[ When Gustave had spread him out on the garden floor, Verso felt his head start to spin -- and it doesn't stop. Gustave is everywhere, all over him, his mouth hot and sweet against his chest, those fingers stroking him firm and warm and affectionate. The scent of him is in every breath until he feels like his lungs are full of him, too. Even more than before, the entire world seems to shrink away, and he feels like he could drown in this, in him.
Again his body arches up into his mouth when Gustave's tongue lathes over his nipple, and again Verso's hand clutching at the expanse of his back for something to hold onto finds itself moving to his hair, twisting, tangling -- holding on a bit too tight, pulling him in, keeping him close. This feels good, feels maddeningly good, but the walls he's built in himself in his heart and in his mind have been built over decades and will never crumble. And that's fine. That's fine. That's what the walls are for, and he never expected them to fall away for anyone, and that's for his own good, for Gustave's, too. The lies will come back eventually, and there are only more to come.
-- Then there's Gustave's voice. It breaks through everything, has his eyes flickering open, Verso only just now realizing he's been squeezing his eyes shut tight enough that he sees stars. He sounds a little rougher, but its otherwise clear and sweet, cutting through the fog like a bell, and Verso can feel the way it gives him something to anchor onto as he was lost adrift and drowning in that sea of pleasure. He looks down, sees Gustave looking up at him with those kiss-bruised lips and dark eyes, sees how the muscle of his shoulder works as he keeps touching him.
Be with me, he says, and Verso isn't sure if he actually manages to nod or if the little breathless yeah he thinks actually leaves his mouth as a sound at all or if it's just something that gets formed by his lips that's immediately stolen away by a groan. Gustave's attention and touches are so distinctly adoring, almost worshipful, still has something in his mind wanting to push away because he's not fucking worthy of it, but he keeps talking and somehow it becomes clear that -- it doesn't matter. Right now, it doesn't matter. It feels like Gustave not tearing any wall down but somehow just turning a corner and finding a door that was always there and pushing it open, immediately finding his way past any lingering defenses, pouring himself in like he means to stay there forever. Like he's somehow heard that Verso keeps thinking that he doesn't deserve this, that there are things he can never say or never tell that would change Gustave's mind about him forever, and the other man had simply pushed them away. Right now, here with him, Gustave seems to say, he can deserve it.
Another shudder moves through him, his hips rolling against Gustave's hand, his head tipping back against the grass and the sun-warmed earth. That last tension in him melts away. His fingers scramble through his hair, to the back of his neck. Gustave had said earlier that he played him like a song, and Verso feels like Gustave is hearing him like one. The man couldn't possibly know anything that's in his head, but just like sitting at that piano drags truths from his fingers that he could never bring himself to tell, it feels like Gustave just -- heard him, somehow, just like how he'd seemed to hear everything that night nine months ago, and with nothing but his continued insistence on his adoration, wore it down. ]
Putain -- [ he can feel himself getting closer. His fingers drag through Gustave's hair to the back of his neck, his other hand reaching out for something to hold onto and finding his arm, gripping onto him tight enough to almost leave bruises in his skin. ]
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Again his body arches up into his mouth when Gustave's tongue lathes over his nipple, and again Verso's hand clutching at the expanse of his back for something to hold onto finds itself moving to his hair, twisting, tangling -- holding on a bit too tight, pulling him in, keeping him close. This feels good, feels maddeningly good, but the walls he's built in himself in his heart and in his mind have been built over decades and will never crumble. And that's fine. That's fine. That's what the walls are for, and he never expected them to fall away for anyone, and that's for his own good, for Gustave's, too. The lies will come back eventually, and there are only more to come.
-- Then there's Gustave's voice. It breaks through everything, has his eyes flickering open, Verso only just now realizing he's been squeezing his eyes shut tight enough that he sees stars. He sounds a little rougher, but its otherwise clear and sweet, cutting through the fog like a bell, and Verso can feel the way it gives him something to anchor onto as he was lost adrift and drowning in that sea of pleasure. He looks down, sees Gustave looking up at him with those kiss-bruised lips and dark eyes, sees how the muscle of his shoulder works as he keeps touching him.
Be with me, he says, and Verso isn't sure if he actually manages to nod or if the little breathless yeah he thinks actually leaves his mouth as a sound at all or if it's just something that gets formed by his lips that's immediately stolen away by a groan. Gustave's attention and touches are so distinctly adoring, almost worshipful, still has something in his mind wanting to push away because he's not fucking worthy of it, but he keeps talking and somehow it becomes clear that -- it doesn't matter. Right now, it doesn't matter. It feels like Gustave not tearing any wall down but somehow just turning a corner and finding a door that was always there and pushing it open, immediately finding his way past any lingering defenses, pouring himself in like he means to stay there forever. Like he's somehow heard that Verso keeps thinking that he doesn't deserve this, that there are things he can never say or never tell that would change Gustave's mind about him forever, and the other man had simply pushed them away. Right now, here with him, Gustave seems to say, he can deserve it.
Another shudder moves through him, his hips rolling against Gustave's hand, his head tipping back against the grass and the sun-warmed earth. That last tension in him melts away. His fingers scramble through his hair, to the back of his neck. Gustave had said earlier that he played him like a song, and Verso feels like Gustave is hearing him like one. The man couldn't possibly know anything that's in his head, but just like sitting at that piano drags truths from his fingers that he could never bring himself to tell, it feels like Gustave just -- heard him, somehow, just like how he'd seemed to hear everything that night nine months ago, and with nothing but his continued insistence on his adoration, wore it down. ]
Putain -- [ he can feel himself getting closer. His fingers drag through Gustave's hair to the back of his neck, his other hand reaching out for something to hold onto and finding his arm, gripping onto him tight enough to almost leave bruises in his skin. ]