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demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ฃ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐
๐๐ง ๐ฃ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฃ๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐๐ข ๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐ฬ๐ฌ ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ๐ข
๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐ข๐ก, ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐ฬ๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐ก๐๐
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But then Verso's fingers are curling hard around him, stroking him roughly, and it's like Verso's grabbed him by the hair to drag him bodily up the peak of this pleasure. Whatever small amount of control he still had is washed away in an instant, a flash flood scouring through him, slipping the leash on his ability to think, to talk, to control himself at all.
With the last vestiges of sanity before they burn away like tissue paper in a wildfire, he drags his left hand off Verso's back and lets the fingers sink into the grass and earth at his side, digging hard furrows into the dirt as they fist and contract. ]
Yours, I'mโ Versoโ
[ He's all helpless movement, arching and writhing under Verso's relentless assault, mind a static haze of white. He is his body, hot and sweat-slicked and needy, a taut bowstring in Verso's grip. He's back on that promontory, overlooking the continent and the sea, and this time Verso is there, hands hard on his back to shove him over the edge. Every word singes itself against his gasping mouth, that hand unforgiving at his chest, pinching and twisting and driving him out of his mind. Verso talks like some floodgate has opened, like he can't help himself, filthy needy words that strike like lighting. Each one feels like another finger wrapped around him, gripping tight, rough with calluses and need.
He barely has any idea what he himself is saying, a tumble of words in two languages as his mind sparks and catches and stutters. ]
Yeah, Iโ je vaisโ je vaisโ Versoโ
[ And then, abruptly, he's there, his spine locking as his head pushes back, a grimace almost like agony furrowing his brows hard as his hips press helplessly into Verso's hand and he spills hot and hard and wet over those fingers, onto his own belly. It almost hurts, aching and sudden and perfect, and for a moment he does just as Verso demands, forgets everything, everything, except him and his hands and his mouth.
And his name. Dragged out of him on a wrenching groan as he shudders and breaks and falls messily apart. ]
Verso.
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.
no subject
Gustave's own glance, still dazed, catches on the way Verso's tongue swipes languidly over his hand, the pink tip of it sliding over his thumb, licking the mess off himself with his eyes closed and that almost smug hum of enjoyment. And then he's leaning in, fingertips pressed against his lips, and Gustave parts them for him, lets him slide those fingers into his mouth, against his tongue. He tastes the salt sharpness of himself, smells musk and sex and sweat as Verso forces him to do exactly as he'd promised, making him clean himself off those fingers with careful movements of his tongue.
He doesn't enjoy it the way Verso did, more dutiful than hungry, but once those fingers are clean he's reaching up with his left hand, cool metal fingers curling around Verso's hand and wrist to pull his fingers out of Gustave's mouth for just long enough for him to separate the index finger from the others, catching the callused tip of it in his teeth and drawing it once more into his mouth with more enthusiasm, sucking lightly as he swirls his tongue around it, this time tasting Verso and only Verso. Gustave's lashes are lowered, watching his own hand as he manipulates Verso's fingers to replace his index finger with the middle one, before his eyes flick up to meet Verso's from beneath his relaxing brows, chin still lowered.
He needs a moment to catch his breath, but there's a promise there in his eyes, in the way he watches Verso's face. There's nothing of the predator about him the way there is about Verso, always looking as though he's about to pounce; it's replaced instead by the intent focus of a man facing down a challenge to overcome, a problem to solve, a whirring machine to methodically strip down to each discrete part.
One moment, and then you're his. ]
no subject
That fleeting fantasy honestly lasts briefly, because the wet warmth of Gustave's mouth and tongue around his fingers is more than enough to pull him back and ground him here. Verso watches, eyes half-lidded and quietly pleased as Gustave cleans himself off of hs own fingers, and when he tries to pull his hand back, about to take the opportunity to press back in for a kiss -- the movement is arrested. Gently, but firmly, and Verso can't even really push back against it because Gustave is sucking one finger back into his mouth, suddenly a bit more eager, lathering attention over his finger with his tongue.
