[ A huff of breathless laughter at the mental image of Verso stubbornly swiping his way through a field of gestrals, before Verso's mouth is back on his nipple, sweet suction and the long swipes of his tongue over the taut bud of it, and words flee his mind, dissipating like smoke.
It's difficult to keep his left hand from gripping too hard, but he doesn't even make the attempt with his right, fingers pressing thoughtlessly into firm muscle, gripping him and drawing him as close as possible even as Gustave's hips tip up, pressing himself into the firm muscle of his thigh. Pleasure jolts dully through him, tangling in his gut, flushing his skin. What's left of his voice takes on a rasp — not so growled as Verso's, but low and breathless and a little like running one's finger over fine-grit sandpaper. ]
No.
[ He's not like Verso; after a certain point, all the banter gets burned away, leaving just the core of him behind, sincere and too earnest, the man who has longed for this touch, these kisses, this man, for years now and who never thought he would ever feel any of them ever again.
Verso's hand is warm against his belly, and he can feel the way his own muscles twitch, tense, beneath that touch. He thinks he can feel each individual finger, the way they flex gently against his skin, imagines it drifting over the gleaming keys of a piano.
A soft groan tugs in his chest, and he turns his head, feeling almost drunk on the things Verso's doing, the touches that are more tease than anything else, to kiss him back. It's open-mouthed and a little messy, his tongue flickering warm into Verso's mouth, his whole body flushed and shivering. ]
That's... pretty much the last thing I want, right now. For you to stop.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2025-06-14 01:18 am (UTC)It's difficult to keep his left hand from gripping too hard, but he doesn't even make the attempt with his right, fingers pressing thoughtlessly into firm muscle, gripping him and drawing him as close as possible even as Gustave's hips tip up, pressing himself into the firm muscle of his thigh. Pleasure jolts dully through him, tangling in his gut, flushing his skin. What's left of his voice takes on a rasp — not so growled as Verso's, but low and breathless and a little like running one's finger over fine-grit sandpaper. ]
No.
[ He's not like Verso; after a certain point, all the banter gets burned away, leaving just the core of him behind, sincere and too earnest, the man who has longed for this touch, these kisses, this man, for years now and who never thought he would ever feel any of them ever again.
Verso's hand is warm against his belly, and he can feel the way his own muscles twitch, tense, beneath that touch. He thinks he can feel each individual finger, the way they flex gently against his skin, imagines it drifting over the gleaming keys of a piano.
A soft groan tugs in his chest, and he turns his head, feeling almost drunk on the things Verso's doing, the touches that are more tease than anything else, to kiss him back. It's open-mouthed and a little messy, his tongue flickering warm into Verso's mouth, his whole body flushed and shivering. ]
That's... pretty much the last thing I want, right now. For you to stop.
Don't stop, Verso.