Work Text:
“You’re brooding again.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
His human camarade is far too easy to read. Humans are so fragile as to have their faces right in the open.
“You’re sulking, and it’s annoying. Do something about it.”
At that, Verso exhales deeply, shifting his position in something akin to discomfort.
“Since when has that bothered you so much?”
“Since always. I’m simply less tolerant of it now. So what’s your issue?”
“You know what?” Verso points a finger up, as if with new idea. “I’m feeling like getting my spine pummelled to bits. How about a little brawl?”
The man is changing the subject on purpose.
It works like a charm, of course.
* * *
They’re laying together in the grass a while after, bruised and bloodied— or, at least the meaty counterpart is. As battered as Monoco is, he would never show it outwardly that easily. Perhaps only through the creaky wheezes coming out from the vicinity of his mask. Not that he’d admit to it.
Still.
Verso is still not as tiredly ecstatic after the fight as he should be, and it’s a problem.
“You’re still being a drag. I thought losing to me would cheer you up somewhat.”
“Losing?” the man scoffs, shifting to sit up, held up by his elbows. “You’ve got it wrong here— you’re the one who collapsed first.”
“And you collapsed right after. I was taking pity on you.”
“What a gracious little Gestral you are, truly.”
“Not so little, but gracious enough to keep asking what your problem is.”
Verso doesn’t reply to that, averting his gaze downwards.
It’s getting annoying. Monoco pulls himself to sit up as well— not without a groan of pain that he would never acknowledge— and looks at his friend, examining his expression. Noticing the direction of his stare.
Downwards.
Ah.
“That’s what got you so bummed out? Not having a mate?”
The sigh that comes out of the other man is a heavy one — heavy with all the burden of this world, heavy with responsibility over being the cause of his family’s never-ending feud, and, most importantly at the moment, heavy with annoyance and embarrassment at still being at the mercy of his human needs.
Foolish, foolish needs that could cause one to be led into danger. Completely defying any logic of self-preservation.
Thankfully, Gestrals have no such needs, and thus remain the superior species of wisdom and utter destruction.
“It’s about time you met some new people. You can’t keep running away into isolation. Your kind is too soft to be on their own.”
“No,” the word cuts in. “I’m not going with new expeditions.”
His tone is one of finality, as if not even allowing himself to grasp the idea fully, emotionally or otherwise.
“What will you do then? Go back to Lumiere for a bit to satisfy your craving?”
“Out of the question.”
Monoco is fully aware that the man still sneaks into the diminishing city for supplies and similar business.
Why the man outright refuses to use that time to meet people — he cannot fathom, and neither does he care to.
“Then go take care of it yourself.”
He can, and he would. But the silence that follows is one of hesitation, where even Monoco can pick up on the implication—
“—or do you want my help?”
At that, Verso turns to face him, not looking quite as incredulous as one would, if inquired on such affair— not that Monoco would know. But the man quickly huffs in exasperation, turning away.
“I think your ‘handie’ that one time was enough, thanks.”
Ah yes. The ‘handie’.
That time his human friend would get human desires right in the heat of their battle, and their evening would then be spent positioning Monoco’s clasped hand just the right way around Verso’s length to not apply too much painful pressure, and neither to be too loose.
Its movements had to be calibrated thoroughly, too.
It did the job in the end— but even so, Verso wasn’t satisfied much.
They agreed never to speak of that incident again, as even Monoco had felt the overwhelming awkwardness that he would have previously classified as a purely human-only trait.
But, maybe there could be another way.
“My ‘handie’ doesn’t suit you… Then how about…
“...My ‘footie’?”
“Okay, enough—” Verso slaps a hand against his face in exasperation. “—Or, actually, just that mental image alone is helping me keep it down, maybe it’s not all bad.”
Monoco feels somewhat insulted at that. After all, how can such mental image even begin to lower the sexual drive of a human? The thought is inconceivable to him that such disrespect could be given towards feet.
But he forgives Verso, just this once.
“In that case… are you in need of regular human intercourse?”
“…You really want me to answer that? I kind of wish you’d use casual wording when you’re talking about this. Just ask if I want to get laid, or something.”
The embarrassment at the formality of that question is apparent in his voice.
