Expedition 33 AU. Gustave remembers. He remembers arriving to the paintress’ world, fighting the nevrons and befriending the gestrals and growing as close of a bond with his adopted daughter, Maelle, as possible. He remembers resting at the camp at night with Maelle and Sciel and Lune, and writing in a journal at night, and dreaming of a handsome man with black and grey hair. He even remembers meeting the stranger, who calls himself Verso, late in a few occasions and dancing with him to soft music playing, talking about being stranded in the foreign and hostile land. Gustave insists that the beautiful stranger joins them and stays in safety. He is denied, which is a little strange and sad, but the two always grow closer and closer at night. Verso is defensive and so beautiful and defeated, where Gustave is optimistic and chatty and bubbly and kind with the stranger. He tells the group about the mysterious man. No one believes him. Gustave is only 32. Was 32. He remembers the beach, the panic in seeing the man who killed the whole expedition, Renoir, approach them. He remembers fighting so hard to keep everyone alive, only for Renoir to stab him and kill him. The last thing he sees is Maelle screaming and crying in grief as the light leaves his eyes. He died. And he should have stayed dead. But no. He is resurrected. Alive and well. Sort of. Lumiere is fixed, and Maelle is safe and crying and so scared and traumatized and alive and happy to see him. Gustave is bewildered and disoriented, and he hugs Maelle with heavy tears. And then he sees Verso, the handsome man, and there is a strange tension between them now. It’s made worse when Maelle told Gustave the truth of Verso’s life, how he is a sort of the painter world just like they all are, and how he is the so. If the man who killed him, and he didn’t want to save him out of selfishness and fear, and he’s so sorry. Which is sad, because Gustave and Verso began to get so close and now Gustave wants nothing to do with him. And Verso is hurting and apologizing and trying to make up for the pain he’s inflicted.

Chapter 13: The Evening Lesson in Submission

The plugged feeling became a constant, low thrum in Verso’s consciousness. It was there when he woke, a firm, foreign presence nestled deep, a visceral reminder of Gustave’s claim. It was there when he moved, a subtle weight that shifted inside him with every step, a slosh of trapped seed that made his cheeks flush. He’d stand at the stove, making coffee in one of Gustave’s old shirts, his free hand drifting to press against the slight, firm curve of his lower belly. His.

Gustave watched him with a focus that was almost scientific. He’d note the way Verso’s walk had changed, a slight, rolling sway to his hips as he compensated for the internal fullness. He’d see Verso pause mid-task, a fleeting, glassy look in his icy eyes as a particularly strong wave of sensation clenched around the silicone intruder.

“Comfortable?” Gustave asked one morning, his voice casual as he scraped butter over toast.

Verso leaned against the counter, the cold marble seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. He nodded, then bit his lip. “It… aches. In a good way. I feel… occupied.”

A slow smile spread across Gustave’s face. “You are. Thoroughly.”

The disability paperwork came through. A modest, monthly deposit that felt like blood money to Verso. Gustave framed the approval letter and hung it in the kitchen, next to a childish drawing Maelle had sent. “Proof,” he said, kissing the top of Verso’s head. “You’re officially here. You’re official.”

It did little to quiet the whispers in the market, but it steadied something in Verso’s chest. He was a documented fact, not a phantom.

That evening, the air in the living room was heavy with the scent of peonies from a vase on the mantel. Gustave had returned from a long day of commissions, the scent of linseed oil and fatigue clinging to him. He sank onto the sofa, loosening his collar.

Verso had been waiting. He wore the sheer pink babydoll, the lace barely concealing the dark points of his nipples, the hem riding high on his thighs. The plug was still in, a secret between them. He knelt on the rug, the wool rough against his bare knees.

“Come here,” Gustave said, his voice a gravelly sigh. He picked up a glass of red wine, took a sip, his eyes dark over the rim.

Verso obeyed. He didn’t stand. He lowered himself onto his hands and began to crawl. The movement forced the plug to shift, pressing against a sweet, deep spot that made his breath hitch. His breasts swayed heavily with each motion, his puffy nipples brushing, then dragging against the rug. A thin trail of milk, involuntary, dampened the fibers beneath him. Shame heated his skin, but it was chased by a sharper, addictive thrill. He was performing. For him.

He reached Gustave’s feet and looked up, his expression open, pleading. The pink silk of the babydoll was taut across his swollen chest.

Gustave set the wine aside. He didn’t speak. He simply unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them down his hips just enough. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, a thick, angry red vein pulsing along its monstrous length. A bead of precum gleamed at the slit.

“Show me,” Gustave commanded, his voice low. “Show me how much you need it. How empty you feel even with my come stuffed inside you.”

Verso whimpered. He leaned forward, his lips parting. He took the broad head into his mouth, his tongue flattening against the frenulum. The taste was musky, salty, profoundly Gustave. He swirled his tongue, lavishing the crown, sucking gently. A low groan rumbled from Gustave’s chest. Emboldened, Verso took more, easing the impossible girth past his lips, his jaw straining. He worked his way down, inch by torturous inch, his throat opening in spasmodic flutters. Tears welled, blurring his vision of Gustave’s clenched thighs.

