coursing through him despite the chill: his fingers twisted in that fur, clutching desperately as Monoco's articulated wooden fingers pushed inside him, working him open with mechanical precision, the motionless mask’s gaze locked on him. The thought was so vivid, so unexpected in its intensity, that Verso jerked away as if burned.
"What now?" Monoco asked, his arm still half-raised from where Verso had pulled free. "Too hot?”
Verso swallowed hard, staring into the fire. "No, I just—" The words stuck in his throat. Twenty-three years without intimacy, and he'd chosen this moment, this place, to finally acknowledge the hunger that had been growing in him for months? But the alternative—continuing to pretend, to deny—suddenly seemed unbearable.
"Hey, Monoco," he began, then faltered, unable to look at the gestral's impassive mask.
"Hey, Verso," Monoco replied, the gentle mockery in his tone suggesting he was waiting for a punchline.
Verso took a deep breath, fixing his gaze on a point just past Monoco's shoulder. "Have you ever thought about... I mean, would you ever consider..." He cursed under his breath. “A, er, physical relationship. Between us."
There was a beat of silence, during which Verso contemplated the merits of walking directly into the snowdrift outside and letting nature take its course.
"We have a physical relationship," Monoco said finally, and Verso genuinely couldn’t tell if it was a joke. “We trek across mountains… I’ve cut you in half… Just last week you threw me at a bourgeon.” He gestured around at the snowed-in aftermath of their recent activities. “How do you think we got here?”
"That's not what I—" Verso dragged a hand down his face. "I meant sexual, Monoco. Physical in a sexual way."
"Oh." Another pause, shorter this time. "What, right now? All right, take your pants off."
“No, forget it, it’s—what, really?” Verso’s voice squeaked like the pubescent boy he was channeling.
The blunt and immediate acceptance sent a wave of heat through his body so intense that for a moment he couldn't speak. Then, as Monoco shifted toward him, reality crashed down with the weight of an avalanche.
Of course Monoco knew exactly what he was asking for. Of course he was ready to oblige without hesitation or surprise. Because he'd done this before—with the original Verso Dessendre. The real Verso.
"Wait," Verso said, hating how thin his voice sounded. "You and—and him—you did this before, didn’t you?”
Monoco stilled. "Him?"
“Monoco,” he pleaded, refusing to speak the words that tasted like ash. Even this—this desperate, embarrassing want—wasn't his own. Just another thing he'd inherited from a dead man, another echo of someone else's life he was forced to live, without even the comfort of the lie.
His lips twitched and twisted into a self-deprecating smirk. “Didn’t quite take him for that sort of freak.”
“Well, now that's just hurtful."
The silence that followed was different from the others—tense, charged with an emotion Verso couldn't name. When Monoco finally spoke again, his voice had shed its teasing edge entirely.
"Is that really what you think?" Monoco continued, wooden fingers flexing against his staff. "That I'd agree simply out of... what, obligation?" His mask tilted away. "You truly believe I cannot tell the difference between you?"
Verso glanced up, surprised by the genuine injury in the gestral's tone.
Shame burned hotter than desire now. "I didn't—"
"You did." The words were clipped, precise as a blade. "You assume everything about you is secondhand, even desires you've never spoken aloud before tonight."
"Aren't they?" Verso challenged, the familiar bitterness rising. "Tell me he never asked you. Tell me you never touched him."
Monoco's silence was answer enough.
"I thought so.” Verso pulled his threadbare cape tighter around himself, suddenly freezing despite the fire. "Forget I said anything."
"Verso—"
"I'm going to sleep." He moved to the furthest corner of the train car, where they'd arranged a makeshift pallet of blankets and furs. The distance from the fire meant it would be freezing, but at that moment, Verso preferred physical discomfort to the emotional kind.
Not that he was free of either.
You truly believe I cannot tell the difference between you?
He’d wanted something that was his alone. What he found instead was confirmation that his best friend would rather be with the dead man whose face he wore.
He lay with his back to Monoco, curled tightly against the cold, knowing his toes would likely snap off by morning. Behind him, he heard the gestral sigh—a whistling, melancholy sound—before settling back beside the fire.
Sleep was a long time coming, and when it did come, Verso dreamed of falling through endless white, reaching for a hand he could never quite grasp.
