It's one thing for Verso to do what he does, but its another for Gustave to let himself be swept up in it, to let everything Verso does run through him so thoroughly, to give himself over to his hands so he can really take him apart. The other man still seems to be thinking, for a moment, his hands scrambling over his back, but then it all flashes away into instinct, desperation, need and want, and Verso just wants to take those moments and wrap it around himself forever.
He drinks in ever response like he wants to burn it all into his memory, Gustave all but writhing beneath him, arching into him and into his touch so nicely. Nothing has ever sounded as sweet and decadent and so utterly filthy as his own name when it falls from Gustave's lips, like this, once, again, each time a little different, breathless and aching as his thoughts spiral out of control, as Gustave's mind can't even pick a language to settle on. Verso keeps urging him on, his words raw and heated and urging him closer, and Gustave's answers in breathless gasps of je vais as he wills himself closer and closer to the edge are enough to make his head spin.
Verso sees it twist across his face, feels it in every knot and tension in his muscles, their bodies pressed so close that he can almost feel every ripple of tension like its his own. It's like he thinks he can feel Gustave's own heartbeat pounding in his ears, feel Gustave's breath heaving from his own lungs, so tangled up and twisted together with him that when he reaches that peak, it's almost like Verso's right there with him, whiting out, crashing down. He keeps working his hand over him, growling low and pleased as he feels him spill hotly between their bellies, onto his fingers, his other hand still unrelenting over his nipple as Gustave rides it out and out, falling apart on yet another cry of his name.
It's perfect. He's perfect. And Verso just stays in that high with him until Gustave himself has to come down from it, collapsing back against the dirt and grass, the heat of him too-sensitive and softening under his palm. Verso has to take a second or two to catch his own breath, something in his eyes flickering like he needs to come back down to reality with him, pushing himself up slightly, their legs still tangled together but peeling his chest up so he can look down at him.
His gaze is still so dark, so hungry, flitting from Gustave's eyes, to his bruised and bitten lips, to the marks still stretched across his neck -- and he smiles. A low, pleased smile, a predator who's cornered his prey, easing into something a bit more languid again as he draws up his hand between them. He presses his tongue to the heel of his own palm, licking up along his thumb and absolutely making a deliberate show of it, eyes flickering shut for a moment on a quiet groan like he just loves the taste of him. He lingers there for a moment, savoring it, before he's reaching down, pressing two fingers against Gustave's lips -- and pushing them into his mouth.
His lips quirk upward, again. Affectionate, adoring, teasing -- and still a little hungry. His voice is slightly hoarse and raw, growling low in his chest. One simple word: ]
no subject
It's one thing for Verso to do what he does, but its another for Gustave to let himself be swept up in it, to let everything Verso does run through him so thoroughly, to give himself over to his hands so he can really take him apart. The other man still seems to be thinking, for a moment, his hands scrambling over his back, but then it all flashes away into instinct, desperation, need and want, and Verso just wants to take those moments and wrap it around himself forever.
He drinks in ever response like he wants to burn it all into his memory, Gustave all but writhing beneath him, arching into him and into his touch so nicely. Nothing has ever sounded as sweet and decadent and so utterly filthy as his own name when it falls from Gustave's lips, like this, once, again, each time a little different, breathless and aching as his thoughts spiral out of control, as Gustave's mind can't even pick a language to settle on. Verso keeps urging him on, his words raw and heated and urging him closer, and Gustave's answers in breathless gasps of je vais as he wills himself closer and closer to the edge are enough to make his head spin.
Verso sees it twist across his face, feels it in every knot and tension in his muscles, their bodies pressed so close that he can almost feel every ripple of tension like its his own. It's like he thinks he can feel Gustave's own heartbeat pounding in his ears, feel Gustave's breath heaving from his own lungs, so tangled up and twisted together with him that when he reaches that peak, it's almost like Verso's right there with him, whiting out, crashing down. He keeps working his hand over him, growling low and pleased as he feels him spill hotly between their bellies, onto his fingers, his other hand still unrelenting over his nipple as Gustave rides it out and out, falling apart on yet another cry of his name.
It's perfect. He's perfect. And Verso just stays in that high with him until Gustave himself has to come down from it, collapsing back against the dirt and grass, the heat of him too-sensitive and softening under his palm. Verso has to take a second or two to catch his own breath, something in his eyes flickering like he needs to come back down to reality with him, pushing himself up slightly, their legs still tangled together but peeling his chest up so he can look down at him.
His gaze is still so dark, so hungry, flitting from Gustave's eyes, to his bruised and bitten lips, to the marks still stretched across his neck -- and he smiles. A low, pleased smile, a predator who's cornered his prey, easing into something a bit more languid again as he draws up his hand between them. He presses his tongue to the heel of his own palm, licking up along his thumb and absolutely making a deliberate show of it, eyes flickering shut for a moment on a quiet groan like he just loves the taste of him. He lingers there for a moment, savoring it, before he's reaching down, pressing two fingers against Gustave's lips -- and pushing them into his mouth.
His lips quirk upward, again. Affectionate, adoring, teasing -- and still a little hungry. His voice is slightly hoarse and raw, growling low in his chest. One simple word: ]
-- Good.