And Verso's back in the garden, suddenly. It's absurd, how even though he's known Gustave was alive for weeks, after he's been watching him from afar, after they've already had quite a few stolen moments of crashing into each other like this -- that he can still dream of the garden. So easily, so readily. Gustave is a beautiful dream, wreathed in gold as the sunlight catches in his hair, still mostly dressed when Verso pushed him back. He can feel every muscle in his body wanting to move, to push him down, to kiss him, but Gustave had just asked him to stop. So he stops, patient, giving him the space he needs -- only for the man to start tonguing at his fingers almost just like this, worshipful and lingering, and Verso can remember how it was a genuine war to fight back every instinct his body had to reach for him.
Verso's fingers twitch against his tongue, his hand otherwise completely relaxed in Gustave's metal grip. clever and nimble as the gently guide his index finger out and slip another finger back in. He can feel his breath catch almost violently in his chest, his heart leaping into his throat when Gustave looks up at him through those lashes. ]
Merde. [ He does have more of his faculties around him than before, but the words still fall automatically from his lips without thinking. ] You're beautiful.
[ His beautiful, beautiful Monsieur le fleuriste, clever with his mouth and tongue and even more so with his fingers. Verso ends up sitting back slightly on his calves, hips framed between Gustave's thighs, his own breathing only barely starting to truly settle back down, a little pleasant shiver running through him as Gustave sucks at his finger. ]
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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 โ
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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The past two years have been lonelier than usual, when he's genuinely kept his distance from the Expeditioners that came, only to help them from afar -- but before that, well, dalliances were hardly uncommon, with people being what they are and with the Expeditioners being so far away from home and at the end of their lives. Verso enjoys that, doesn't mind playing that role for them at all ( even if sometimes, too often, his heart would fall away from him further than it should, not too far but enough for it to sting ), and things there are often simple. Heat, desire, something physical and grounded and real, there at the end of the world.
Gustave wants him for him. An idea that Verso already knows but still doesn't think he fully grasps or understands, sometimes. He lets himself relax a little into Gustave's attentions, tipping his head to the side with an appreciative groan as he mouths a few bruises of his own against his shoulder, against his collarbone, marks that would easily heal in a minute or two if it weren't for Verso making sure they won't. His words are so genuine, heartachingly earnest, and it takes a moment for him to get what he means -- Gustave wants to please him, wants to do right by him, wants him to tell him how. And that's different, from what Verso normally deals with.
Verso smiles, though it gets a bit lost on a sharp gasp when he feels Gustave's teeth against his neck, and then against his lips and tongue when he kisses him. He kisses him back, that still-burning want in him stirring all over again, tonguing hungrily into his mouth, and when Gustave breaks from it his fingers immediately move to twist through his hair to pull him back in -- but he stops, seeing those eyes. Determined, and sure.
What does he say? The truth, he thinks. ]
I think you're finding the words just fine, mon chou.
[ Telling him he's so beautiful that he leaves him speechless is perfectly effective, has him feeling warm and heady, describing him as ensnaring Gustave's attention also fueling that fire lit still burning low in his stomach. He wraps his arms around him, fingers still in his hair, pulls him in for another kiss anyway, starting sweet but quickly edging into something just a little harder before breaking away. Verso likes what Gustave's doing already.
But. ]
If you wanted to try your hand at something else? [ He hums as if in thought even when its clear from the light in his eyes that he already knows the answer, pulling Gustave even closer, making some soft, pleased sounda the way their bodies fit together, at the feeling of skin against his own. His voice eases lower, rumbling in his chest, against Gustave's, in turn. ] I'd really like to hear about -- Any way you imagined me, these past years.
[ His own fervid fantasies were driven by that awful yearning, aching and desperate and reaching across a gap he thought he'd never cross. Gustave has mentioned imagining him already: in his bed, under the morning sun, taking Verso in his mouth. He likesthat image, and wouldn't mind knowing more, wants to imagine his Monsieur le fleuriste dreaming of him in his own bed and touching himself to his fantasies, wants to know what those fantasies were. ]
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He closes his eyes and breathes out, shoulders rolling back the way he might stretch them before a fight, the way he might fidget before sitting down at his desk and losing himself in his work. This, too, is something he needs to focus on, something that feels about as natural and effective as Expedition 50's giant wheel. Which is to say: not at all.