Danses de travers (en y regardant à deux fois)
The dying fire cast feeble shadows against the frost-crusted walls of the boxcar, its meager warmth barely reaching Verso's hunched form. He sat with his back against the metal siding, knees drawn to his chest, watching through half-lidded eyes as Monoco methodically fed splinters of wood into the flames. He wondered idly if it smelled to Monoco like burning flesh.
Neither had spoken of the night before, of Verso's awkward proposition, of the revelation that hung between them like an unsheathed blade. The knowledge that Monoco had been intimate with the real Verso gnawed at him, a peculiar ache that was neither jealousy nor shame but some nameless emotion that belonged only to copies, to echoes, to things that shouldn't exist.
Overnight, the door had frozen open, the metal warped by the cold, allowing thin streams of snow to drift inside with each gust of wind. The storm had abated somewhat, no longer howling but moaning instead, a wounded animal dragging itself across the mountainside. Verso pulled his coat tighter around himself, his breath visible even inside their makeshift shelter.
Monoco's wooden joints creaked as he shifted position, the sound oddly comforting in the muffled silence of their snow-wrapped tomb. His fur, still matted in places from Verso's shivering grip the night before, caught the firelight in ways that made Verso's chest ache with fresh want.
"You slept a long time," Monoco observed suddenly, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since dawn. "Nearly thought you were dead." He poked at the fire with a stick, not looking up. "Which might have worried me with anyone else."
Verso grunted, unwilling to acknowledge the gestral's attempt at conversation. The reference to his immortality—his cursed, manufactured immortality—only twisted the knife deeper. Another reminder of what he was, of what he wasn't. Of how even this attraction, this desperate, pathetic want, wasn't truly his own.
He could feel Monoco watching him, the painted eyes of his mask somehow conveying judgment despite their immobility. The gestral sighed, a sound like wind through dry leaves.
"The cold has done nothing to improve your disposition, I see," Monoco remarked, feeding another splinter to the flames. "I'd hoped perhaps you might have frozen into someone more pleasant overnight."
“Sorry to disappoint.” Despite himself, Verso felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He smothered the almost-smile quickly with a tilt of his head, unwilling to surrender his brooding so easily. "Perhaps next time you cause a natural disaster.”
"Something to look forward to, then."
Silence fell between them again, but lighter now, less oppressive. Verso found himself stealing glances at Monoco's hands as they worked the fire, remembering their surprising warmth against his skin, the precise articulation of those wooden fingers. Shame and desire warred within him, neither winning, both exhausting.
"Oh, quit your whining," Monoco said suddenly, though Verso hadn't spoken.
Before Verso could retort, Monoco reached under a blanket in the corner and withdrew what could only be described as a wooden phallus, perfectly shaped and sanded smooth, attached to a series of leather straps.
Heat flooded Verso's face, then his entire body, pooling low in his belly with an intensity that left him breathless. The sight of the object in Monoco's hands was obscene, explicit, undeniable. There was no mistaking its purpose, no pretending this was anything but what it was: evidence of intimacies shared with another man, with his namesake.
"What—" Verso began, his voice cracking embarrassingly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What is that?"
"Your powers of observation continue to astound me," Monoco replied dryly, turning the object in his hands as if appraising a fine artifact. "Though I suppose I could provide a practical demonstration if you're truly confused."
Verso's mouth went dry. He should be humiliated. He should be furious. This thing, this wooden cock that had clearly been inside the real Verso Dessendre, shaped just for his body, no doubt, was just another reminder of how little of himself was truly his own. Even his desires, it seemed, were merely echoes of someone else's.
And yet...
And yet all he could think about was how it would feel in Monoco's hands, working him open, filling him completely. How Monoco's voice might sound, strained with desire, whispering filth into his ear. How those wooden fingers might grip his hips, leaving marks that would linger for days.
"Another keepsake from your time with him?" Verso managed, unable to keep the bitter edge from his voice.
Monoco's mask tilted, somehow conveying exasperation despite its fixed expression. "No, Verso. I carved this yesterday while you were sulking and sleeping. I whittled it from a nevron leg with your dagger and crafted the harness from my own bristles. Because clearly, that's the most logical explanation."
The sarcasm pulled a reluctant smile from Verso. "You're insufferable."
"Yet here you are, staring at me with the desperate eyes of a man who hasn't been touched in decades." Monoco ran one wooden finger along the length of the phallus, the gesture unmistakably suggestive. "Which, coincidentally, you are."
