[ Gustave's mouth closes over a nipple and Verso arches into it with a low groan that edges quickly into a growl, fingers tightening through his hair and wrenching his head closer. He forces that grip to relax a moment later, fingers carding gently through those thick curls to settle against the back of his neck, eyes lidded and pupils blown as he watches Gustave work.
He's holding himself back. Barely, but he is. He's turned on, not impatient with Gustave but just impatient with his own lack of self control, so utterly helplessly attracted to the man above him that from these kisses and touches and an imagined dream in a dusty hotel room are enough to make him want. He wants to kiss him, wants to roll him back underneath him and draw out those little hesitations between his words into desperate moans. But he's holding back, difficult as it is: He wants to let Gustave push himself further. He wants to hear more heated words in that sweet voice he's come to crave so much, wants to hear even the words that are sweeter, yearning, halting and uneasy. He wants to give himself to Gustave, at least a little, as much as he can, as much as he knows how to. to let the other man hold him in his hands the same way Gustave keeps giving himself over to him so easily.
Gustave keeps talking. The words are heated, but he's stumbling over himself slightly, self-conscious. Verso tries to be encouraging, but again it isn't even entirely a conscious choice. They're good words, clearly Gustave isn't as helpless at this as he thinks he is, every one sending a pulse of heat rolling through his body, something jumping in his throat as he watches Gustave kiss down over his stomach -- but the hesitations, the way he's starting to let those words run into themselves. That's real. Real, genuine, achingly earnest, Gustave trying his best to please him and nervous and turned on as he can't-quite-manage to keep his words together, and fuck tightening his hands through his hair again is all he can do to stop from pushing him down.
Gustave provides an easy distraction from that impulse, at least: his trousers pulled down, the other man's hand finally around him, and fuck. Verso may not have been paying himself too much attention, but he's been hard and aching and utterly neglected for far too long, now, the sudden friction and pressure enough to have his head fall back on a moan, hips arching into that touch. ]
Gustave -- [ Yeah. Yeah, just like that, his hips jumping slightly as Gustave's hand starts to move. ] Merde.
You could do it. I'd want you to. [ Verso can picture it so clearly, a few months since the garden is already enough yearning for them both to be driven mad, all of it falling apart as they cash into eahc other. Gustave trying to take his time, afraid of his Monsieur le pianiste vanishing again, but he can't help but touch him anywhere and swallow him down. ] You'd be moving so quickly, mon chou, you'd feel me harden on your mouth and tongue --
[ His voice breaks on a groan, his other hand digging into grass and dirt where its braced against the ground to keep himself propped up. ]
-- You'd make me come so quick. Just with your mouth. I know it, I wouldn't be able to help myself, with you, your tongue, your lips. I'd have to -- I'd have to stop myself from just fucking your throat.
[ Feverish and half-muttered under his breath. Maybe he shouldn't be saying as much, but even as he lets Gustave take the lead he can't help but respond, every part of him aching with want for him. ]
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Date: 2025-06-15 11:05 am (UTC)He's holding himself back. Barely, but he is. He's turned on, not impatient with Gustave but just impatient with his own lack of self control, so utterly helplessly attracted to the man above him that from these kisses and touches and an imagined dream in a dusty hotel room are enough to make him want. He wants to kiss him, wants to roll him back underneath him and draw out those little hesitations between his words into desperate moans. But he's holding back, difficult as it is: He wants to let Gustave push himself further. He wants to hear more heated words in that sweet voice he's come to crave so much, wants to hear even the words that are sweeter, yearning, halting and uneasy. He wants to give himself to Gustave, at least a little, as much as he can, as much as he knows how to. to let the other man hold him in his hands the same way Gustave keeps giving himself over to him so easily.
Gustave keeps talking. The words are heated, but he's stumbling over himself slightly, self-conscious. Verso tries to be encouraging, but again it isn't even entirely a conscious choice. They're good words, clearly Gustave isn't as helpless at this as he thinks he is, every one sending a pulse of heat rolling through his body, something jumping in his throat as he watches Gustave kiss down over his stomach -- but the hesitations, the way he's starting to let those words run into themselves. That's real. Real, genuine, achingly earnest, Gustave trying his best to please him and nervous and turned on as he can't-quite-manage to keep his words together, and fuck tightening his hands through his hair again is all he can do to stop from pushing him down.
Gustave provides an easy distraction from that impulse, at least: his trousers pulled down, the other man's hand finally around him, and fuck. Verso may not have been paying himself too much attention, but he's been hard and aching and utterly neglected for far too long, now, the sudden friction and pressure enough to have his head fall back on a moan, hips arching into that touch. ]
Gustave -- [ Yeah. Yeah, just like that, his hips jumping slightly as Gustave's hand starts to move. ] Merde.
You could do it. I'd want you to. [ Verso can picture it so clearly, a few months since the garden is already enough yearning for them both to be driven mad, all of it falling apart as they cash into eahc other. Gustave trying to take his time, afraid of his Monsieur le pianiste vanishing again, but he can't help but touch him anywhere and swallow him down. ] You'd be moving so quickly, mon chou, you'd feel me harden on your mouth and tongue --
[ His voice breaks on a groan, his other hand digging into grass and dirt where its braced against the ground to keep himself propped up. ]
-- You'd make me come so quick. Just with your mouth. I know it, I wouldn't be able to help myself, with you, your tongue, your lips. I'd have to -- I'd have to stop myself from just fucking your throat.
[ Feverish and half-muttered under his breath. Maybe he shouldn't be saying as much, but even as he lets Gustave take the lead he can't help but respond, every part of him aching with want for him. ]