Monoco takes that cue. “So, you want to fuck?”
A tired groan answers. “Yea-a-ah, I wanna fuck…”
“I see.” The Gestral thinks for a moment. “That can be arranged.”
Verso makes a noise between a snort and a choke, looking the Gestral in the mask again, subtly shifting the front of his pants. “And how is that?”
“You’ll see. Wait here.”
Monoco stands up and starts heading for the woods without even a glance back with a new air of determination in his posture.
Verso glances back at him, but soon turns back, scoffing down at the tent in his trousers that hasn’t gone down even a bit during the entire conversation.
Not even during mentioning of feet.
* * *
It is done.
And Monoco, with all the meager knowledge he carries within him on human procreation and biology, has done it.
He made a hole.
The sound of his footsteps is not silent at all, and neither does he intend for it to be— and yet Verso stirs in a startled way nonetheless, as if having been pulled out of his thoughts. It doesn’t appear as though he’s moved at all since Monoco left.
How much time has passed since?
“Behold, my friend,” Monoco proclaims, pulling up his tunic for the man to see.
Verso’s eyes lower down in confusion, looking all around the Gestral. “Uh-h… mon vieux, what am I supposed to be looking at?”
The Gestral tsks— it’s a very nice human sound that he picked up as one of subtle, yet proclaimed annoyance at human stupidity.
“Look from below.”
Verso’s eyes widen, his breath hitch easily missable, and he carefully lowers his head downwards, eyes pointed up—
and his mouth drops.
“Did you…?”
“I made a hole, Verso.”
“No, but you—”
“I made it for you.”
“You— carved it out?!”
Monoco takes that raw astonishment as a sign of overwhelming gratitude, because what else could it be? The bristles of his fur rustle in contentment. He’s so glad to be of assistance to his friend.
“Yes, I did. You can have this back, by the way.”
Monoco pulls out a familiar dagger from behind, carelessly throwing it down on the ground next to Verso who stares at it incredulously. Then, his eyes are back to Monoco again. There’s another lingering moment where the man struggles to find any words to speak, before uttering an obviously unprepared question.
“Why would you do this?”
Monoco takes a second to looks at him like he’s stupid. “I just told you.”
“You did, but I’m not asking that— Wasn’t it painful to do? Why—”
At that, it’s Monoco’s turn to look astounded— well, as much as he could, with that mask in place.
“It seems your fallacy is turning you dumb.”
Because why would it ever be “painful”?
The lower part of a Gestral is akin to a wood stump, a mere wooden body that the rest of the limbs connect to. All that remains to be done is to simply carve into the heartwood of it.
Verso seems to come to the same realization at that moment, averting his gaze half-sheepishly, half-bewilderedly. Monoco takes it as a sign to proceed with the plan.
“I will now lie down on the ground, and you will use my hole to simulate human mating.”
Monoco looks very pleased with himself for coming up with this solution, as he moves to do so.
Verso, however, only winces at his words. “Can you at least not say it like that?”
Oh.
Yes, right, casual wording.
“You will use my hole to fuck.”
“Nope— that’s still not it, mon vieux…”
Monoco glances up from where he’s lying. “Do you not like my hole?”
“That’s not the problem here.”
“After I went to such lengths to make this hole for you?”
“You’re— Oh, you’re doing this on purpose, now,” Verso finally catches on.
Monoco doesn’t get why the word bothers his friend so. To the Gestral, it sounds profound, it sounds grand. Like something one would strive to acquire and keep close to their heart, never to let go.
But he takes pity on the man, for now.
“You can’t afford to ignore this, Verso. Not when you went this far, already.”
At that moment Verso finally remembers that the uncomfortable, aching feeling still boiling within him is the unsettled arousal that hasn’t gone down even an inch.
He takes a beat, looking down at his groin, before sighing and crawling over to settle before the ready Gestral, meeting him with a face full of uncertainty even with the stinging length in his trousers.
He lowers down to examine the craftsmanship closely, moving his hand to pinch at something within—
“Did you stuff your hole with grass?..”
“Hah! You said it,” the Gestral exhales triumphantly. “Yes, it’s for your comfort. You’re welcome.”
