[ He likes the way Verso's breath hitches in his chest, how his eyes grow intent and his finger twitches against Gustave's tongue. He spends a little longer sucking lightly around that finger, then pulls back and releases him, only to turn his hand and press a heated kiss to the pulse point of his wrist, the delicate skin of his inner forearm.
With each kiss, he pushes himself up, his right hand set in the grass for leverage as he shifts, light-headed and wrung out but his focus sharpens with every press of his lips to Verso's skin. ]
Verso. Mon beau pianiste.
[ He pushes himself up to sitting, the night breeze cool on his naked back, imprints of blades of grass pressed into the skin there, and lowers Verso's hand to his own side as he pays the same focused attention to the round of his shoulder, the lift of his collarbone against his skin. Here, he commits a little light revenge, drawing the skin up against his tongue until he's left a handful of red spots that mark the path he's taking, like petals dusting Verso's perfect skin. ]
I look at you and I can barely breathe. You're so beautiful I forget what words even are, and when I want to tell you how beautiful you are, how you've... ensnared me, I can't.
[ Another artist would be a better match for Verso, surely, someone who can wield words the way Verso wields his sword, who can draw the same beauty from them that Verso can with his fingers gliding over the keys of a piano. And It isn't that Gustave can't think of them, how Verso is as beautiful and mysterious and all-encompassing as the night sky that arches above them, saturated with stars and impossibly, incomprehensibly deep; how the blue glow of the chroma-stained trees drifts over him and clings to him like a lover's touch, glinting in his hair and limning every curve of muscle, every angle of jaw and shoulder and hand —
He can think of them just fine. It's his fool tongue that's the problem, just like it always is, his heart doing its best to spill out of him in half-finished sentences and stumbled, too-earnest words.
They haven't had much time, really. Not nearly enough yet. And yet it's been enough for him to learn a few things that Verso likes, that he seems to enjoy with his while vibrant being. Verso likes paying attention to his throat, his neck, leaving marks there like brands. Verso likes playing with his hair, fingers carding gently through the curls or gripping more tightly.
Verso likes to talk, to tell him what he wants, what he wants to do, what he's imagined. And he thinks Verso would like it if he did the same thing.
Back in the garden, he'd been frustrated by the invisible wall between them, wondered if maybe Verso wanted something more what he himself had done to Gustave. And it had worked, when he'd ratcheted up the intensity, the speed, poured all of himself into touching him, taking him into his mouth. Maybe now, as he starts making his way up Verso's neck, grazing him with the edge of teeth and pulling a little more sharply than usual on the skin, he might like something similar.
Gustave's mind isn't working as smoothly as usual, his attempts to determine the best course of action are a little jerky still, but he shifts to his own knees, right hand warm on Verso's thigh and his metal left arm slipping around his back to draw him close as he finally kisses over rough scruff and finds Verso's mouth with his, deep and sweet and heated. He kisses him hard, pulls back enough to press his forehead against Verso's, meeting those clear, beautiful eyes with his own steady and determined and still blown dark with want. ]
Tell me what you like to hear. Let me try to give you what you want.
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With each kiss, he pushes himself up, his right hand set in the grass for leverage as he shifts, light-headed and wrung out but his focus sharpens with every press of his lips to Verso's skin. ]
Verso. Mon beau pianiste.
[ He pushes himself up to sitting, the night breeze cool on his naked back, imprints of blades of grass pressed into the skin there, and lowers Verso's hand to his own side as he pays the same focused attention to the round of his shoulder, the lift of his collarbone against his skin. Here, he commits a little light revenge, drawing the skin up against his tongue until he's left a handful of red spots that mark the path he's taking, like petals dusting Verso's perfect skin. ]
I look at you and I can barely breathe. You're so beautiful I forget what words even are, and when I want to tell you how beautiful you are, how you've... ensnared me, I can't.
[ Another artist would be a better match for Verso, surely, someone who can wield words the way Verso wields his sword, who can draw the same beauty from them that Verso can with his fingers gliding over the keys of a piano. And It isn't that Gustave can't think of them, how Verso is as beautiful and mysterious and all-encompassing as the night sky that arches above them, saturated with stars and impossibly, incomprehensibly deep; how the blue glow of the chroma-stained trees drifts over him and clings to him like a lover's touch, glinting in his hair and limning every curve of muscle, every angle of jaw and shoulder and hand —
He can think of them just fine. It's his fool tongue that's the problem, just like it always is, his heart doing its best to spill out of him in half-finished sentences and stumbled, too-earnest words.
They haven't had much time, really. Not nearly enough yet. And yet it's been enough for him to learn a few things that Verso likes, that he seems to enjoy with his while vibrant being. Verso likes paying attention to his throat, his neck, leaving marks there like brands. Verso likes playing with his hair, fingers carding gently through the curls or gripping more tightly.
Verso likes to talk, to tell him what he wants, what he wants to do, what he's imagined. And he thinks Verso would like it if he did the same thing.
Back in the garden, he'd been frustrated by the invisible wall between them, wondered if maybe Verso wanted something more what he himself had done to Gustave. And it had worked, when he'd ratcheted up the intensity, the speed, poured all of himself into touching him, taking him into his mouth. Maybe now, as he starts making his way up Verso's neck, grazing him with the edge of teeth and pulling a little more sharply than usual on the skin, he might like something similar.
Gustave's mind isn't working as smoothly as usual, his attempts to determine the best course of action are a little jerky still, but he shifts to his own knees, right hand warm on Verso's thigh and his metal left arm slipping around his back to draw him close as he finally kisses over rough scruff and finds Verso's mouth with his, deep and sweet and heated. He kisses him hard, pulls back enough to press his forehead against Verso's, meeting those clear, beautiful eyes with his own steady and determined and still blown dark with want. ]
Tell me what you like to hear. Let me try to give you what you want.