[ Already a bit breathless, a bit of emphasis when he says my -- a dangerous amount of it, maybe, like everything else about this is. Much like how he can be Gustave's pianist. Verso knows that Gustave couldn't hope to understand that, really, how much it makes Verso's heart ache for someone to know him just as that. Still a few lies, they are a loadbearing pillar of Verso's entire existence, now, but few enough that it doesn't matter, that Verso could almost convince himself they're harmless. Someone who knows him for music played to an empty concert hall for no one else's ears, someone who knows him for the heat of their bodies tangled together. No shadows. No memories of fire and waking up to lungs that feel like they're full of ash and soot. No staring down the face of death and never reaching it, knowing the blood he tastes is just ink. No staring past the veil and wondering if any of him is real or it's all just an echo, resounding miserably into nothing. No lies. Or at least, almost no lies. Just -- monsieur le pianiste.
It might register as nonsense to Gustave. And that's fine.
He sinks into Gustave's attentions, his kisses. It's easy to be swept away by his own aggression, by the predatory intent which which he zones in on people, but Gustave's lavished adoration is intoxicating all on its own, even if -- subtly, but distinctly, there's part of him that's almost uncomfortable with it, holding himself back from relaxing into it completely. Little shivers and groans when Gustave finds the right places in his neck, his shoulder, holding himself back, just slightly. Gustave is painfully earnest and disarming as always, even here, maybe especially here, and right now Verso is still thinking enough to remember he shouldn't be here. To feel like he can't possibly deserve even half of Gustave's gentle adoration.
But then Gustave's fingers are wrapping around him, and that goes a good way to a suitable distraction. He's been hard and aching this entire time, just tends to give himself over to focus on another person, but that doesn't mean he didn't feel that strain and want and having it finally met by a touch that isn't his own, is enough to make his head spin, his eyes briefly falling shut on a groan.
Verso shifts against the grass until he's not just on his knees, but seated down, propping his back against the edge of some raised flowerbed, using that arm still wrapped around Gustave's waist to pull him in between his thighs, keeping him close, lifting his hips slightly against his touch, leaning up to press another kiss to the corner his mouth, mouthing hot and hungry down over his neck. There's something in him, for a moment, that clearly just wants to push Gustave down again, to roll him beneath him on the ground --
-- But he'll hold back. This once. Leaning back again to look at him through lidded eyes, pulling his hands back so he can palm up over Gustave's chest and then start plucking at the buttons of his shirt in turn. ]
-- Yeah.
[ Breathless, encouraging, his hips rolling once to press against Gustave's palm. ]
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Date: 2025-05-28 04:31 am (UTC)I think you can be my florist.
[ Already a bit breathless, a bit of emphasis when he says my -- a dangerous amount of it, maybe, like everything else about this is. Much like how he can be Gustave's pianist. Verso knows that Gustave couldn't hope to understand that, really, how much it makes Verso's heart ache for someone to know him just as that. Still a few lies, they are a loadbearing pillar of Verso's entire existence, now, but few enough that it doesn't matter, that Verso could almost convince himself they're harmless. Someone who knows him for music played to an empty concert hall for no one else's ears, someone who knows him for the heat of their bodies tangled together. No shadows. No memories of fire and waking up to lungs that feel like they're full of ash and soot. No staring down the face of death and never reaching it, knowing the blood he tastes is just ink. No staring past the veil and wondering if any of him is real or it's all just an echo, resounding miserably into nothing. No lies. Or at least, almost no lies. Just -- monsieur le pianiste.
It might register as nonsense to Gustave. And that's fine.
He sinks into Gustave's attentions, his kisses. It's easy to be swept away by his own aggression, by the predatory intent which which he zones in on people, but Gustave's lavished adoration is intoxicating all on its own, even if -- subtly, but distinctly, there's part of him that's almost uncomfortable with it, holding himself back from relaxing into it completely. Little shivers and groans when Gustave finds the right places in his neck, his shoulder, holding himself back, just slightly. Gustave is painfully earnest and disarming as always, even here, maybe especially here, and right now Verso is still thinking enough to remember he shouldn't be here. To feel like he can't possibly deserve even half of Gustave's gentle adoration.
But then Gustave's fingers are wrapping around him, and that goes a good way to a suitable distraction. He's been hard and aching this entire time, just tends to give himself over to focus on another person, but that doesn't mean he didn't feel that strain and want and having it finally met by a touch that isn't his own, is enough to make his head spin, his eyes briefly falling shut on a groan.
Verso shifts against the grass until he's not just on his knees, but seated down, propping his back against the edge of some raised flowerbed, using that arm still wrapped around Gustave's waist to pull him in between his thighs, keeping him close, lifting his hips slightly against his touch, leaning up to press another kiss to the corner his mouth, mouthing hot and hungry down over his neck. There's something in him, for a moment, that clearly just wants to push Gustave down again, to roll him beneath him on the ground --
-- But he'll hold back. This once. Leaning back again to look at him through lidded eyes, pulling his hands back so he can palm up over Gustave's chest and then start plucking at the buttons of his shirt in turn. ]
-- Yeah.
[ Breathless, encouraging, his hips rolling once to press against Gustave's palm. ]