[ It's difficult for him to let go. Be vulnerable. To really put himself in someone else's hands, to open himself up -- and most of the time, that's fine. Because he shouldn't be, he can't afford to be, when there's always so much at stake. When he knows things he can't possibly unknow. When he works to a cause that no one would forgive him for if they knew, and he could never blame them for hating him for it. There are things he chases to force himself out of his thoughts: a good fight, a good fuck, earning him some desperately fleeting reprieve for moments at a time from the crushing weight on his shoulders and in his heart.
He wants this, wants Gustave, wants to lose himself in his touch. Earlier it'd just been easier, when he was just acting, taking, raw and aggressive, still chasing and hunting even when he'd started to slow down to match himself better to what Gustave seemed to want. He's just -- good. Earnest, sweet, wanting to make him feel appreciated and wanted and just awash in pleasure, but Verso's thoughts just can't help but linger a while on all the ways in which he's already lied to him and remind himself he doesn't deserve it at all.
Verso's surprised when he starts feeling that hesitation in Gustave's touch. Slight flickers of hesitation, uncertainty, worry. At first he just keeps leaning into him, drawing the nub of his nipple briefly into his mouth and sucking, a hand urging him closer, trying to be encouraging, assumes that like Verso himself it has just been a while. It takes him a few moments, his mind hazed by easy pleasure, to realize that Gustave is probably noticing, and, ah.
A twist of guilt through his stomach. He isn't lying in this. This isn't performance. Gustave above him with the sun in his hair and his shirt pieced apart looks like he might as well be an angel, and the way he works his hand over him feels incredible, every bit of friction making him feel like he's sinking deeper and deeper into some warm, intoxicating bath. He doesn't want the man to think he's doing anything wrong, but how does he even say anything to assure him?
Gustave takes care of part of that, at least. ]
Gustave -- [ breathed on a moan, saying his name because that's what's in his mind and on his tongue when he feels Gustave's hand work over him even faster, firmer, harder. Even feeling that arm braced around him he simply wasn't expecting for Gustave to literally lift him, even just partially, and lay him down. He's already breathless and so muddled with heat and want that the movement is enough to make his head spin, and again when he looks up the other man is already bearing down and Gustave is all he can see.
He wants to let go. Wants to give him this. Wants to be able to give himself over completely, even if just for this moment before reality sweeps him back to the Continent and beyond. And if anyone can quieten that last quiet tension that Verso is carrying -- it has to be this man, who'd been so captivatingly disarming even the first time they met with nothing more than a look and a smile. Verso arches slightly into his touch with a low groan, tilting his head to the side to give Gustave better access to his neck, throwing an arm back around him, sliding up over his back to twist once more through his hair and pull him down. He doesn't know how to put this into words, and so doesn't try, but in the way his hands roam hungrily over Gustave's body, his fingers pressing into the notches of his spine, the way he pulls him down to try and fit their bodies together, he hopes something gets through:
More. More of him. Gustave doesn't need to change anything, to try and chase after what Verso himself did or whatever else he thinks might "work" -- he wants the man himself, the same man who's been the most intoxicating wine he's had in what feels like a decade. So more, more of him, whatever he wants to give, until Verso stops thinking. ]
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He wants this, wants Gustave, wants to lose himself in his touch. Earlier it'd just been easier, when he was just acting, taking, raw and aggressive, still chasing and hunting even when he'd started to slow down to match himself better to what Gustave seemed to want. He's just -- good. Earnest, sweet, wanting to make him feel appreciated and wanted and just awash in pleasure, but Verso's thoughts just can't help but linger a while on all the ways in which he's already lied to him and remind himself he doesn't deserve it at all.
Verso's surprised when he starts feeling that hesitation in Gustave's touch. Slight flickers of hesitation, uncertainty, worry. At first he just keeps leaning into him, drawing the nub of his nipple briefly into his mouth and sucking, a hand urging him closer, trying to be encouraging, assumes that like Verso himself it has just been a while. It takes him a few moments, his mind hazed by easy pleasure, to realize that Gustave is probably noticing, and, ah.
A twist of guilt through his stomach. He isn't lying in this. This isn't performance. Gustave above him with the sun in his hair and his shirt pieced apart looks like he might as well be an angel, and the way he works his hand over him feels incredible, every bit of friction making him feel like he's sinking deeper and deeper into some warm, intoxicating bath. He doesn't want the man to think he's doing anything wrong, but how does he even say anything to assure him?
Gustave takes care of part of that, at least. ]
Gustave -- [ breathed on a moan, saying his name because that's what's in his mind and on his tongue when he feels Gustave's hand work over him even faster, firmer, harder. Even feeling that arm braced around him he simply wasn't expecting for Gustave to literally lift him, even just partially, and lay him down. He's already breathless and so muddled with heat and want that the movement is enough to make his head spin, and again when he looks up the other man is already bearing down and Gustave is all he can see.
He wants to let go. Wants to give him this. Wants to be able to give himself over completely, even if just for this moment before reality sweeps him back to the Continent and beyond. And if anyone can quieten that last quiet tension that Verso is carrying -- it has to be this man, who'd been so captivatingly disarming even the first time they met with nothing more than a look and a smile. Verso arches slightly into his touch with a low groan, tilting his head to the side to give Gustave better access to his neck, throwing an arm back around him, sliding up over his back to twist once more through his hair and pull him down. He doesn't know how to put this into words, and so doesn't try, but in the way his hands roam hungrily over Gustave's body, his fingers pressing into the notches of his spine, the way he pulls him down to try and fit their bodies together, he hopes something gets through:
More. More of him. Gustave doesn't need to change anything, to try and chase after what Verso himself did or whatever else he thinks might "work" -- he wants the man himself, the same man who's been the most intoxicating wine he's had in what feels like a decade. So more, more of him, whatever he wants to give, until Verso stops thinking. ]