Verso swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from Monoco's hands. He should feel humiliated by the gestral's bluntness, should recoil at the implication that he was so transparent. But all he felt was a burning, aching need overriding everything else.
"You didn't answer my question," he croaked, voice rough with want.
“I’ve not been dragging it across the Continent for him, Verso.” Monoco said softly. “Does it matter?”
It should. It should matter desperately that this thing between them wasn't real, wasn't special, wasn't his. But as Verso stared at Monoco, at the soft halo of fur around his face, at the wooden hands that had pulled him back from death countless times, he found he couldn't summon the will to care. He shook his head.
Monoco patted his thigh, a gesture so casually commanding that it sent another wave of heat through Verso's body. "Then come here. You’re hogging all the warmth.”
Verso hesitated only a heartbeat before closing the scant distance between them. He stopped short at Monoco’s feet, suddenly uncertain, every beat of his heart thundering so loudly he could swear Monoco could hear it.
"You lasted far longer than he did," Monoco remarked casually, head tilting to meet Verso’s gaze. "I'm impressed. He'd have been begging in my lap by now."
The words should have stung, should have reinforced that crushing sense of being a poor copy. Instead, Verso felt a strange pride flicker through him. He was different. In this small, trivial way, he was not just an echo of the original.
"Perhaps I have better self-control," Verso replied, his voice rougher than he'd intended.
"Perhaps." Monoco's hands settled on Verso's hips, the touch burning through the fabric of his trousers. "Or perhaps you relish denial more than he did. The wanting."
Monoco’s wooden fingers tightened around his hips, and Verso let himself be pulled forward until he was straddling the gestral’s thigh. The pressure against his growing hardness drew a soft gasp from Verso’s lips, eyelids fluttering at the sudden contact. Verso's breath caught in his throat as Monoco's thumbs traced small circles against his hipbones.
The gestral’s guidance was gentle but insistent, rocking Verso’s hips in a steady rhythm that had him grinding against the unyielding surface of Monoco’s thigh. Each movement sent sparks of pleasure coursing through him, his body responding with an eagerness that would have been mortifying if he weren’t already drowning in need.
Verso leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Monoco’s mask. The cold, smooth surface was a stark contrast to the flush of his heated skin, but there was something unbearably intimate about it. His breath came in short, ragged pants that ricocheted across the wooden surface, warming his face in a cycle of his own making.
“Putain,” he muttered, the word barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire and the occasional groan of the train car’s metal walls. His arousal strained against his trousers, a damp spot forming where the tip pressed against the fabric. The mountain cold transformed the wetness into an exquisite torment, freezing against his heated flesh in a way that made him shudder.
“So desperate,” Monoco murmured, his voice lower than Verso had ever heard it. "Is this what you've been thinking about in all your brooding? Grinding yourself against me like an animal in heat?"
Verso should have been mortified by the words, but instead they sent another wave of arousal through him. "Shut up," he managed, but there was no heat in it.
“Let’s see you make me," Monoco challenged, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Verso's neck.
Shame bloomed in Verso’s chest, hot and thick, but it didn’t diminish desire. If anything, it heightened it, transmuting it into something darker, more desperate. He rocked himself harder against Monoco’s thigh, chasing a pleasure that remained frustratingly out of reach. The friction was delicious, but distant, a maddening tease that left him aching for more.
A tkh sound emanated from Monoco’s mask as a hand reached down, cupping his arousal with a squeeze of his fingers. “Look at you—you’re leaving a trail.”
Verso's hips jerked involuntarily against Monoco's palm, seeking more of that perfect pressure. A whimper escaped him, high and needy, and he felt his face burn with humiliation even as his cock twitched eagerly in response to Monoco's touch.
“Not so fast, Verso.” Monoco scolded, withdrawing his hand and reaching for the wooden phallus that lay beside them. “If you finish now, you’ll miss all the fun." He held the carved instrument between them, turning it so that the firelight caught its polished surface. "And I've been looking forward to this for quite some time."
The sight of the object sent another wave of heat through Verso’s body. This was happening. After twenty-three years of isolation, of touch-starvation so profound it had become a constant physical ache, he was about to be filled, taken apart by the one being in the world who knew him better than he knew himself.
“You have?” He managed, voice but a rasp scraped from his sternum. “Been looking forward to it?”
“Did you think I’d been carting this across the Continent for my health?”
