[ Verso is a wolf that hasn't eaten in years, and Gustave is sweet and tempting, a meal he intends to savor. He doesn't trouble himself much with tracking the exact passage of time anymore, with much of it blending together after all these years, save for the monolith itself counting the years as they go by, and the Expeditioners he sometimes lets himself meet have human needs just as much as anyone else. But really interacting with them is far and few between, and he really does try, however unsuccessfully, to keep himself from getting too tangled up in them each time. Its been a while, and Gustave is an attractive man with a way of pulling at the walls he's learned to build up for himself.
That, and he's by nature focused, intent. Cautious to a fault until the moment is right, and then throwing himself into it with reckless abandon after. Flirting around the edges, seeing what Gustave might let him do, and the moment its clear the man wants him -- he likes getting out of his head, and where better else to go than just narrowing in on making someone feel good. And Gustave, earnest and expressive as he is, seems like an especially potent drug for this, his every catch of breath something Verso drinks down with hunger and want, that quiet cry, the way he's breathless around his words, the taste of him under his tongue, warm and sweet.
He shudders appreciatively from Gustave's touch, his hands over his shirt, over his hip, the way the other man drags him closer. Without the jacket it feels that much easier to fit their bodies together, to feel how the other man's angles and lines mesh against his own, and he kisses his way over beard and scruff. He nips at the shell of his ear, murmuring against it; ]
-- For my performance?
[ Low, with a laugh. The piano, or this? He chases the question with another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and needy just under his ear, back down the side of his neck, latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to start to leave the hints of a bruise -- considerate enough to do that where it's reasonably easily hidden, at least. Reasonably.
He rolls his hips forward against Gustave's, shoving his thigh between the other man's legs, pushing his knee against that metal frame behind him, pressing up. One hand pressed against Gustave's side starts to tug a little at the material of his shirt, freeing the hem enough for him to push his hand underneath it, fingers dipping past the fabric to reach bare skin. ]
I hope it's still deserving.
[ He wouldn't mind more flowers. Wouldn't mind seeing him again. He knows he can't, he really fucking can't, but right now what he should know just fades back to what he wants and needs, and right now he thinks he'd like to see this man again tomorrow, and the day after, just as much to taste him more, just as much to see him breathless in wonder as the night he'd played for him on that lonely stage. ]
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That, and he's by nature focused, intent. Cautious to a fault until the moment is right, and then throwing himself into it with reckless abandon after. Flirting around the edges, seeing what Gustave might let him do, and the moment its clear the man wants him -- he likes getting out of his head, and where better else to go than just narrowing in on making someone feel good. And Gustave, earnest and expressive as he is, seems like an especially potent drug for this, his every catch of breath something Verso drinks down with hunger and want, that quiet cry, the way he's breathless around his words, the taste of him under his tongue, warm and sweet.
He shudders appreciatively from Gustave's touch, his hands over his shirt, over his hip, the way the other man drags him closer. Without the jacket it feels that much easier to fit their bodies together, to feel how the other man's angles and lines mesh against his own, and he kisses his way over beard and scruff. He nips at the shell of his ear, murmuring against it; ]
-- For my performance?
[ Low, with a laugh. The piano, or this? He chases the question with another kiss, open-mouthed and wet and needy just under his ear, back down the side of his neck, latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder, sucking hard enough to start to leave the hints of a bruise -- considerate enough to do that where it's reasonably easily hidden, at least. Reasonably.
He rolls his hips forward against Gustave's, shoving his thigh between the other man's legs, pushing his knee against that metal frame behind him, pressing up. One hand pressed against Gustave's side starts to tug a little at the material of his shirt, freeing the hem enough for him to push his hand underneath it, fingers dipping past the fabric to reach bare skin. ]
I hope it's still deserving.
[ He wouldn't mind more flowers. Wouldn't mind seeing him again. He knows he can't, he really fucking can't, but right now what he should know just fades back to what he wants and needs, and right now he thinks he'd like to see this man again tomorrow, and the day after, just as much to taste him more, just as much to see him breathless in wonder as the night he'd played for him on that lonely stage. ]