[ Verso's teasing him, but his heart tightens pleasantly, the wash of happiness that accompanies his name falling off Verso's lips scudding through him like warm water. It's such a normal thing and yet feels so uniquely precious; he wants to contain it in amber, to press it into a music disc so he can hear it over and over again: his name in Verso's deep and rumbling murmur. Sweet as the little nicknames are, he's not sure he'll ever get over Verso calling him by his name. It hasn't sounded so warm to his ears in a long while. ]
Really? You're willing to fight a whole village of gestrals and their Sakapatates just for my arm? Mon beau chevalier, how brave. Keep an eye out for the cannons.
[ They're annoying even without an improved design.
It's all absurdity, when Verso is teasing him and he's laughing, ignoring the little sting as Verso pulls hard enough on skin to make blood vessels break and bruise. Another mark, like Verso's determined to leave reminders all over his body, like Verso is drawing a signature over him, claiming him for his own. It's been a long time since someone thought of him as theirs.
It swells in his chest, threatening to crack ribs, to burst his heart. All this time, he'd only hoped his monsieur le pianiste might occasionally remember him fondly, might sometimes think back to the brief time they shared. He'd never imagined, never dared to, that he could have made as deep a mark on Verso as Verso had made on him, something deeper than muscle and bone, seared directly into the deepest parts of himself. He still doesn't understand how it happened, why, how it could possibly be that while he was wandering morosely through the rooftop gardens of Lumiรจre Verso was picking flowers and watching them die, playing piano but fading back out of the habit once again. He thought his was the only heart that had broken.
And now it feels about to break again, every look Verso gives him that's so full of affection or warmth or desire, every touch that makes him shiver or gasp or moan, the feeling of Verso warm and solid and here next to him, all of it a continual stream of befuddled happiness and desire and longing that makes him feel like a glass of wine, overflowing and heady, that Verso won't stop pouring.
Verso settles over him, a hard thigh tucked warm between his legs, and Gustave wants to wrap himself around him completely, sliding his left arm carefully over the small of his back, running his right hand down over his back, enjoying the way firm muscle shifts and tightens and relaxes under his touch, down over the material of his trousers to curve over his ass, as possessive as Verso's mouth on his body. He's shivering, pushing up helplessly into that mouth, that tongue, nipple hard and aching, every inch of skin crying out for Verso's touch. ]
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Date: 2025-06-13 02:49 pm (UTC)Really? You're willing to fight a whole village of gestrals and their Sakapatates just for my arm? Mon beau chevalier, how brave. Keep an eye out for the cannons.
[ They're annoying even without an improved design.
It's all absurdity, when Verso is teasing him and he's laughing, ignoring the little sting as Verso pulls hard enough on skin to make blood vessels break and bruise. Another mark, like Verso's determined to leave reminders all over his body, like Verso is drawing a signature over him, claiming him for his own. It's been a long time since someone thought of him as theirs.
It swells in his chest, threatening to crack ribs, to burst his heart. All this time, he'd only hoped his monsieur le pianiste might occasionally remember him fondly, might sometimes think back to the brief time they shared. He'd never imagined, never dared to, that he could have made as deep a mark on Verso as Verso had made on him, something deeper than muscle and bone, seared directly into the deepest parts of himself. He still doesn't understand how it happened, why, how it could possibly be that while he was wandering morosely through the rooftop gardens of Lumiรจre Verso was picking flowers and watching them die, playing piano but fading back out of the habit once again. He thought his was the only heart that had broken.
And now it feels about to break again, every look Verso gives him that's so full of affection or warmth or desire, every touch that makes him shiver or gasp or moan, the feeling of Verso warm and solid and here next to him, all of it a continual stream of befuddled happiness and desire and longing that makes him feel like a glass of wine, overflowing and heady, that Verso won't stop pouring.
Verso settles over him, a hard thigh tucked warm between his legs, and Gustave wants to wrap himself around him completely, sliding his left arm carefully over the small of his back, running his right hand down over his back, enjoying the way firm muscle shifts and tightens and relaxes under his touch, down over the material of his trousers to curve over his ass, as possessive as Verso's mouth on his body. He's shivering, pushing up helplessly into that mouth, that tongue, nipple hard and aching, every inch of skin crying out for Verso's touch. ]
It certainly feels like wickedness to me...