A low, breathless laugh escaped Verso, cutting through some of the tension. “When you put it that way—”
“I do put it that way,” Monoco interjected, his free hand returning to Verso’s hip, steadying him. “Now. Would you deny me the opportunity to use this? After I went to all the trouble of bringing it?"
The promise in his words sent an electric bolt through Verso’s veins, priming every nerve ending for the next, inevitable moment. Verso shook his head wordlessly, beyond speech, beyond shame. He wanted everything Monoco was offering, had wanted it for longer than he'd been willing to admit, even to himself.
"Turn around," Monoco instructed in his low rumble. "On your hands and knees."
Verso complied without hesitation, his body moving as if of its own accord. The cold, metal floor bit into his palms, but he barely noticed, every nerve focused on Monoco's movements behind him. There was the quiet rustle of fabric as Monoco pushed Verso’s trousers down to his thighs, exposing him to the fire's warmth and the gestral's gaze. He felt pre-cum drip between his legs.
"Utterly pathetic," Monoco observed, but his voice was gentle, almost tender. "How badly you want this."
Heat coursed through Verso’s body, burning away every last thought except the desperate need to be touched. Behind him, Monoco shifted—the soft clink of wooden joints, the quiet click as he adjusted something—and Verso fought the overwhelming urge to turn and watch Monoco shimmy into the harness. His muscles tensed with the effort of restraint as Monoco’s hand braced down between his shoulder blades.
Verso’s breath came in short, shallow gasps, his forehead nearly touching the icy ground as he waited. And waited. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, the anticipation almost painful in its intensity. The fire crackled, throwing dancing shadows across his exposed skin. Sweat beaded along his spine despite the chill in the air.
“Monoco,” he whispered, the name half plea, half curse.
Before he could finish his thought, something cold and slick traced the sensitive skin between his cheeks: a wooden finger, smooth as polished stone, coated in an oil that smelled like pine sap. Verso jerked involuntarily at the contact, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
“So responsive,” Monoco observed, his finger circling Verso’s with maddening deliberation, never quite breaching. “Just from this. I wonder how you’ll react when I’m inside you properly.”
The words sent another surge of heat through Verso’s veins. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of dignity.
“Do you think about this often?” Monoco asked conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather while his finger continued its torturous path. “Bent over like this, exposed and wanting? Do you touch yourself and imagine it’s me?”
“Fuck you,” Verso managed, though there was no real heat in the words.
“Not quite the arrangement we’re working toward,” Monoco replied, amusement evident in his voice. His finger pressed slightly harder, just enough to make Verso gasp. “Though I’m open to negotiations. Another time, perhaps.”
The promise of future encounters made Verso’s heart stutter in his chest, warring with the absurd mental image of drilling a hole into Monoco’s wooden frame.
"Please," Verso whispered, shame forgotten in the face of overwhelming need.
"Please what?" Monoco's finger pressed again, more insistently this time. "Use your words, Verso. Tell me exactly what you want."
"I want—" Verso's voice broke as Monoco's finger finally, finally breached him, a teasing invasion that was nowhere near enough. "I want you inside me. Please."
"Like this?" Monoco pushed his finger deeper, the intrusion strange and wonderful and not nearly sufficient. "Or did you have something else in mind?"
Verso tried to push back, to take more of that wooden digit inside him, but Monoco's other hand gripped his hip, holding him immobile.
"I asked you a question," Monoco said, his voice dropping to a register that made Verso shiver.
"More," Verso gasped, past caring how desperate he sounded. "I want more."
"Mmm." The finger inside him curled slightly, finding a spot that made stars explode behind Verso's eyelids. "So greedy."
Monoco worked him open with methodical precision, each movement calculated for maximum effect. There was an expertise to it that Verso couldn’t help but notice, a practiced skill that spoke of experience. And there was only one place Monoco could have gained such experience.
The thought of Monoco doing this to the original Verso, touching him with the same careful attention, drawing the same sounds from his throat, sent a confusing surge of emotions through him: jealousy, humiliation, arousal, all tangled together until he couldn’t separate them. He tried to force the images from his mind, pushing back against Monoco’s finger, seeking more stimulation, more sensation to drown out the thoughts.
“Be still,” Monoco ordered, his grip on Verso’s hip tightening. The command sent a shudder through Verso's body. He went limp, surrendering control, allowing Monoco to set the pace. A second finger joined the first, stretching him further, the burn of it exquisite.
"That's better," Monoco murmured approvingly. "Just like that."