But he had dreamed of Verso over those two years. Dreamed, day-dreamed, fantasized about him, sometimes almost to the point where he nearly tricked himself into thinking he might open his eyes and see Verso there. ]
Well, I...
[ He clears his throat, lashes fluttering as he blinks a little too fast, before he slides his right had up Verso's thigh to his hip, to his bare side, his palm fitting neatly there in the slight dip of his waist. His thumb strokes along the line of his bottom rib, over firm muscle, enjoying the slight give to it when he presses in. It helps, touching him, and Gustave tips his head to lean in for another kiss, lingering, his tongue sliding lazily into Verso's mouth before he leans back and punctuates his words with kisses along his cheek, over the scruff of his beard, toward the angle of his jaw. ]
You know, at the time, I thought you must be somewhere in the city, and that I'd probably run into you sooner or later. Maybe at the Academy, since you clearly knew your way around a grapple.
[ He kisses along the cord of muscle that runs up Verso's neck, down to his shoulder and back up to his ear, running the edge of his teeth along that delicate shell. ]
And when we did meet, we'd shake hands and introduce ourselves, like it was the first time ever seeing each other. But I'd run my finger over the inside of your wrist, where no one could see, just to let you know I was still thinking of you. And later, I'd pull you aside, ask if you wanted to go on a training run with me.
[ He breathes out, puffing warm air over Verso's damp skin, smiling despite himself at his own foolishness. He'd wasted hours upon hours dreaming of things that never could have happened, though he'd have had no way of knowing it then. ]
Did you know there's an abandoned hotel not far from the Academy? It's all boarded up now, but I remember when it was still in use when I was a boy. Everything is still there, it's just that there aren't enough people to use it anymore, so the doors and windows are all locked up.
You can still get in from the top, though. Through an old fire escape nobody bothered to lock properly.
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But Gustave clearly likes it, had asked to hear more, had shared his own little fragments of fantasies. Simple ones that were just about the wistful could-have-beens, something with a bit more heat and the description of how he'd imagined Verso in his bed. It's there. Maybe he's embarrassed, but Verso thinks Gustave would like to be able to tell him in the same way, and merde he certainly would love to hear any of the dreams his sweet Monsieur le fleuriste had of him, just what thoughts drove him whenever he laid in bed touched himself to the memory of him.
Gustave starts, and he's clearly unsure. Verso is encouraging, listening, leaning into Gustave's touches and kisses with pleased gasps and sighs. encouraging all of his touches and matching them with his own. Languid, teasing, maybe just enough to be a bit distracting ( but not too much, he'll let his fleuriste work ), a hand in his hair and playing with a stray curl between his fingers, a hand stroking along his back, following some old faded scar he can just barely feel. He shivers pleasantly with a soft sigh when Gustave's teeth graze at his earlobe, his languid smile growing a little brighter when he realizes the kind of picture Gustave is painting.
Not just a singular fervid reunion, but something with a bit more thought and weight, this is clearly a real fantasy, something he'd genuinely dreamed. Both of them meeting at the Academy, and given how two years later they're both still dreaming of the garden, doubtless in this dream memories of that morning in the sunlight would only immediately rush in. Introducing themselves as if they needed to, a small lingering touch from Gustave to let him know, and Gustave being the one to pull him aside. Somewhere quiet, somewhere abandoned, and a real place that Gustave has thought of, just for this. ]
It'd have taken my breath away just seeing you again.
[ He pulls Gustave in for a kiss, tonguing into his mouth and pulling away, lips curved against Gustave's own, their foreheads pressed together. He shifts in the grass, trying to be more comfortable, ends up sitting down and pulling Gustave into him, ducking his head to kiss again at his shoulder, taking a moment to nip a little at his skin and soothe it over with his tongue, that warm thrum of heat and want still singing through his nerves. ]
Sounds like a quiet place, where we might not be bothered. [ His smile curves into a smirk. He does know it. Verso has a practiced familiarity with many of Lumiere's abandoned buildings, left empty as their owners vanished into dust and petals. ] -- Would you take me there?
