[ Verso is dangerous in many more than the most obvious ways, and this is just another one: kissing down along his chest, spinning stories and carrying Gustave right along with him into the fantasy. His mouth is warm over a nipple that tightens against that almost-sharp catch of his teeth, and Gustave's breath comes faster, almost a pant. ]
I would dream of you anyway.
[ And he did, often, more often than he could understand when he'd only known the man for a few short hours. How had Verso managed to slip so thoroughly under his skin, to take up residence so easily in his head? He'd dreamed of nights very much like this one, of waking up to find Verso asleep beside him in his bed. He'd like to see that, he thinks: Verso, laid out and quiet and relaxed, vulnerable in his sleep, breathing easy with the sheets muddled somewhere down around his hips.
But back to the danger: he really should have expected it, Verso turning the question around on him. And it's certainly not that he hasn't indulged in fantasies of his own โ or even this specific fantasy, one that took root in wanting revenge for Verso leaving, for Verso being the one to pin him against that trellis and taking him apart with such efficiency โ but the thought of speaking it aloud is like staring over a massive ravine with no visible grapple point on the other side.
Easier to play along with the picture Verso had been painting, letting it carry him away, a fantasy that really had next to no basis in reality because reality would see him turning beet red and embarrassed; far from the seductive ideal.
And he's embarrassed now, too, cheeks flushing more warmly now than when he offered those flowers, his glance shifting away, abashed. ]
Wellโ Iโ
[ What a time for all his words to pile up and die on his tongue, sentences he's not even sure he can half start, let alone finish. Whatever Verso says about liking it when he gets that way, confused and tongue-tied, he's sure it doesn't apply to moments like these. ]
no subject
I would dream of you anyway.
[ And he did, often, more often than he could understand when he'd only known the man for a few short hours. How had Verso managed to slip so thoroughly under his skin, to take up residence so easily in his head? He'd dreamed of nights very much like this one, of waking up to find Verso asleep beside him in his bed. He'd like to see that, he thinks: Verso, laid out and quiet and relaxed, vulnerable in his sleep, breathing easy with the sheets muddled somewhere down around his hips.
But back to the danger: he really should have expected it, Verso turning the question around on him. And it's certainly not that he hasn't indulged in fantasies of his own โ or even this specific fantasy, one that took root in wanting revenge for Verso leaving, for Verso being the one to pin him against that trellis and taking him apart with such efficiency โ but the thought of speaking it aloud is like staring over a massive ravine with no visible grapple point on the other side.
Easier to play along with the picture Verso had been painting, letting it carry him away, a fantasy that really had next to no basis in reality because reality would see him turning beet red and embarrassed; far from the seductive ideal.
And he's embarrassed now, too, cheeks flushing more warmly now than when he offered those flowers, his glance shifting away, abashed. ]
Wellโ Iโ
[ What a time for all his words to pile up and die on his tongue, sentences he's not even sure he can half start, let alone finish. Whatever Verso says about liking it when he gets that way, confused and tongue-tied, he's sure it doesn't apply to moments like these. ]
I'm not... very good at this, Verso.