The praise warmed something deep inside Verso, something starved for tenderness. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of being slowly, thoroughly opened, on the slick slide of wooden fingers inside him, on the growing pleasure that radiated outward from where they connected.
Verso made a broken sound, beyond words now, beyond anything but the desperate need for more.
"So eager," Monoco commented, a hint of surprise in his voice.
Another flicker of pride, of distinction, of selfhood ignited in Verso's chest, mingling with the pleasure building low in his belly. He wasn't a copy in this. He was himself.
Monoco seemed to understand his need, because the fingers withdrew, leaving Verso empty and aching and whimpering—but only for a moment. Something larger pressed against him, blunt and unyielding, nudging at his entrance. Verso held his breath, bracing himself for the intrusion.
"Breathe," Monoco instructed, his free hand sliding under Verso's shirt to stroke the tense muscles of his lower back. "Relax for me."
Verso exhaled shakily, forcing himself to unclench as the dildo pressed forward, stretching him wider than the fingers had. The initial discomfort gave way to a fullness that bordered on overwhelming, a pressure that seemed to reach to his very core.
"That's it," Monoco crooned, surprisingly gentle despite the filthy scene they were enacting. "Take it all."
When Verso was fully seated, Monoco paused, allowing him time to adjust. His hand continued its soothing path up and down Verso's spine, a tenderness at odds with the crude words he'd been using moments before.
"How does it feel?" Monoco asked, his voice oddly hushed. "Having me inside you at last?"
"Good," Verso managed, the word inadequate for the complex tangle of sensations coursing through him. "So good."
A quiet sound of satisfaction escaped Monoco's mask. His hand moved from Verso's back to his hair, fingers tangling in the sweat-damp strands. With a swift, smooth motion, he pulled Verso upright, back against his wooden chest, the dildo shifting inside him with the movement and drawing a startled cry from his lips.
"I've got you," Monoco’s gravel whispered against his ear, one arm wrapped firmly around Verso's waist as he began to move. "I'm here."
Something about those words, so simple and yet so profound, broke something open in Verso's chest. He had been seen and accepted by this strange, wooden man who had walked beside him through death and resurrection, through bloodshed and solitude. Monoco knew him, all of him, and still chose to touch him, to hold him, to give him this.
The next thrust nearly buckled him. Monoco adjust his grip, his other arm snaking around to brace across Verso’s chest, wooden hand coming to rest at the base of his throat. The sudden pressure sent a jolt through Verso, teetering over the edge of safety and threat, comfort and control. Verso gasped at the sensation, at the half-panic fluttering in his chest that was indistinguishable from the need pooling lower, tightening every muscle and nerve.
He clamped his own hand over Monoco’s, desperate to keep the weight there, to drive it harder. “More,” he breathed, voice a ragged whisper barely audible over the wind’s moaning.
Monoco made a surprised sound, a kind of thoughtful rumble that vibrated in Verso’s ear. “That’s new.” He pressed his palm flat, pinning Verso’s pulse between fingers and thumb. The next movement was deliberate, experimental: a flex of fingers, a spike of pressure. “Are you certain?”
Verso nodded frantically, beyond words, beyond shame. He guided Monoco’s wooden fingers tighter against his throat. Understanding dawned in the way Monoco’s body shifted behind him. His grip tightened, cutting off just enough air to make Verso’s vision swim at the edges. The sensation was exquisite, danger and pleasure intertwined, the perfect balance of life and death that marked their relationship.
Monoco’s voice roughened, breathing heavier in Verso’s ear in a way that made him dizzier than the oxygen deprivation. Monoco thrust deeper, finding a rhythm that matched the constriction of his fingers: tightening as he pushes in, releasing slightly as he withdrew, a dance of breath and peneration that had Verso trembling on the edge of consciousness.
This wasn’t something inherited from a dead man. This was his: his need, his desire, his desperation to feel fully present in a body that had never truly belonged to him.
“Look at you,” Monoco repeated, voice tinged with wonder, and his free hand slid down Verso’s stomach, yanking at the hair there slightly in a way that made Verso yelp before strong fingers tugged at the hair around his cock, toying between tender and violent, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Is this what you need? To feel the edge?”
Wooden fingers traced patterns across his chest, pausing to tease his nipples until they hardened into sensitive peaks. They drifted lower, following the line of his ribs, mapping the contours of his abdomen, tracing the sharp jut of his hipbones. They skimmed along his inner thighs, tantalizingly close to where he needed to be touched most, but never quite making contact.
