[ Tomorrow. The way Gustave's voice sounds around the question is haltingly fragile, daring to hope, too afraid to believe. It'd be sweet, it is sweet, except Verso can't help but feel awful for it: how much pain has his monsieur le fleuriste felt all this time, that he'd be so afraid to believe in something so simple?
And all this time, he's said to himself, said to him, that it'd be better forgotten. He knew it had to be this way, that he could never stay in Lumiere for long. But now that Gustave is here on the Continent, even with the thousands of other secrets he can never tell him, even with what else it means for Gustave to be on his Expedition, with that number painted on the monolith towering overhead -- Verso can also admit one quiet truth. He's glad. He regrets he hurt him and he's a little glad all the same, because Gustave never did forget him and now he's here, and what little of him he can grasp and hold before it all slips between his fingers into petals and ash, he'll treasure with his whole heart.
So he could just leave that question unanswered, again, just melt into the heat that's already starting to light a fire between them -- and Gustave might not believe him anyway ( not the first time Gustave has insisted he must be some kind of dream ). But he does answer it, firmly, the word straight against Gustave's ear; ]
Tomorrow.
[ But now to this. To the heat and slide of Gustave's skin under his callused touch, to how beautifully he arches and gasps just from this and how utterly perfect his name sounds in that voice. The friction is giddying, makes his stomach twist, and Gustave's response is just even more intoxicating, all sudden desperation coming alive out of nowhere, his hands reaching everything he can. Verso is happy to let Gustave work on his trousers -- a little difficult, given that he's moving again, another slow roll of his hips, a pleasant little growl from the friction -- as Verso settles his hands against his hips, thumbing the jut of his hipbones over the lining of his trousers, still just barely fit over his hips.
He leans close, breath hot against Gustave's cheek. ]
-- Yeah?
[ A little playful, a little teasing, and undeniably wanting. He slides his fingers just under the hem of Gustave's trousers, tugging down, letting them pool messily around his thighs, hands sliding up over bare thighs, squeezing and kneading at the muscle he feels there. Gustave's a bit clumsier, hurried, but for all the fastenings of their clothing this is still a bit simpler, and he feels his breath hitch when Gustave manages to shove everything out of the way.
Then that impatience returns, again. He shifts just enough to make sure his clothes fall well out of the way to the floor other than tangling around his legs, and then immediately he's hiking Gustave's hips close again, angling himself so the rock of his hips presses them together. The shudder that runs through him is almost violent, one hand leaving Gustave's waist to move done between them, fingers skimming over the soft skin of his belly before wrapping around him. Squeezing, pumping once, twice, pulling away -- and then wrapping around them both, drawing a little breathless half-groan from his own throat. ]
-- Tell me. [ He nips at his ear, mouths over his already kiss-bruised neck. ] Tell me what you need.
[ And keep saying please. He really, really likes it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2025-06-05 11:29 pm (UTC)And all this time, he's said to himself, said to him, that it'd be better forgotten. He knew it had to be this way, that he could never stay in Lumiere for long. But now that Gustave is here on the Continent, even with the thousands of other secrets he can never tell him, even with what else it means for Gustave to be on his Expedition, with that number painted on the monolith towering overhead -- Verso can also admit one quiet truth. He's glad. He regrets he hurt him and he's a little glad all the same, because Gustave never did forget him and now he's here, and what little of him he can grasp and hold before it all slips between his fingers into petals and ash, he'll treasure with his whole heart.
So he could just leave that question unanswered, again, just melt into the heat that's already starting to light a fire between them -- and Gustave might not believe him anyway ( not the first time Gustave has insisted he must be some kind of dream ). But he does answer it, firmly, the word straight against Gustave's ear; ]
Tomorrow.
[ But now to this. To the heat and slide of Gustave's skin under his callused touch, to how beautifully he arches and gasps just from this and how utterly perfect his name sounds in that voice. The friction is giddying, makes his stomach twist, and Gustave's response is just even more intoxicating, all sudden desperation coming alive out of nowhere, his hands reaching everything he can. Verso is happy to let Gustave work on his trousers -- a little difficult, given that he's moving again, another slow roll of his hips, a pleasant little growl from the friction -- as Verso settles his hands against his hips, thumbing the jut of his hipbones over the lining of his trousers, still just barely fit over his hips.
He leans close, breath hot against Gustave's cheek. ]
-- Yeah?
[ A little playful, a little teasing, and undeniably wanting. He slides his fingers just under the hem of Gustave's trousers, tugging down, letting them pool messily around his thighs, hands sliding up over bare thighs, squeezing and kneading at the muscle he feels there. Gustave's a bit clumsier, hurried, but for all the fastenings of their clothing this is still a bit simpler, and he feels his breath hitch when Gustave manages to shove everything out of the way.
Then that impatience returns, again. He shifts just enough to make sure his clothes fall well out of the way to the floor other than tangling around his legs, and then immediately he's hiking Gustave's hips close again, angling himself so the rock of his hips presses them together. The shudder that runs through him is almost violent, one hand leaving Gustave's waist to move done between them, fingers skimming over the soft skin of his belly before wrapping around him. Squeezing, pumping once, twice, pulling away -- and then wrapping around them both, drawing a little breathless half-groan from his own throat. ]
-- Tell me. [ He nips at his ear, mouths over his already kiss-bruised neck. ] Tell me what you need.
[ And keep saying please. He really, really likes it. ]