Verso turns the caught blade of grass around in his hand with a contemplating look— no doubt in appreciation of Monoco’s concern, surely.
This is his best idea ever. He is so glad to be able to help his friend in this that he could almost cry.
But not now. Apparently, it’s not a very attractive quality for human intercourse.
And Verso is still not moving.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“Monoco, you’re really, actually sure about this?”
“More sure than anything.” The still remaining hesitancy is getting on Monoco’s nerves. “I carved a hole for you, did I not?”
Verso gulps then, hands moving to unbutton his trousers. “Right then…”
Monoco lays still, vaguely aware of some shuffling behind him, then his legs are spread wider as Verso’s body positions itself in-between. Monoco knows he wouldn’t feel anything besides the occasional moving of his body against the grass under him, but he feels giddy nonetheless.
It’s his first time experiencing it, and it’s with Verso, his greatest friend. And there’s no one he’d rather have being his—
“Ah-h-h, fuck, you didn’t grease it, did you?” The painful groan interrupts the Gestral’s thoughts. “F-fuck, there’s no glide at all…”
The intrusion that apparently occurred meanwhile stops almost immediately as Verso pulls his member back out, rubbing it in an almost calming way after such rough entering.
The thought of any ‘grease’ being involved in the process didn’t occur to Monoco at all. His giddiness turns to sheepishness, his tone of voice awkward and almost choked up.
“I did not know I had to.”
Verso looks up at that, seemingly noticing the change. “No, it’s okay, it’s— my bad, actually, I should’ve prepared you. Of course you wouldn’t know.”
Still dressed, he rummages around in the inner pockets of his coat until he finally takes out what seems to be a small bottle. Uncorking it, he grimaces at the smell just a bit, but it doesn’t swerve his drive in the slightest.
“Fish oil… sure, that should do it.”
Pouring some on his palm, he slicks himself up thoroughly, then takes another handful to reach into Monoco’s hollow parts to go over, only a handful of fingers fitting in.
“Are you sure you’re going to fit me in, mon vieux?”
Monoco hums, cheekily. “Why don’t you try and find out.”
“Okay, here goes…” Verso exhales, positioning himself against the now slicked wooden hole.
The slide seems to be smoother this time, judging by Verso’s catch of breath and the way his hips move forward to meet Monoco’s inner thighs.
“Oh, you’re—” Verso exhales breathily, stopping for a breath. “You’re pretty tight, how did you even— ugh, how did you figure out how much to carve?”
And that is the exact moment where Monoco’s wit would shine once again, as he raises a clutched hand in an up-and-down motion.
Verso groans in annoyance. “The handie. Of course.”
Monoco beams at him.
In the meantime, Verso manages to bottom out, and his front meets the wooden stump that is Monoco’s bottom. The Gestral’s body shifts against the ground just slightly from that final movement.
“Fu-u-uck…”
“How does it feel, Verso?”
Verso sighs. “Not soft or warm enough, I’m afraid.”
“I see,” Monoco hums in understanding. “Next time I could install padded material inside. For now, this is all you get, my friend.”
Verso snorts at that. Next time? He mutters to himself, shaking his head.
Then, he clasps onto Monoco’s wooden legs as he starts to move properly.
The pace is moderate at first, as if Verso is still fighting an inner battle against himself on whether this really is a fruitful idea, or if a simple jerk-off session could do the trick. But the look on Monoco’s mask— as unreadable as it is— settles a deeply fond feeling within him to the extent where he would even force himself into completion if needed, just to show his dear friend how great this idea of his is.
So, the pace quickens, the oil having improved the movement significantly; the tight walls no longer constricting his slide, but supporting it along. And another sensation within it all is the feel of blades of grass and some leaves sticking to his dick with every move.
And somehow, it even works, adding to the pleasure by increasing friction and making his body heat up.
Verso groans deeply as a piece of grass— or a small twig— gets caught on his glans, almost scratching it. Somewhere underneath him Monoco hums lowly, attentive to all reactions from the man above.
“Am I doing well, Verso?” Monoco asks, laying as still as a branch, occasionally being shifted against the terrain under them by Verso’s stronger thrusts.
Verso’s moan chokes into a laugh at that as he increases his speed in response, even though he knows Monoco can’t even feel it.