"Monoco," Verso groaned, his head falling back against the gestral's shoulder as Monoco’s grip momentarily loosened, allowing him just enough breath to speak. “Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" Monoco asked, his fingers continuing their maddening exploration, everywhere but where Verso desperately wanted them. "Tell me."
"Touch me," Verso begged, past pride, past dignity. "Please, I can't—I need you to touch me."
"Like this?" Monoco's fingers drifted across his stomach, tugging at the hair there, deliberately avoiding his straining erection.
"No," Verso gasped, frustration mounting. "You know what I mean."
"I want to hear you say it," Monoco insisted, his voice a low rumble against Verso's ear. "Be specific."
“Putain—my cock," Verso finally blurted, face burning with equal parts shame and desire. "Touch my cock, Monoco, I'm begging you."
A satisfied sound emanated from behind Monoco's mask. "Since you asked so nicely."
Wooden fingers finally, finally wrapped around Verso's length, the touch he'd been craving for what felt like an eternity. Verso's hips bucked involuntarily, driving the dildo deeper inside him while simultaneously pushing into Monoco's grip.
His body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation. The cold air against his exposed skin, the heat of Monoco’s fur against his back, the hard wooden fingers around his throat and around his cock—it was overwhelming, perfect.
Verso surrendered completely then, giving himself over to the relentless rhythm of Monoco’s body, the precise pressure of those wooden fingers. His world narrowed to the points of connection between them: throat, cock, the fullness inside him, made for the shape of him. Pleasure built with each constricted breath.
With each careful thrust, Verso felt more of his carefully constructed walls crumbling. Pleasure built within him, intense and overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to the emotional storm raging in his chest. This wasn't just sex—it was connection, recognition, belonging. It was Monoco's unwavering loyalty made physical, his friendship transformed into touch.
It was, Verso realized with a clarity that terrified him, the burn of unconditional love.
When release finally claimed him, it tore through his body like lightning, wrenching a sob from his throat. His vision whited out, his body arching as the waves crashed over him, a series of stuttering syllables that might have been Monoco’s name breaking across his lips. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he shuddered in Monoco's embrace, vulnerable and exposed and utterly, completely seen.
Monoco held him through it, whispering taunting encouragements, working him through every aftershock until Verso was limp and boneless in his arms. When the last tremors faded, Verso slumped against him, wooden arms unyielding yet gentle, fur soft against Verso's oversensitive skin, raising chill bumps across his flesh, exhaustion claiming him suddenly and completely.
They lay in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling, the wind still moaning outside. Verso's body ached pleasantly, the soreness a reminder that what had happened was real, was his. His last conscious thought was of Monoco's hand stroking his hair, a touch so tender it almost undid him all over again.
"Rest, mon vieux," Monoco murmured, the endearment settling over Verso like a blanket. "I've got you."
. . .
A mechanical droning pulled Verso from the depths of sleep, a sound so foreign to the natural symphony of the mountains that for a moment he thought he was dreaming. He blinked groggily, awareness returning in fragments—the warmth of Monoco's fur against his back, the stiffness in his legs, the slight throbbing ache between his legs, the unmistakable fact that his trousers were still bunched around his ankles. He looked down at where his legs were intertwined with wooden ones. The sound grew louder, a rhythmic chugging punctuated by the hiss of steam. Recognition hit him like a bucket of ice water. The expeditioners. In an airship? That was new.
"Monoco!" Verso scrambled upright, nearly toppling over as his feet tangled in his own clothing. "Wake up!"
“I was meditating,” Monoco reminded him, his mask tilting to regard Verso with what could only be described as smug amusement. “Or trying to. You snore."
"Shut up and help me!" Verso yanked at his trousers, hopping awkwardly on one foot. "They’re coming—we need to—we need to present ourselves.”
"Ah." Monoco rose to his feet with infuriating grace, brushing snow from his wooden limbs. "And you'd prefer not to greet our rescuers with your pants around your ankles. Understandable, if somewhat prudish given the circumstances."
Verso glared at him, finally managing to pull his trousers up. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, clumsy with cold and haste. "We need to get to the roof, signal them before they pass over."
"I'm not the one struggling with fingerwork," Monoco observed, moving to the door of the boxcar. With one powerful thrust of his staff, he broke through the ice sealing it shut. A blast of frigid air swept in, carrying with it the increasingly loud drone of the airship's engines.
