[ His hand tightens against Verso's back as he mouths kisses over Gustave's neck, as his hand slides low to free the buttons of his trouser fastenings, and when he finally cups him in his hand, Gustave closes his eyes like he's nearly in pain, his head pressing back into the material of Verso's jacket. He's already hard and aching, desperate for Verso's touch, the feel of those callused fingers playing him like Verso's beloved piano.
He shifts, drawing one leg slowly up to set his foot in the grass and allow Verso more room, the hand at Verso's hip moving to the front of his own trousers to work the buttons free, to loosen them, as Verso sets him alight with images. The wooden floor of the opera house backstage under his knees, the scent of dust and flowers and sex and the weight and taste of Verso on his tongue, Verso's hands in his hair. His own fingers twining in Verso's dark waves as he looks down to watch the way Verso's head moves, focused and intent, between his own legs. Verso stripping him down in an unlocked backstage dressing room, knocking over a hatrack and making the vanity rattle with every movement. Verso under his mouth and tongue. Verso taking him apart with clever fingers and heated words. ]
Verso.
[ He's half caught in the fantasy, half here in this quiet clearing on the continent so far from home, where he's likely to die, with the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Even after everything, the three years, the months of longing, the uncertainty, it's worth it, he thinks. It would have been worth it to have only a moment of him.
He huffs a laugh, singed at the edges, and slides his hand up into Verso's hair to grip, pulling him away enough from his throat and ear so Gustave can turn his head and kiss him full on the mouth, deep and needy, tongue slipping into his warm mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip. ]
We'd make such a racket, mon cher. What if somebody heard us?
no subject
He shifts, drawing one leg slowly up to set his foot in the grass and allow Verso more room, the hand at Verso's hip moving to the front of his own trousers to work the buttons free, to loosen them, as Verso sets him alight with images. The wooden floor of the opera house backstage under his knees, the scent of dust and flowers and sex and the weight and taste of Verso on his tongue, Verso's hands in his hair. His own fingers twining in Verso's dark waves as he looks down to watch the way Verso's head moves, focused and intent, between his own legs. Verso stripping him down in an unlocked backstage dressing room, knocking over a hatrack and making the vanity rattle with every movement. Verso under his mouth and tongue. Verso taking him apart with clever fingers and heated words. ]
Verso.
[ He's half caught in the fantasy, half here in this quiet clearing on the continent so far from home, where he's likely to die, with the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Even after everything, the three years, the months of longing, the uncertainty, it's worth it, he thinks. It would have been worth it to have only a moment of him.
He huffs a laugh, singed at the edges, and slides his hand up into Verso's hair to grip, pulling him away enough from his throat and ear so Gustave can turn his head and kiss him full on the mouth, deep and needy, tongue slipping into his warm mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip. ]
We'd make such a racket, mon cher. What if somebody heard us?