[ One hand finds Gustave's thigh, squeezing over lean muscle, thumb circling a little against his inner thigh -- just to touch him, just to feel him, but encouraging, too. Keep going, boo. ]
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But maybe he wants him to know how much he'd been thinking of him, just how intricately he'd imagined meeting him again. Not just falling into bed together, but how sharp the surprise and sudden desire would be, how all those days and weeks and months of yearning would pile up at once. ]
I'd see you and I'd decide then and there to do anything I could, everything I could, to convince you to stay this time. Even if it was just for a little while longer.
You'd probably be able to tell how much I'd been thinking about you. I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes off you, even if other people were around.
[ He shifts to settle on his knees, coaxing Verso's legs apart so he can kneel there between them, right hand running up to his chest, thumb rubbing over one nipple, as he presses another kiss to Verso's mouth, and another after that before making his way to pay attention to the other side of his neck, mouthing kisses along the line of muscle there down to his shoulder. ]
So yeah, I'd take you there. Probably under some terrible, transparent excuse, like how good it is for practicing climbing. But once we got to the top, I'd pull you inside and bar the door behind us, then drag you to the first room I can find. Bed still made from the last time a maid was there, just waiting for us.
I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. By the time we got to the room I'd have your shirt undone and be working on your pants.
[ He leans now to mouth along Verso's collarbone, shifting down as he presses against Verso's shoulder, coaxing him to lean back onto his hands, to let Gustave run his palm down the slope of his chest, his stomach. ]
I'd be too impatient to even undress you all the way, I'd justโ
[ A little stutter, but he pushes through it, even as he feels his cheeks grow warm. Verso can't see it, at least, not while Gustave is pressing kisses along his breastbone: small favors. ]
โPush you down to sit on the edge of the bed and be there, kneeling between your legs, right after, so I wouldn't have to spend another second without taking you into my mouth.
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It's still not easy for him to fully relax into someone else's attentions, something Gustave would remember from the garden, from even just earlier before -- but it's getting easier, with Gustave. Opening himself up more, bit by bit, peeling open the cage around his heart to truly let him in everywhere even after Gustave had carved a place in his chest for himself. That tension is there, especially when Gustave talks about what he'd do to convince him to stay -- something that maybe a fantasy that wasn't as real wouldn't include.
But this is real, he knows. This is a real dream, maybe one of just a dozen different ways Gustave dreamed of seeing him again. And he does regret it, he regrets not coming back, he regrets staying so far away, he regrets hurting him so much. He regrets leaving, and part of him, somewhere, wary of all the lies he's already told, still regrets meeting him at all. But its hard for that to stay too long when Gustave's mouth his hot against his neck, when his thumb runs over a nipple and sends a pleasant ripple of heat through his spine.
He smiles, picturing Gustave, nervous but insistent, grabbing onto his hand to makes sure he doesn't try to leave. They can practice together, the building's right there, what harm is there in just following him? And Verso himself, knowing that once they're wherever Gustave wants him, that the moment they're even remotely away from prying eyes there's going to be nothing to stop them from crashing into each other again -- knowing the danger, knowing he has to go. And going anywhere.
And then, merde. His hands run up over Gustave's back twisting through hair. His breath hitches noticeably, a small growl sounding in his throat -- he can hear that little stutter in his words and feel it in his breath against his chest. And if anything, how clearly anxious he is but how he presses forward just makes it better, with how Gustave tells him he wouldn't be able to stop himself just from pushing him down onto the nearest bed, dropping straight to his knees. ]
Putain. [ A muttered curse, fingers tightening through his hair. ] I wouldn't stop you -- wouldn't be able to think about why I'd ever tried to leave, to have you there knelt in front of me and so eager to take me in your mouth.
[ That same mouth that's telling him all this, that's pressing kisses all over his skin as he leans back onto his hands and lets Gustave touch him where he wants. The same mouth that he can still remember, hot and wet and perfect in the garden, Gustave eagerly working and stares up through the dangling ivy, the sun pouring down around them. The same mouth that says his name in the most decadently sinful ways every time he pushes him to the edge.
Verso's trying to be encouraging, but its not even entirely conscious, at this point -- it's evident, how he's getting swept up in it. Pulled into the dream that Gustave describes. ]
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In fact, Verso seems to be enthusiastically playing along, listening intently, even adding to the fantasy by placing himself in it, an unexpected bonus that hits with surprising intensity. All this time, he'd only ever been able to imagine Verso's reactions, what he might say, do, how he would feel. And now Verso is here, sliding easily into this well-worn daydream, making it feel more real than it ever had. Picturing himself in it, with Gustave.