Verso cursed, abandoning the last few buttons to grab his coat. His hair was a mess, his face still flushed from sleep and their activities the night before. He must look like he'd been dragged backward through a stalact den. Which, considering the avalanche, wasn't far from the truth.
“Merde, they're going to know," he muttered, shoving his arms into the coat sleeves. "They're going to take one look at me and know exactly what we've been doing."
Monoco paused at the doorway. "And that concerns you why, exactly? Are you ashamed?"
There was a strange vulnerability in the question, a hint of uncertainty that caught Verso off guard. He looked up, meeting the impassive face of Monoco's mask, and felt something twist in his chest.
"No," he said firmly. "Not ashamed. Just... private."
Monoco nodded once, a simple dip of his wooden conveying profound relief. "Good. Now, shall we go wave our arms at the flying contraption before it leaves us to freeze to death?"
Verso followed Monoco outside, wincing as the bitter cold hit his exposed skin. The snow had drifted against the boxcar during the night, creating a natural ramp that led almost to the top. Verso scrambled up it, Monoco close behind him, the wooden gestral moving with a surety that Verso admired.
On the roof, they had a clear view of the valley below and the approaching airship—a sleek, brass-and-timber construction with multiple propellers and a gondola suspended beneath. It was impressive, he had to admit, and his mind began to spin with possibilities for the new expedition.
"Over here!" Verso shouted, waving his arms above his head. "Hey!"
Monoco joined him, raising his staff high, the polished wood catching the morning sunlight. For a moment, Verso wasn't sure if they'd been seen—the airship continued its steady approach without changing course. Then one of the propellers shifted, angling to slow the vessel's progress, and a figure appeared at the railing of the gondola, waving back.
"They've spotted us," Monoco confirmed.
Verso nodded, suddenly aware of the ridiculous picture they must present—two figures atop a half-buried train car in the middle of nowhere, one a disheveled human with his coat hastily buttoned wrong, the other a gestral whose fur was matted in places that told an unmistakable story.
"What do you think they'll say?" Verso asked, surprising himself with the question.
Monoco tilted his head. "About finding us here? Or about..." He gestured vaguely between them.
"Both, I suppose."
"They'll be relieved to find two fearsome warriors to guide them on their quest. As for the rest..." Monoco shrugged, his wooden shoulders creaking slightly in the cold. "Does it matter?"
Verso considered this as the airship grew larger, its engines now a deafening roar that echoed off the mountainsides. Did it matter what the others thought? Once, perhaps, it would have. Once, everything had mattered too much: every difference between himself and Verso Dessendre, every reminder of his artificial nature, every inkling that might give him away.
But standing here beside Monoco, watching rescue approach after two nights trapped in a frozen boxcar that had somehow become the site of a profound transformation, Verso found he could summon the courage to face the new expeditioners.
"No," he said finally. "It really doesn’t.”
Monoco's hand found his, wooden fingers interlacing with flesh ones.
"For what it's worth," Monoco said quietly, "I think I prefer your performance. The whining is oddly endearing."
“How romantic,” Verso snorted, but squeezed Monoco's hand. “I’m swooning."
"You should be. I'm quite the catch. Sturdy construction, weatherproof, with the might to bring down mountains.”
"And so modest," Verso added dryly.
Monoco's head tilted in that particular way that suggested a smile. "Always so polite after you've gotten what you want." His other hand came up, the back of a finger gently trailing over a mark it had left the previous night. “I never would have thought to offer this. You surprised me."
"Good," Verso said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I'd hate to be entirely predictable."
"Oh, you're many things, Verso," Monoco replied, fingers pulling away. “Predictable has never been one of them."
As Monoco's mask turned toward him, the morning light caught painted eyes, and heat flooded Verso's cheeks.
The airship was close now, its shadow falling across them as it maneuvered into position. Verso could see figures moving in the gondola, preparing ropes and harnesses for retrieval. In moments, they would be surrounded by the noise and chaos of questioning from the rescuers, pulled back into the world of expeditions and duties and carefully maintained distances.
But for now, in this brief pocket of time that belonged only to them, Verso allowed himself to savor the weight of Monoco's hand in his, the promise of his words, the strange and unexpected joy that had bloomed in the midst of disaster. He didn't let go of Monoco’s hand, even as the first rescue rope descended from the airship above.