[ Verso notices when Gustave's response shifts to something else instead of just pleasure, that flinch, a ripple of tension throughout the other man's body. He does immediately adjust, making sure to not brush up against what's clearly bruised and sore from his tumble before. Even then he still wants to keep going, keep pushing, wants to touch him, and when he feels Gustave's hand settle over his own there's a moment where he wants to just push it away or ignore it, a tension wound through his fingers, his wrist.
Then Gustave says to wait, and he does. His hand is still curled into the front of his trousers, but he settles his fingers against the hem, thumb running just underneath it against and soothing against heated skin, running over a button but not actually popping it open. The other man breaks away from his kisses, catching his breath, and Gustave might be able to see it in the way he almost but not quite sways back forward, in that burning hunger in his still half-lidded eyes. He has to actively push down the impulse to kiss him again anyway, to drown any protests on his mouth and tongue, to devour him whole.
But he does give him the space. His other hand, still tangled through his hair, slowly starts to relax, Verso forcing himself to do so, one finger at a time, until its just a gentle touch carding through those dark curls. And as Verso himself gets to breathe again, it's like his lungs only just remembered how much they were burning, there's a certain halting, hesitant quality to his response. Its not anything bad -- its more like being jarred, woken from a dream. If it weren't for that sharp, almost predatory hunger still lurking in his eyes, the distinct want with which his gaze briefly drops down to Gustave's lips, tracing the curve of his throat, it'd almost be like they're back in the opera house and Gustave had just interrupted him in the middle of his playing. Reality, unwelcome, seeping back in.
His fingers twitch. He wets his own lower lip with his tongue without realizing it, has to force himself to meet Gustave's actual gaze again rather than just keep staring at his mouth and thinking about how he just wants to keep kissing him. ]
-- I think. [ Breathe. And a bit of a laugh, as if at himself for realizing how out of breath he actually is. ] I think all artists are, monsieur.
Especially when struck by -- something inspiring.
[ Or someone inspiring, as it were. His hand shifts through Gustave's hair, watching some of those mussed curls fall back against his face. ]
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Date: 2025-05-26 04:23 pm (UTC)Then Gustave says to wait, and he does. His hand is still curled into the front of his trousers, but he settles his fingers against the hem, thumb running just underneath it against and soothing against heated skin, running over a button but not actually popping it open. The other man breaks away from his kisses, catching his breath, and Gustave might be able to see it in the way he almost but not quite sways back forward, in that burning hunger in his still half-lidded eyes. He has to actively push down the impulse to kiss him again anyway, to drown any protests on his mouth and tongue, to devour him whole.
But he does give him the space. His other hand, still tangled through his hair, slowly starts to relax, Verso forcing himself to do so, one finger at a time, until its just a gentle touch carding through those dark curls. And as Verso himself gets to breathe again, it's like his lungs only just remembered how much they were burning, there's a certain halting, hesitant quality to his response. Its not anything bad -- its more like being jarred, woken from a dream. If it weren't for that sharp, almost predatory hunger still lurking in his eyes, the distinct want with which his gaze briefly drops down to Gustave's lips, tracing the curve of his throat, it'd almost be like they're back in the opera house and Gustave had just interrupted him in the middle of his playing. Reality, unwelcome, seeping back in.
His fingers twitch. He wets his own lower lip with his tongue without realizing it, has to force himself to meet Gustave's actual gaze again rather than just keep staring at his mouth and thinking about how he just wants to keep kissing him. ]
-- I think. [ Breathe. And a bit of a laugh, as if at himself for realizing how out of breath he actually is. ] I think all artists are, monsieur.
Especially when struck by -- something inspiring.
[ Or someone inspiring, as it were. His hand shifts through Gustave's hair, watching some of those mussed curls fall back against his face. ]