His heart stutters at the thought, and for a moment he leans in to set his mouth over Verso's nipple, drawing up on it and laving with the flat of his tongue, half to try and make him feel as good as possible, half to try and settle the whirl of his own head.
It doesn't help that he's getting to the crux of the fantasy, the things he would want to do. Even with Verso's easy, enthusiastic encouragement, he feels warmth climbing up the back of his neck, his stomach knotting now from self-consciousness instead of electric desire.
But he wants to try. He does want to try. He runs his hand down along Verso's side to his hip, starts dragging at the already loose waist of his pants, tugging them down. ]
It's beenโ it's been so long, I'd justโ I'd want to taste you, feel you... let you see me, watch me there, between your legs... months since the garden, and I'd want to, want to make it last, but I'd be so impatientโ
[ He braces himself with his left hand as he leans further to kiss down along the perfect plane of Verso's stomach, down toward his navel as he finally drags those pants down enough that he can slip his hand between Verso's legs and curl his fingers around him, starting to stroke in long smooth motions. ]
You just, you carry me away, seeing you again, I'd wantโ I'd want to make you, make you come for me right there.
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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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Then I guess I'd have to hold your hips down so you couldn't move too much.
[ Like this, maybe: his left hand coming to grip Verso's hip, carefully firm. He doesn't want to hold him down too hard or to press too intensely โ the metal hand and arm are stronger than his right hand and when he's distracted like this he can't always properly gauge the tension and grip of it โ as he finally shifts himself bodily down, lying between Verso's legs, following the V of his groin with his kisses as he continues to stroke along his length, squeezing and running his thumb over the head.
He glances up along Verso's body โ putain, he's so beautiful, spread out like this, leaned back and just waiting, his chest moving rapidly with each breath, his neck and shoulders and collarbone marked with blooming red bruises, and if Gustave weren't already lying down he'd be knocked to his knees just at the sight of him โ his own eyes heated and intent and blown dark, watching Verso through his lashes. ]
Let's find out if it would work.
[ It's the last thing he says before he uncurls his fingers from around Verso and sets that hand, too, on his hips, holding him there as Gustave leans down to take him into his mouth and it's beenโ merde, it's been two years and he can't help himself, swallows him down hard and fast, falling dizzily into the taste and scent of him, drowning in it. He'd almost forgotten how the weight and length of him feels against his tongue, in his mouth, and he groans around him, needy and wanting, giving wholly up on words in order to turn his focus to more important things. ]
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Gustave even gesturing at really holding him down is bold, different, a thought that makes his head spin, and then he's asking if it would work, and well. Verso manages a breathless almost-laugh, wanting to hear more, but. He's not going to argue this.
A moment where Gustave pulls his hand away, where Verso immediately misses the warmth and pressure, his hips instinctively juddering to push up against something it isn't there and chase down some of that friction. But its only a passing moment, that hand now warm and heavy against his hip, and suddenly Gustave is everywhere, all around him. ]
Gustave, mon dieu --
[ Gustave's lips wrapped around him, sinking down deeply and all at once, Gustave's tongue dragging against his length, the sweet wet heat of Gustave's mouth. His head falls back against the bundled up sash and jacket laid across the grass, his entire body arching up on moan -- or he tries, at least, his hips pushed down and held here, arresting him partially in the movement. Verso can hear him groaning around having him in his mouthlike he's just as desperate as he is, somehow, and Verso remembers the garden, the scent of flowers, remembers Gustave noticing that part of him that he always held back and coaxing it away, remembers Gustave's mouth hot and sweet over him.
Fuck. It's just as good now, no, even better now. His fingers twist harder through his hair, pulling hard at the strands, but not guiding his head, pushing him down or pulling him up. Even held down, instinctively Verso's hips start to move, wanting to rock and buck into his mouth, down his throat, wanting more. ]
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Which... well, it might. But until then, he's going to focus on the task at hand, enjoying himself as thoroughly as he's working: lips wrapped around Verso, cheeks hollowing as he draws on him, tongue sliding along the underside of his length, up and over his head to tongue the little slit there before he's taking him deep again, trying to surround him in sensation.