“Deeper,” Gustave grunted. His hand tangled in Verso’s black and grey hair, not tenderly. He guided, then pushed. Verso’s nose pressed into the coarse hair at Gustave’s base. He gagged, his body convulsing, but he forced himself still, breathing harshly through his nose, his throat stretched obscenely around the invasion.

“That’s it. Good omega. Take your alpha’s cock. Swallow it.”

Gustave began to move. Slow, deliberate pulls that dragged the entire length over Verso’s tongue and palate before plunging back down his throat. Verso’s eyes streamed. Drool and tears dripped onto Gustave’s trousers. The rhythmic choking sounds filled the room, vulgar and intimate. Gustave’s breathing grew ragged, his hips lifting off the sofa to meet Verso’s mouth.

“Fuck, that throat…” he panted. “Made for this. Just a warm, tight hole for me to use.”

Verso’s own cunt was dripping, the plug suddenly feeling inadequate, a pitiful imitation. He needed to be split open. He moaned around the cock, the vibration making Gustave curse.

With a wet sound, Gustave pulled out. Verso gasped, coughing, strings of saliva connecting his lips to the glistening shaft.

“On your back. Now.”

Verso scrambled, rolling onto the rug, his legs falling open in blatant invitation. The babydoll was rucked up around his waist. Gustave didn’t bother removing it. He knelt between Verso’s splayed thighs, his hands gripping the soft flesh of Verso’s inner knees, pushing them wider, exposing everything—the glistening pink folds, the puffy lips, the rose-colored base of the plug nestled tight against his entrance.

With one rough pull, Gustave removed it. A gush of cooled, thick seed spilled out onto the rug. Verso cried out at the sudden emptiness, his cunt clenching around nothing.

“Look at that,” Gustave muttered, aligning the broad head of his cock with the dripping, used hole. “Wasted a good load. We’ll just have to make another.”

He pushed in.

There was no gentle easing. He was too big, and Verso was stretched, but not enough, never enough. The stretch was a blinding, white-hot rip of pleasure-pain. Verso screamed, his back arching off the floor, his fingers clawing at the rug. Gustave sank to the hilt in one relentless thrust, his balls slapping heavy against Verso’s ass.

“Mon Dieu,” Gustave choked, his body shuddering. “This cunt… it’s fucking vise. It’s trying to suck the soul out of me.”

He withdrew and slammed back in. And again. A brutal, pounding rhythm that stole the air from Verso’s lungs. Each drive battered his cervix, a deep, internal bruising that felt like being claimed at a cellular level. The sounds were filthy: the wet slap of skin, Gustave’s guttural grunts, Verso’s shattered, sobbing moans.

Gustave leaned down, his chest pressing against Verso’s heaving breasts. He captured a puffy, leaking nipple in his hot mouth and sucked, hard. A sweet, thin jet of milk hit his tongue. Verso shrieked, his orgasm tearing through him with violent, untethered force. His cunt clenched in frantic, milking spasms around the massive cock pistoning inside him.

“Yes, squeeze me like that,” Gustave growled against his skin, his thrusts becoming erratic, animalistic. “Take my fucking seed. Fill that greedy womb. I want you drowning in it.”

His knot began to swell.

Verso felt it, the bulbous pressure stretching him even wider at the root, an impossibility becoming reality. He was so full, too full, breaking apart. Gustave gave three final, jackhammering thrusts and then seated himself deep, his knot lodging firmly inside, locking them together.

He came.

Verso felt it as a volcanic pulse, a hot flood that seemed to have no end. Pump after pump of thick cum filled him, overflowing, painting his thighs and the rug beneath them. Gustave’s whole body shook, a broken litany of “je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime” muffled against Verso’s neck.

They collapsed into a tangled, sweaty heap on the floor, still joined. Gustave’s weight was crushing, perfect. Verso’s hand drifted to his belly. It was rounded, firm, packed impossibly full. He felt feverish, delirious.

Long minutes later, the knot subsided. Gustave slipped out, followed by another rush of fluid. He fetched a towel and the plug, cleaning Verso with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the previous fury. He pressed the silicone back into Verso’s well-used hole, sealing the new deposit inside.

He gathered Verso into his arms, carrying him to the bed. Verso nuzzled into his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat, sex, and lavender.

“You’re everything,” Gustave whispered, his lips against Verso’s hairline. “My beautiful, broken, perfect thing.”

Verso slept. He dreamed not of a pink nursery, but of a field of crushed peonies, their scent so strong it was suffocating. He dreamed of roots, thick and white, breaking through the soil of his own stomach, tying him irrevocably to the earth, to this room, to this man.

In the morning, his breasts were tender. The first wave of nausea hit him as he smelled the coffee. He barely made it to the sink. Gustave held his hair, his hand warm and steady on Verso’s back, his silence more telling than any words. A quiet, dawning tension hummed in the air between them. The possibility was no longer a dream. It was a biological clock, ticking inside Verso’s ravaged, hopeful body.