[ Beautiful. Even in all of this, that catches him off guard, the rhythm of his hand stuttering just slightly, something flickering in his eyes -- Verso is quite aware that he's an attractive man, has gone to some pains to stay that way even with the way he lives. But like everything else that's drawn him to Gustave, its just the sound of his voice. The way he can tell how achingly earnest he is, even here, even now. Vulnerable, opening himself up to him.
It makes something ache and twist in his lungs, in the pit of his stomach, distinct even through the haze of lust and want. Maybe Verso just wants what he can't have. What he can't be. ]
I feel like -- [ He turns his head into Gustave's hand, letting him thumb along that scar ( old, but prominent, somehow not healed over enough to fade ), pressing a kiss to his palm. ] -- I feel like you're going to be the death of me.
[ He won't be. But in the moment, at least figuratively, it feels true. Gustave is beautiful, too, and he'd seen it that night, a stranger framed in the shaft of light from the opera house door, stepping haltingly towards the stage. Light catching in his hair, on the lapel of his suit, in those brown eyes that were so eager and curious to hear more. Beautiful in how he didn't just hear the music, but was listening, really listening, opened himself up to it, let it carry him away. Verso has spent so much of his long, long life behind a dozen different walls, and to have one man so effectively, disarmingly pull them down, even for moments at a time. It's devastating, leaves him clinging to the other dozen walls he still has, equal parts desperate to hold them in place and desperate to have them all torn down.
Verso suddenly feels a bit in over his head. Probably what he deserves, when he'd went into this wanting to flood Gustave out, to make him feel like he'd gotten into something he couldn't control and get swept up in heat and want under his mouth and tongue, but with just a few words . . A little shudder runs down his spine. His hand works over him just a little harder, a little more firmly. ]
Gustave. [ He leans in again. A kiss to Gustave's neck, up to his jawline, to the corner of his mouth. ] I want you.
I want more of you.
[ Simple. Direct. It doesn't have the ring of aching earnestness that Gustave does -- Verso simply can't do that. But it's raw, real, not lowering his voice to make it sound a certain way, not dancing around anything, just those words and the gravel of his voice, the heat and weight of his hand as he keeps touching him. But it is, intentionally, nonspecific. He wants to see what it does to him, what his face might look like as he imagines and wonders what Verso might want, what he might mean -- because he does want more. He wants more than this. But only as much as Gustave will actually give him, as much as Gustave himself might want. ]
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It makes something ache and twist in his lungs, in the pit of his stomach, distinct even through the haze of lust and want. Maybe Verso just wants what he can't have. What he can't be. ]
I feel like -- [ He turns his head into Gustave's hand, letting him thumb along that scar ( old, but prominent, somehow not healed over enough to fade ), pressing a kiss to his palm. ] -- I feel like you're going to be the death of me.
[ He won't be. But in the moment, at least figuratively, it feels true. Gustave is beautiful, too, and he'd seen it that night, a stranger framed in the shaft of light from the opera house door, stepping haltingly towards the stage. Light catching in his hair, on the lapel of his suit, in those brown eyes that were so eager and curious to hear more. Beautiful in how he didn't just hear the music, but was listening, really listening, opened himself up to it, let it carry him away. Verso has spent so much of his long, long life behind a dozen different walls, and to have one man so effectively, disarmingly pull them down, even for moments at a time. It's devastating, leaves him clinging to the other dozen walls he still has, equal parts desperate to hold them in place and desperate to have them all torn down.
Verso suddenly feels a bit in over his head. Probably what he deserves, when he'd went into this wanting to flood Gustave out, to make him feel like he'd gotten into something he couldn't control and get swept up in heat and want under his mouth and tongue, but with just a few words . . A little shudder runs down his spine. His hand works over him just a little harder, a little more firmly. ]
Gustave. [ He leans in again. A kiss to Gustave's neck, up to his jawline, to the corner of his mouth. ] I want you.
I want more of you.
[ Simple. Direct. It doesn't have the ring of aching earnestness that Gustave does -- Verso simply can't do that. But it's raw, real, not lowering his voice to make it sound a certain way, not dancing around anything, just those words and the gravel of his voice, the heat and weight of his hand as he keeps touching him. But it is, intentionally, nonspecific. He wants to see what it does to him, what his face might look like as he imagines and wonders what Verso might want, what he might mean -- because he does want more. He wants more than this. But only as much as Gustave will actually give him, as much as Gustave himself might want. ]