It's like and not like the garden, the first time he'd tried this with Verso: this time he starts out faster, harder, deeper, changing up his rhythm to drown Verso in as much sensation as he can. His jaw and neck both are beginning to ache, but he ignores them, hums as he slides Verso into his mouth again, feeling almost drunk on the taste and feel of him. And just like before, Gustave adjusts as he goes, repeating something Verso seems to like, moving on from something that doesn't work as well, doing his best to methodically take Verso apart. He loves this, how Verso feels against his tongue, the scent of him, how his hips keep trying to rock helplessly up, wanting more and more and more.
He'll give it. He'd give Verso anything, anything that's in his power to give.
He's already so hard, so sensitive, Gustave wonders briefly how long it might actually take. Verso had ignored himself earlier and Gustave hadn't gotten his hands on him at all; he'd been all worked up with nowhere for it to go.
Not anymore. Gustave flicks a look up the long, beautiful line of Verso's body, still firmly holding his hips down as he slowly licks his way from base to head before taking him in his mouth again, utterly intent and focused on giving Verso exactly what he wants, what he needs. ]
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But he wants it to. Just a little longer, just a bit more. Gustave muffles a laugh around him and something about that goes straight to his gut, about looking down and seeing that dark head of hair and Gustave working over him and not quite being able to see but being able to imagine the curve of a smile where his lips are wrapped around the base of length. Verso's fingers run aimlessly through his hair, gripping, relaxing, shifting elsewhere, tightening again, movements fueled by reaction and instinct and the pleasure wracking through him rather than any purpose, wanting to feel him more than anything else. He's beautiful. He's perfect. He's somehow even better at this than he remembers, the reality of having him here better than the idealized memory he's coveted over the years, and he can feel how Gustave shifts and adjusts, how he seems to bare him down to the core. He doesn't look or act like a hunter, not the same way that Verso himself does -- but he feels hunted, anyway. In a good way.
As Gustave pushes him in place, holds him down, a dozen images flicker through Verso's thoughts, everything Gustave does sparking inspiration for yet a dozen more fervid fantasies and dreams. Gustave holding him down, Gustave above him. or Verso himself pushing back, fighting him, both of them rolling around and over to see who bests who. Gustave grinning down at him with that metal hand tight over his wrist if he wins. Verso bearing down with a smirk, deep and satisfied, if its him. A blend of aggression and intensity, and another time still when he's pushing back but this time they collapse into laughter and affection and adoration, Gustave rolling onto his back, pulling Verso down on top of him, Verso leaning into murmur something sweet and true into his ear.
Putain. Verso's hips strain against Gustave's firm grip, only managing to just barely push himself into his mouth, against his tongue. ]
Gustave. Merde, I'm gonna --
[ It's a warning, breathless, his fingers twisting tight through his hair, urging him down to take him deeper as his he does everything he can to push up into his mouth, coming with a deep groan that rocks through his entire body, pleasure ripping through his spine. ]
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He stays there a moment, letting Verso soften against his tongue, then carefully pulls away, feeling a heady, amused desire to stretch his tired jaw. He doesn't, just presses a kiss to Verso's hip and solicitously tugs up the waist of his trousers before crawling up to collapse at his side, right hand lazy on Verso's bare belly, feeling the twitch and flicker of aftershocks as they spark through him. He hides his own satisfied smile in the crook of Verso's neck, placing a few languid kisses there, slow and sweet.
Verso's warm, he tastes like salt and smells like crushed grass and he's still the most beautiful thing Gustave has seen in a long time, lying here all wrung out with the blue light of the trees glowing softly over his skin. Gustave wants to lock this in his memory, too, along with the picture of Verso, golden and leonine in the sunlight, that he's been holding in his heart since the garden.
He breathes out and settles down next to him, weary both from the day's exploring and the tumbles they've already had. The only thing that would make this better would be to let himself fall asleep right here, next to this man, and be able to wake up to him again, just like in his most cherished fantasy, the one he'd he'd close to his heart for two years. Despite the many ways he's imagined it ending, it always starts the same way: drifting easily out of sleep, warm and content, to find a familiar body next to him.
