[ Verso leans back, smells flowers and grass and sun-warmed earth, the raised flowerbed at his back, stray blades of grass and twigs pressing it slightly behind him. He sees the rest of the garden, metal frames and trellises growing with vines and flowers, the sky and the dome overhead, the shattered Continent beyond. Gustave moves forward with him, and then all he sees is him, framed in flowers and green with the sun shining through his hair, leaning over him as his metal hand braces against the flowerbed. He plucks at those last few buttons until Gustave's shirt falls open, making a low, pleased sound in his throat as he runs his hand up over his stomach, his chest, thumb lingering over a nipple and tracing over the nub, leaning up just enough to meet him when Gustave catches his mouth again in a kiss.
And there's his touch. Its been so long that Verso can't even really remember what the last time he let someone do this with him was like, likely some flickering moment of heat and and comfort with an Expeditioner a world away from their home -- and Gustave is a great deal more attentive and sweet than any touch Verso remembers, especially his own. It's different, but good, groaning low and quiet against the other man's mouth as Gustave cradles him against his palm, feeling those by now familiar calluses against him -- from a grip of a sword, he knows. And he wonders what how he fights. How long he's been with the Academy. If he has an Expedition in mind, how far away he might be.
He keeps one hand pressed against his chest, his other hand reaching up, tangling back through Gustave's hair again ( he does love the feel of those curls parting through his fingers ), tugging gently to pull him closer into their kiss, down to this nape and over his back, just -- feeling him, the shape of him, his muscles and angles and lines. Gustave's touch seems to move with him, every slight instinctive twitch of his hips or an upward press into a certain touch or pressure, the other man responding attentively to his every breath, every twitch of muscle, every pulse of heat under his fingers to chase after just what he likes. It's good, makes him think of wine, sinking into it deeper, more.
And it's -- subtle, but present. Not impossible to notice, especially for someone who's currently trying to pore attention over every part of him. A bit of tension that he seems to be carrying everywhere, in his shoulders, the pit of his stomach, in his chest. Gustave is beautiful and his hand and his mouth feel so fucking good, drawing a breathless curse from him that's completely lost against the other man's mouth and tongue, in their kiss. He's so attentive, feels like he's set on lavishing him with adoring attention. And Verso can't quite -- relax into it. Not completely. Not as much as he wants to. Not because there's anything wrong, or because Gustave is doing anything wrong.
But when Gustave is as painfully earnest as he is, especially now, he can't help but think -- whoever might deserve something as perfect as this, this man's focus and attentions and touch and his hands and mouth and tongue -- it's not him. He doesn't deserve this. Couldn't deserve anything even half as good. He can only pretend to and leave Gustave to wonder why when he vanishes, yet again.
He breaks from the kiss, ducking his head to kiss over his neck again, over the bruise he'd left at the join of his shoulder, even darker now than it was before. Pulling Gustave over him a bit more, like he just wants Gustave to really surround him, everywhere, pulling him a bit further down so he can mouth hotly from the jumping pulse in his throat down to his clavicle, over his chest, tonguing languidly over a nipple, his gaze still lustful and with that hunter's focus as he watches him through lidded eyes. ]
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Date: 2025-05-28 02:00 pm (UTC)And there's his touch. Its been so long that Verso can't even really remember what the last time he let someone do this with him was like, likely some flickering moment of heat and and comfort with an Expeditioner a world away from their home -- and Gustave is a great deal more attentive and sweet than any touch Verso remembers, especially his own. It's different, but good, groaning low and quiet against the other man's mouth as Gustave cradles him against his palm, feeling those by now familiar calluses against him -- from a grip of a sword, he knows. And he wonders what how he fights. How long he's been with the Academy. If he has an Expedition in mind, how far away he might be.
He keeps one hand pressed against his chest, his other hand reaching up, tangling back through Gustave's hair again ( he does love the feel of those curls parting through his fingers ), tugging gently to pull him closer into their kiss, down to this nape and over his back, just -- feeling him, the shape of him, his muscles and angles and lines. Gustave's touch seems to move with him, every slight instinctive twitch of his hips or an upward press into a certain touch or pressure, the other man responding attentively to his every breath, every twitch of muscle, every pulse of heat under his fingers to chase after just what he likes. It's good, makes him think of wine, sinking into it deeper, more.
And it's -- subtle, but present. Not impossible to notice, especially for someone who's currently trying to pore attention over every part of him. A bit of tension that he seems to be carrying everywhere, in his shoulders, the pit of his stomach, in his chest. Gustave is beautiful and his hand and his mouth feel so fucking good, drawing a breathless curse from him that's completely lost against the other man's mouth and tongue, in their kiss. He's so attentive, feels like he's set on lavishing him with adoring attention. And Verso can't quite -- relax into it. Not completely. Not as much as he wants to. Not because there's anything wrong, or because Gustave is doing anything wrong.
But when Gustave is as painfully earnest as he is, especially now, he can't help but think -- whoever might deserve something as perfect as this, this man's focus and attentions and touch and his hands and mouth and tongue -- it's not him. He doesn't deserve this. Couldn't deserve anything even half as good. He can only pretend to and leave Gustave to wonder why when he vanishes, yet again.
He breaks from the kiss, ducking his head to kiss over his neck again, over the bruise he'd left at the join of his shoulder, even darker now than it was before. Pulling Gustave over him a bit more, like he just wants Gustave to really surround him, everywhere, pulling him a bit further down so he can mouth hotly from the jumping pulse in his throat down to his clavicle, over his chest, tonguing languidly over a nipple, his gaze still lustful and with that hunter's focus as he watches him through lidded eyes. ]