“Fantastic, mon vieux.”
That is until—
“Fuck!”
He stops instantly, hissing in pain.
“What’s wrong?” His friend’s voice is one of concern at the sudden stop.
Verso takes a deep inhale, and carefully pulls out of Monoco to examine the cause of that sharp pain. And just as he assumed—
“Monoco…”
“Yes, Verso?”
“When you carved it out…”
“My hole?”
“Yes, when you carved out your hole…”
“Yes?”
“…You didn’t think to sand it, did you?”
Monoco sits up to look at the cause of concern, and—
“Oh…”
“Yeah.”
With another hiss, Verso pulls out the medium-sized splinter from the side of his dick that’s less covered in greenery. The puncture wound heals almost immediately.
Monoco once again looks as sheepish as before, which tugs on Verso’s heartstrings. He can almost sense the tearfulness behind the mask.
He knows his friend didn’t mean it; he’d never try to hurt Verso.
Not outside of battle, anyway.
“Hey-hey, it’s okay, we’re still going.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, now lay back down, mon vieux.”
As the Gestral does so, Verso thinks twice before adding. “Besides, some pain here and there could actually make it feel better sometimes, y’know.”
“Ah,” Monoco nods. “That’s why you get these urges after we fight.”
Verso tightens his lips, not granting a response to that. Instead, he slicks himself back up and slides into Monoco again.
Now that he feels he knows the ropes of it, including the worst that could happen, Verso goes in more eagerly— slamming into Monoco with hollow thuds, his skin bumping against the back of the wooden hole, leaves and grass blades rustling along with each thrust. Monoco’s body grazes against the soil back and forth, the Gestral fully allowing the movement; perhaps even inviting it. If he were human, no doubt the chafing would have been unbearable.
Verso soon grows out of breath, and when another sting of pain— not as severe as first— rushes in, he welcomes it with open arms, hissing and groaning along, increasing the pace even more. His front clashes with Monoco’s bottom, the metal of his belt clanking on the wood with each thrust of the hips.
“Are you close, Verso?” The low rumble inquires, and Verso’s shallow gasps turn to voice.
“Yes, almost—”
“Does it feel good, Verso?”
In his haze, the man doesn’t even consider why the Gestral would start addressing him right now, when he’s so busy chasing his release. But he still indulges him, even as he practically chokes on his gasps.
“Yes, mon vieux, very good—”
“Do you like my hole, Verso?”
The abrasiveness of that phrase along with the husky voice of his favorite Gestral almost tips Verso over the edge right then. So that’s why.
“Yes, I love it, Monoco—” he pants.
“Say it.”
As Verso keeps ramming into the hollowed-out wood, too drunk off the variety of unlikely sensations of pain and pleasure combined, it takes him a bit to comprehend that inquiry.
“Say that you love my hole, Verso.”
“I—“ Verso pants, a new wave of arousal surrounds him. “I love your hole, Monoco—”
Satisfied with the answer, the Gestral’s incredibly long arms come up to hug Verso from behind, without shifting his position.
“Good. I’m glad.”
And that single point of contact turns out to be the tipping point for Verso’s psyche and arousal— and he pushes in hard, almost growling as his orgasm reaches him, coming in spurts into the wooden body, leaves and grass supporting the friction and helping to milk him to completion.
Completely out of breath, Verso almost thinks to collapse on top of his friend for some rest without pulling out, but immediately thinks better of it as soon as he realizes his dick would then probably snap off. Or dislocate. And neither of these experiences are something he’d like to have.
Instead, he carefully dislodges— and frowns at the messy sight that is his flaccid member; still oily and with greenery sticking to it.
As he gets to work in cleaning himself, he hears a satisfied exhale from the Gestral below.
“This was nice. We should do this again,” he says, putting his hands behind his head, as if resting after a job well done.
Verso can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. “Thank you, mon vieux.”
Monoco turns to rest on his side then, faced away from Verso and oblivious to the mess of the man’s spent mixed with all sorts of vegetation still residing within him.
“But next time, do it from the back. Now, come over here,” he pats the ground behind him in an inviting manner.
Verso chuckles, obeying the request and laying down behind his friend.
“Little spoon?”
“Little spoon.”