How Verso would look, utterly relaxed and peaceful. The slow lift and fall of his chest and shoulders as he breathes. How his face would soften in sleep. He's imagined it so many times, and never thought it would be possible to ever see.
And it isn't here, now, either. He knows that. But it doesn't stop him from wishing. ]
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The rest of it eases in a little bit at a time. The slightest breeze whipping over them in the quiet clearing, the sound of the river, the rustling trees. Very slowly, he rolls onto his side, reaching out to drape an arm around him, lazy and languid like a blanket. He drifts his fingers up along his side, his shoulder, curling into his hair at the back of his neck, just barely drawing him closer so he can pull him into a kiss. Deep, slow, but lingering-sweet, less like he wants to devour him and more just he wants to feel him close, lose himself in it for a little while before he breaks off, their foreheads pressed together. ]
-- I liked that.
[ Everything. He did like everything. But he means the fantasy, the story, Gustave's efforts to tell them to him. He loved it. His voice is soft, lazy like everything else about him right now. All he wants is to just wrap him up in his arms, and. ]
You should stay.
[ Away from camp. Just for a night. Just for a few hours, maybe, would that be too much to ask? He smiles, laughing a little at himself -- but its probably good that after all this time and pulling away from Gustave again and again, that for once, he can be asking him to stay. ]
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The comment makes him smile, before his lashes lift and he can meet Verso's eyes with his own. They're so warm, gazing at him from across a distance of only an inch or so: warm and content and beautiful, reflecting the glimmer of the chromatic glow from the trees. Gustave lets himself trace his fingers lightly along his back, just to indulge in the feeling of him there. Here, with him. ]
I'm glad you liked it.
[ Verso could mean almost anything, but Gustave thinks he means the deliberate way he'd tried to give Verso what he wanted, tried to tell him one of the many, many ways he'd thought about him for two whole years, his memory somehow never growing dim and the ache never managing to fade away. He's always hated wasted potential.
He's still not quite sure he did it right, but it seemed to have worked well regardless. He chuckles, a little self-conscious, and leans to kiss him sweetly again, almost chaste. ]
Maybe you're just easy to please.
[ Not that he's complaining, if that's the case. For himself, he thinks Verso could do almost anything and it would sweep him utterly and rapidly off his feet, send his head spinning. Verso's touch, his voice, are electric, no matter what he might be saying or doing.
There's some irony in his other comment, in his request, and it's clear he's aware of it from the way he laughs while Gustave smiles, slightly wry. He remembers almost begging Verso to stay, just a little longer, to come back, and how much it had seemed to hurt Verso to have to tell him no. And then he was gone, and they'd both broken their hearts over it. ]
Trying to get me to be the one to say I have to go this time?
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The hand he has against the back of Gustave's neck drifts up, fingertips lightly tracing over his cheek as he offers a languid smile. ]
Maybe it's especially easy for you to please me, Gustave.
[ Verso thinks, to himself, that Gustave could do anything at all and it would make some part of him sing. Just to see that much more of him, to learn something about him, to be here next to him and in front of him when he thought he'd never see him again. That yellow flower is still tucked against his ear, in slight disarray from everything they've been doing, he tugs it back into place.
He remembers the garden, how in the idealized memories he's been running through his mind over and over again Gustave had seemed to him almost an angel, wreathed in golden sunlight. This is good, too, the moonlight and the cast blue from the nearby trees. Quietly Verso considers the many different ways he could see him, how they have at least some amount of time with each other, now, even if it has to be under odd constraints, and he feels a little giddy just from the thought. ]
I think you'll find I'm trying to get you not to say "I have to go".
[ He wants you to stay! To make the moment last even longer, to let it spill into the moments after, to fall asleep with Gustave in his arms the way many of his dreams would end. ]
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I want to.
[ More than almost anything. It's an ache that won't go away, constant in his chest, wanting to be here in Verso's arms, trying to make the moments they have left linger. There's something cruel about this shift in who stays and who goes, and he's still not wholly convinced that if he leaves tonight, he'll see Verso again tomorrow. Or ever again, maybe.
He shifts a little closer, tangling his leg with Verso's as if they were back there in his bed, lingering under the sheets together with no place to go. ]
But they'll come looking for me again. And Maelle... she's been having nightmares. I can't leave her alone for too long. If she wakes up from another one, and I'm not there...
[ She'd be all right, but he wouldn't be. He's terrified of failing her again, of losing her the way he had at the beach, of not being there when she needs him. He reaches up to idly brush a wave of Verso's hair back from his face, fingers slipping lazily through dark strands. ]
Come back with me. I'll introduce you to the others and you can, you can stay with me. I could even go back first, get them ready, answer any questions before you show up so they know they can trust you.
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Verso pulls him even closer, pulling him in so Gustave's face is tucked against his shoulder, so he can bury his face against his hair and breathe him in. ]
You know if I would if I could, mon petit chou.
[ He means that completely. Verso has little doubt of the risk that he imposes onto their little Expedition. Even doing this with Gustave is -- more than pushing it, but he only has so much self control, which makes the last vestiges of it he has all the more important. A small smile, hidden against Gustave's hair; ]
I like that you've thought about how to convince them, though.
[ Dork. ]
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I used to dream about this, too, you know.
[ About waking up together, falling asleep together, sheets muddled around them. Lying together in the grass of one of those rooftop gardens, skin warmed by sun and every touch lazy and sated. Drifting off surrounded by Verso, his scent and warmth, his body there pressed against Gustave's.
If he had to choose, he would have to say these were his favorite daydreams, the ones where Verso was just there and nobody held on too tight because they were afraid of the other one vanishing. ]
Just getting to hold you like this. Waking up and finding you there next to me.... getting up as quietly as possible so I wouldn't wake you. Coming back with a cup of coffee and watching your eyes open... wondering what your expression would be when I'm the first thing you see.
[ Unlike the fantasy of earlier, this one lacks heat, though it has a different kind of wistful intensity. He'd... longed for moments like this, for two years, indulged in daydreams about them even when he knew he shouldn't, even when it left him with nothing more than guilt and grief. His thumb smooths idly over Verso's skin, slow sweeping motions. ]
Of course I've thought about it. I barely thought about anything else all day today except seeing you and how I could convince the team. How I could convince you. If you came like you promised you would.
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His poor, wistful Monsieur mon fleuriste. He wishes he could tell him the truth. ]
You'd bring me coffee, but rob me of being able to wake in your arms? [ He laughs, the sound half-muffled, turning his head so his breath and his voice brushes warm against Gustave's ear. ] Seeing you would be enough to ease that sting, I think. Even after I must've spent the night dreaming of you.
[ Verso has had these same daydreams of quiet mornings and languid evenings in each other's arms -- though they tend to end with Gustave beneath him, sometimes in a fit of white-hot passion, sometimes in something sweet and lingering, always with his name on Gustave's lips.
He shifts to press a gentle kiss to the Gustave's temple. ]
I came -- and I will tomorrow, too.
[ Verso is still so sorry for breaking his heart so many times, but now that he's here -- now that there's at least one or two or a dozen different ways learning the truth of something might shatter this man's heart when its been entrusted to him . . . He's doing his damned best to hold onto it, in the places where he has a choice in the matter.
Tomorrow, and the tomorrows after. He won't let him go so easily ever again. He can only hope that his intent will soon be enough, for Gustave to trust and believe him when he says tomorrow. ]
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[ Like Verso's fantasy with the opera house, the pertinent context here is that it isn't a one-time thing, an only chance. He'd already had that, and all it had done was make him yearn for more. His shoulders drop in a sigh as Verso brushes a kiss against his temple, and his arm tightens around him for a moment, unwilling to let go.
He has to. He knows he has to. It's been hours already, surely, and even Sciel will only give him so much time. ]
Then tomorrow I'll try to convince you again. But I can't stay tonight.
[ He presses a kiss to Verso's shoulder, his collarbone, then pulls gently away to lean on his left elbow, reaching with his right hand to tuck the dark wave of Verso's hair back over his ear, thumb soft against his temple. That same wistfulness is in his eyes, along with a quiet resignation. ]
I hate to leave you, mon cher. Even if it's to dream of you later.
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